Wizard's Porn

A general reply to all you impatient rascals, don’t be so cross with my “sub-plots” – I didn’t realise I HAD a definite “front runner” plot – actually, I DON’T, it is ALL “subplot” – or more accurately, a few little stories that tie together nicely (though I do believe I hear a gasp of disbelief, lol). Think Love Actually – that didn’t make any sense until the end either. If I’d put ALL the plots in the first chapters, you’d have been confused and unimpressed.



I’ve received quite a few reviews that made me think – one especially that was complaint. It wasn’t a flame, per se, but I think it was definitely a struck match. That review was not the only negative one – but it was the only one to, metaphorically, smack me in the face.



I’m giving an angsty reply. Each has a right to their opinion, its why you can review – so, you’re getting MY opinion.



There are a few little adjustments to previous chapters when I realised I’d missed out a very important clue. I don’t claim to be perfect, heck, perfection is an unobtainable level as there is always something that can be improved. Yep, there’s errors, I’ll hold my hand up and claim them. My beta has a life too; and she also admits she’s not perfect either. I’m human.



Humans should more accurately be called Homo superbiens, Homo being the genus humans have sorted themselves into, and superbeins is a Latin translation of arrogant. We’re an arrogant species (the only ones of our genus, yet our closest relative, the common chimp is reduced to the Pan genera – yet it is closer to us genetically than anything else; but less related organisms are lumped together in other genera… we’re nothing special, we’re just a collection of atoms at the end of the day). Humans are arrogant and not perfect, and as I am human, I am thus also arrogant and imperfect. I fear it is human nature to be thus; I’ll admit to that.



You commented on: ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. Scorn is defied as Contempt or disdain felt toward a person or object considered despicable or unworthy. , contempt is defined as the feeling with which a person regards anything considered mean, vile, or worthless; disdain; scorn. I considered Hermione’s right to say no being ignored as scorn – as her choice was evidently unworthy in the eyes of an obsessed Lucius. And if Hermione most definitely considers Lucius vile and worthless. As far as I am concerned the phrase stays. Yep, its not in the more traditional sense of a Lover’s scorn – but it was scorn nonetheless. Not to mention the scorn she encountered from the magical population – though that isn’t Lucius fault. (Definitions from Dictionary.com).



Its going to be interesting over Summer – where my beta and I live together over the academic year, we’re at opposite ends of the country when it closes… email isn’t just the same as having her whack me over the head with a ruler for a whoopsie (or five). Oh well, call me a masochist and end it there. Lol. And my beta has been both ill and busy.



Yep there’s quantity being posted, and maybe the quality has diminished through it – but I don’t think it’s particularly gone down hill. There are many others saying they like it and want more. And I want more, so I write more.



I gave it the title of ‘Wizards Porn’ as that is where it starts and comes full circle. I could have called it all manner of things – but that made most sense. Plus, sue me, I wanted people to read it – and the title seemed to be a hook. If people can come up with a ‘more appropriate’ title – go ahead. I’ll draw up an election of titles and everyone can cast a vote – and I’ll re-name it whatever people decide upon.



Yep, my Germanic accent isn’t spectacular – but it is many moons since I had German lessons and studied pronunciation. (Blimey, that takes me back! Lol). I’m having an attempt at writing it for my own enjoyment. If I offend any Germanic speaking person, I will gladly take it down and put it into English – but only if I offend. Heck, my own accent can just be classified as English! I’m Yorkshire born and bred – and writing my own accent phonetically is a challenge – but FUN. Thus, the accents are here to stay – unless someone is offended and tells me thus



At the end of the day I write for my own pleasure – and I enjoy crafting a fic with depth and sub plots galore. The day writing a fanfic stops being enjoyable will be the day I stop writing them.



I only post so others can perhaps also find the same enjoyment I do.



I have not enjoyed typing this note – but I will defend myself when attacked.



What else did I have to say… One bad review (rather abrupt and rather rude) among one-hundred-and-forty-two wonderful ones really upset me. Though, 0.7% is rather insignificant – as the Biologist in me knows, so I don’t know why I’m in such a fluster.



In fact, that one review has almost had me say “F**k it” and stop; because, trust me, that burst the bubble of enjoyment. My next fic – already in the pipeline is thus on hold, I couldn’t quite manage to be happy when tapping away at the keys – my ironing pile suddenly looked more enjoyable – and with our recent burst of nice weather (before the constant recent rain), it’s 3 feet high.



Perhaps my sudden upset and angst is because I have been blessed with positive comments? And some of those comments were from authors I admire and couldn’t even dream to be as good as. Perhaps it is because I have thoroughly enjoyed de-stressing after the academic year with this fic? Perhaps because all I want to do is go home and snuggle into my fiancé’s arms? Perhaps its because It has rained non-stop for three days, and thus I’m feeling particularly melancholy today?



