the writer formerly known as L.M.

Welcome!

2020-11-20T13:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my little neck of the woods. If you're here, chances are you found this site whilst perusing some of my writing. I write fanfiction and original and I figured that this would be a good place to post things as they come to me, and to add some organization to my otherwise hectic and zany life.

FANFICTION

HARRY POTTER FANFIC

The Marauder Chornicles
Eight years in the lives of Moony Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
01

The Marauder Chronicles - 01

2010-12-20T02:46:00.000-08:00

Year One

Prologue – The Letter

Remus Lupin was always a quiet sort of boy. Even before . . . even before it happened, he preferred to sit in his room and read. He didn’t like to go outside and play, any more than he liked to go with his mother into Hogsmeade, which was within Floo distance.

He’d only truly been curious once . . .

Afterwards, he secluded himself even more. He stopped speaking altogether, and when his aunt Mary had come to visit, she’d loudly asked her sister if being a you-know-what made the boy slow.

Remus had tried not to let his aunt’s words get to him – she was only a Muggle, after all, and she couldn’t be expected to understand . . . Not when wizards didn’t even understand . . . Not when the faces of the supposed experts at St. Mungo’s held so much contempt . . . Late at night, when he was trying to sleep, Remus found himself thinking of that pretty, young Healer with the big brown ringlets, who always cringed every time she had to touch him . . .

It really wasn’t fair on his mother. She handled it the best she could, but Remus could tell it was hard on her. Remus had faint memories of his mother smiling and laughing, and looking young. But he didn’t know if they were real, or just dreams, and when he came into the kitchen in the morning and saw her, looking sickly and pale, spaced-out over her cup of tea, he knew that she would never look like that again.

He finally broke down and spoke at ten, when his mother came to fetch him one morning.

“Remus, sweetheart?” her voice floated down the stairs . . . down the stairs, to where Remus lay on the cellar floor, mangled, covered in blood.

She sat down on her knees next to him and wiped him off with a cold rag, slowly, getting blood all over the blouse she was wearing, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I’d like some water,” Remus managed to croak.

“I’ll get you some,” his mother said, dabbing his forehead.

Remus would never forget that, the way she didn’t even make a big deal out of him speaking at last. Maybe it was because she’d known that they all had their battles, and speaking aloud again was just a very small bit of it for Remus, but, either way, he appreciated it.

His father didn’t come to fetch him the mornings. His father spent most of his time in his study; although, one day, Remus saw his mother and father outside, inspecting the cellar.

“Do you think we need to double up the wards again?” his mother asked.

Remus had his window open – he liked the fresh air, but it was taking all his willpower not to shut it, because he was so afraid of the outdoors, but he wanted to brave, he really did, and then his parents were out there, talking about him . . .

John Lupin stood up and wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. He frowned, and ran a hand through his grey hair. Remus’s father traveled a lot. Remus knew it was about him. He knew that his parents were desperate to find a cure, but they never shared their hopes with Remus.

All Remus knew was that, every time his father came home, he always looked a bit more grey.

“I don’t think so,” his father said, walking around the cellar, making some complicated motion with his wand. “He’s getting bigger, but I don’t think he’s going to break out just yet.”

“The noise last time . . .” his mother muttered, so quietly that Remus barely heard her. “It sounded like he was throwing himself against the door.”

“Probably was,” his father said with a sniff. “Could probably smell . . . could probably smell rabbits, or what-have-you. It’s an animal, Ev; of course it’s going to want to get to where the food is.”

Remus knew that werewolves didn’t eat rabbits, and he knew that his father knew it, too. He didn’t mean to shut the window then – it slammed shut, seemingly of its own accord, but he didn’t complain.

Like with most young witches and wizards, things happened around Remus.

Mostly small things that could be dismissed rather easily, like the window slamming shut. That could have been a draft, for instance. But other times, it was not so easy to dismiss the odd things. Like when his mother had been complaining about him growing so fast that his clothes no longer fit, and then, suddenly, they did. Or like when his mother had told him he could not have another chocolate muffin, and he’d gotten angry and then the plate of muffins had levitated right by his mother’s head. She acted as if nothing strange was going on at all, and, in fact, grabbed a muffin and ate it right in front of Remus, quite spitefully, to tell you the truth.

Remus was a wizard.

He knew it, on most levels. He knew that he probably wouldn’t have even survived at all if he wasn’t magical, but things just would’ve been so much easier if he wasn’t. Things would have been so much less painful.

He found his father’s spare wand once – it was hidden, in his desk, locked in a drawer. Remus didn’t mean to open the drawer; it just did, all on its own, because Remus’s curiosity had gotten the better of him. He knew that his father would never believe that he just happened upon the wand, and he really had no excuse to be messing with it, so, after holding it for less than a minute, he set it back in its place.

If his father noticed that it had been touched, he never said a word.

Although Remus was pretty sure he could legally own on a wand, he was also pretty sure that he would never get to learn magic the way other kids did. His mum asked him one night how he felt about doing some at-home tutoring. He smiled, and said, “That would be nice,” but it wasn’t the same, really.

His parents had both gone to Beauxbatons, and he overheard them talking about it, the same night his mother offered the lessons. They were in the kitchen, looking ominous in the flickering candlelight.

“Isn’t there any way. . . ?” his mum asked.

“You know as well as I do; there’s absolutely nothing we can do.”

“But, John, don’t you have some contacts – ?”

His father shook his head.

“Monsieur Riley would never let Remus attend in his . . . state.”

Remus almost laughed at that. His parents were so tactful about it, so delicate about it.

Sometimes his mother accidentally took him to Hogsmeade when the Hogwarts kids were there, and it was just awful, seeing them walk around, having so much fun. But, really, he told himself, it was for the best.

Remus resigned himself to solitude at the tender age of eleven.

So, really, he was quite shocked one sunny day, when he’d been sitting at his desk, reading a very interesting book, and there was a peck at the window.

His mother’s owl had died several years before, and they’d never gotten a replacement, and so owl post became something they were little concerned about. His parents didn’t even take The Daily Prophet. They lived in solitude, as well.

But there was an owl at his window, pecking persistently; a tiny, tawny owl that nipped at his hand when he opened the latch and let it in. Remus wondered if it had been a mistake to let the bird in – really, letting strange creatures into your home couldn’t be a very good idea – but then the owl held out its leg, and Remus realized there was a note tied to it.

He untied it very carefully, and then the owl hooted impatiently.

“I don’t have any money, Owl, I’m quite sorry. How would you like some bread crumbs?”

The owl hooted again, in agreement, Remus could only guess, so he headed for the kitchen, looking at the letter as he went.

On one side it said:
Mr. Remus Lupin
The Bedroom on the East Side of the Cottage

And on the other, it had the Hogwarts seal.

Remus’s eyebrows went into his fringe. It couldn’t possibly . . .

The bread crumbs were forgotten in that instant.

He ripped the letter open.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. . .

Harry Potter fanfiction - "Why I Am An Astronaut" - Chapter Two

2010-07-04T02:01:00.000-07:00

A Brief Introduction

As it seems more and more likely with each passing day that I will die a horribly early (and boring!) death, I've decided to write down my life story. There are several reasons for this, and I will list them.

1) I