Actually, I hope you, that reviewer do not read this. If my writing style, plots and, (to quote you), “decent grasp of the basics of spelling, puncutation, and grammar” isn’t good enough for you, then I hope you have taken the advice of the unwritten rule of fanfiction: don’t like, don’t read. I hope, as I have disappointed you so greatly that you did not click the link to open the fic and that you did not click to this chapter. If you did, then do not complain further; as it is your own fault for continuing to read something that (to quote you) didn\'t so much get tied up but fell apart magnificently.



I’ll gladly respond to constructive criticism, but your review was not remotely constructive… yet I find myself responding. Back to being human (and imperfect), I suppose.



Whatever my reasons, my moan is over, done, complete, finished. As, I hope, is yours. You said your piece, and I said mine to justify myself (though, I don’t know why I bothered as I write for myself, the reviews are just a bonus).



Let that be the end of it, I’m not prepared to start a battle. Lets put out the little fire and move on to brighter things. I, from now on, will not be responding to reviews, I find I suddenly don’t have the correct inspiration. Review or not, the choice is yours, I’ll finish this fic out of obligation to myself. Thief can wait.



Right. No more rants, no more comments from me. The End. *deep breath and move on.*



Kind regards, best wishes to all,

Utopia.





*****



Half past seven the next morning found Hermione trying to spoon-feed Lysander soggy bran cereal; he was too busy trying to grab the spoon himself to open his mouth.



“You can tell Uncle Harry’s been feeding you recently, he lets you get away with being a food catapult because you’re cute; you can practice feeding yourself once you’ve actually emptied the bowl of its contents.” She crooned, she couldn’t really be mad at him wanting to have a go at feeding himself; just at Harry letting him get away with playing rather than eating. “You were with Uncle Harry for a few hours a day for one week – how did he manage to mess up our routine? Hmm?” Lysander chose to giggle at Hermione’s mushy cooing voice.



Hermione had been miserable at the discovery she couldn’t breast feed Lysander, as the sedative would pass through into the milk, and as he was allergic to it he’d be very ill. Yes, he was getting big – but it felt like Lucius Malfoy had induced one more injustice.



“Big bite!” she laughed, watching as his mouth opened as wide as a snake trying to eat a rat, and then didn’t close. “You have to do the rest, little man.” She chuckled. The child closed his mouth, let the spoon free and chewed with the teeth that weren’t being so much of a trouble today.



There was a dull thunk outside, Hermione turned to see that an owl had attempted to fly through the wards, bashed into it and had opted to sit on top of the dome of protection that surrounded the property.



“Mummy might have gone a little bit over the top with those, yep, she did.” She crooned, Lysander managing to grab the spoon, “Nope, you’re not digging in your dinner.” She confiscated the bowl of cereal so it was out of reach, but left him with the spoon. Lysander gave a toothy grin and placed the spoon in his mouth, pulling it out and looking confused at it.



“There’s nothing on it baby.” Hermione said, trying not to laugh at his face of utter bafflement.



She relaxed the wards just a touch to let the owl through, it managed to take flight before it hit the ground – it’s perch suddenly removed from beneath it’s feet. She produced a thick branch for the owl to stand on as she carried it to the house. The cross bird hooted menacingly and tried to give Hermione a good bite. Hermione, with baby-increased reflexes dodged the sharp beak.



“I’m sorry, I don’t normally get any post.” She said to the owl, the bird hooted and turned its back on her on the branch. She stood the branch on the windowsill, produced a day-old chick from a special box in the pantry. She was expecting owls to come in thick and fast from the ministry – and was prepared with appropriate food for them.



“Bir Bi!”



“Yes! The big bird is called an owl. He’s having breakfast too! Just like you! Can I have the spoon back, please?”



“Oll.”



“Yes, owl. Good boy. Can I have the spoon please?” Lysander reluctantly handed over his spoon, his focus on the owl.



“Thank you… open up.” Lysander ate mechanically as he watched the owl gulp down the chick Sometimes he ate yellow things, and he just presumed that’s what the owl was having.



“Well done! All gone!” Hermione cheered, he was only wearing some of it, “Lets get you cleaned up and then you can play.” She accioed a pack of wipes and proceeded to make a game of wiping soggy bran from his face, fingers, and surprisingly, his ears. “How did you manage that?” she said, puzzled.



The owl hooted and flew outside, landing on the fence and looking up at the wards. Wizarding owls weren’t stupid (though, to be fair, the muggle ones weren’t either – but wizarding owls were of higher intelligence); the bird knew something wasn’t right with the sky around the house. The owl chanced it, and flew straight through the wards and back to the printers.



Hermione sat Lysander down on his play quilt; a soft squishy blanket with different textures of fabric, soft mirrors, things that squeaked and rustled embedded into it. He had his blue blanket close by, but was more occupied with the plush farm animals that were walking around by him making noises. Surprisingly, Haldor had bought them for Lysander, and spent a few hours playing with the lad – he had firmly denied that all he wanted to do was play with the animals. Harry thought he might be fibbing, Hermione had laughed.



“Moo.” Said a cow, chewing wool ‘grass’.



“Mwooo!” Lysander said back, clapping when he saw his Mummy’s smile.



“Old MacDonald had a farm, eeh aye eeh aye oh.” Hermione sang softly, picking up the paper, “And on that farm he had a… good grief!” she blinked, “Erm… I mean, sheep, yeah sheep. Eeh aye eeh aye oh” The toy sheep was happily bleating along with the song, and had Lysander’s undivided attention.



“Brrr. Brrrr.” He tried, “Brrr.”



“DAILY PROPHET APOLOGISES FOR SLANDER OF TWO YEARS AGO, RITA SKEETER IS DISCREDITED.”



Hermione, who had one eye on the child, one on the paper said “Meear,” a rather convincing impression of a sheep. Even the toy sheep stopped bleeting for a moment before carrying on. Lysander clapped and laughed. He picked up the sheep and set about chewing one leg.



“Don’t eat the sheep, baby.” Hermione accioed a teething ring as a substitute. “Well, not unless Nana Molly has cooked it with a mint glaze first.” She whispered the last. Lysander wasn’t going to be a child who thought fish fingers came from the pantry; but it was a bit soon to confuse him.



“Mwooo. Brrrr.” Lysander looked utterly baffled when the duck quacked. Though, Hermione thought the child might be even more confused when he realised a duck and a cow were not actually the same size; or six inches long, or squishy. “The trip to Magical Farm is going to be interesting next week. Yes it is, little man.”



“Ak! Ak ak!”



Lysander giggled around the teething ring and put up with his Mummy wiping his face with a warm flannel to remove the dribble. He went back to the toy animals, copying their sounds and picking them up randomly to inspect them.



Hermione still had one eye (and both ears) on her son while she read the five page apology the editor of the Daily Prophet had written upon viewing her side of the story. The copied memory she had sent him wasn’t the trash Skeeter had printed, nor was it censored or unabridged. It was exactly as she remembered it – complete with blackouts.



It was time for Hermione to face her demons and move on. The past needed to be put behind her, for her sake and for her son.



*****



The letters and howlers had just been stacked on top of the dome of wards by the owls, and were slowly sliding down the invisible wall. Much to Lysander’s amusement. Hermione was choosing to ignore them, public opinion had reduced her life to Hell once, she wasn’t going to care what they said again. Two howlers hovered and yelled at each other, drawing the other animated letters to the gathering. For all intents and purposes, it looked like the letters were having a mass argument.



“Woooooo!” he clapped as another small pile of letters slid down, clapping as another howler caused them rustle as it shouted and ripped itself to shreds beneath them.



Harry stepped through the floo, grinning like a complete idiot. “Oh! Are we playing Old MacDonald’s Farm? Can Uncle Harry play too?” Harry was handed the duck. The wizard took his handkerchief from his pocket, and transfigured it.



“And on that farm there was an octopus! Eeh aye eeh aye oh!” Harry said, settling the eight-armed orange toy in front of the baby; it bobbed along with the other animals.



“And what does an octopus say?” Hermione asked, knowing that Lysander would be confused no end at the farm next week.



Harry took a deep breath, blinked and scratched his head. “Erm… I’ll get back to you on that one.”



Kingsley stepped through the floo, “Sorry to interrupt, but there is someone who wishes to speak with you, Hermione.”



Hermione looked up at the man just stepping through the fireplace, “Mr. Malfoy, do you know what noise an octopus on Old MacDonald’s Farm would make – Harry is clueless?.”



Draco blinked, “Most people say hello, Granger.” He said, forgetting his manners.



“Well, yes, but I’m not normally stuck for an answer, either.” She said, swapping the octopus for the previously forgotten teething ring. “Calamari probably wouldn’t agree with you at this age.”



“Isn’t cala-whatsit squid?” Harry said, still trying to think of a noise.



“Squid, octopi, similar organism.” Hermione replied.



“Squish.” Malfoy said at last.



“What?” Harry said.



“Don’t say what, say pardon.” Hermione corrected, once again swapping an octopus tentacle for the teething ring.



“Am I at the wrong address?” Malfoy said, gob smacked.



“Do you want to talk to me?” Hermione said, belatedly remembering Harry had transfigured his hanky, “That hanky had better have been a clean one!”



“Fresh out of the drawer this morning, and it is one of Hal’s – he doesn’t even have snot, but comes from an era when everyone carried a handkerchief; and he thinks I should carry one too. I prefer bog roll for bogies.”



There was silence for a moment, with the exception of Lysander having a babble conversation with the sheep.



“I repeat, am I in the right house?” Malfoy said, still stood on the hearth rug.



“If you want a sensible conversation – Lysander’s your best bet at the moment; but yes, you’re in the right place if you want to see me.” Hermione said, dead pan. Harry laughed.



“I’m going to go do work. You’ll get a load of parchments from my office soon enough. I’ll send flame-proof paper planes through the floo.” Harry kissed Hermione’s cheeks, ruffled Lysander’s downy curls and vanished in flames.



“Well, Draco, may I call you Draco?” she said, accepting his nod as an affirmative, “Well, Draco, what brings you to my humble abode at this time on a morning, and do you take sugar and milk in your tea?”



“Erm, no sugar, dash of milk… and why I’m here is a long story.”



*****



“Stop apologising for your Father, you are not him.” Hermione said, five cups of tea later.



“Yes, but…” Draco didn’t have a reply for that.



“Turn it around a bit. There we go!” Hermione crooned as Lysander poked a square through the matching hole in the box.



“Clever lad.” Draco said, “And a very clever Mother. Father won’t know what hit him – but he does have one thing against you… he knows who Lysander’s Father is.”



“Lysander has no Father, he has a small queue of doting uncles and aunties, a Nana, a Gramps and a Mummy… now, perhaps you refer to a sperm donor?” Hermione said, shocked, but not showing it.



“Lestrange. Lysander has the birthmark.” Draco said, biting his lip.



“Oh. Doesn’t stop him being a Granger through and through. Thank you for telling me, does your Father have any other ammunition on me?”



Draco looked at her as if she had grown more tentacles than the forgotten octopus in the toybox, she was practically a saint, “Only that you worked at the Theatre of Pleasures…”



“Mutual ammunition, he too worked there, and on a stage that many of the public – especially the more conservative – will call deviant and depraved… I did what I did to feed my baby and put a roof over my head; he doesn’t need the money. He can’t hold that over me.”



Draco looked thoughtful for a moment, before nodding. “Granger, I want my Father to learn a lesson from this – but don’t drag him so far into the mud he’s buried alive. He needs to recover from this, learn from a mistake… he really enjoyed spending time with the Juliet persona; had he not F-- fudged up spectacularly, he’d have courted you properly. And he was in the Theatre as a place to safely practice his… practices.”



“Thanks for not swearing, I don’t want him saying that.” Hermione said, quiet.



“He wants to get to know the person behind the mask of Juliet. He’s alone and unloved – always has been. Once he’s apologised, give him a change – a small chance.” Draco pleaded.



“You defend him, even though you’ve spent a long time cursing his name with some brilliantly covered up expletives; anyone would think he was nice – there was a lot of ‘fudge’, ‘sugar’, ‘butterscotch’ and ‘pop’.” Hermione said, bending down to stop Lysander undoing Draco’s shoes, offering the blanket as an alternative.



“I need to forgive him too, he’s still my Father, no matter what happened in the past. I still want to see him happy – as happy as Mother is now. Oh, are you attending their dinner party tonight?”



“Yes, we’ll be there this evening… Back to your previous though, I would never ruin someone so they couldn’t recover – but he’ll learn his lesson… as far as courting – he needs to impress two people, not one.” She picked up the baby as Draco bowed and stepped into the floo.



“Thank you for the tea, Ms. Granger, Master Granger.” He said formally.



Hermione shook her head to bring herself back to the here and now. “Talking of tea, let’s get some dinner in your belly.” She crooned, Lysander answering with a loud “Mwooo.”



“Well, actually it’s cluck cluck for lunch – but I’ll let you off.” She laughed, sitting him in his high chair as she heated the little jar magically.



“Ak! Ak! Brrrr!” Lysander chirped, smiling and clapping.



“Nope, magically re-heated, mushed up cluck and peas.” Hermione giggled, “Open wide…”











A/N, of a happier note. The octopus was one of my Daddy’s favourites when as a kid I’d sing Old MacDonald… he’d also cry out other creatures such as ‘jellyfish’ – what noise does a jellyfish make? Never mind the octopus! (answers on a postcard) Lol. I had to get that in here somewhere! Lol. He STILL does it with my cousin’s kids… their Mum told him off for it though, lol.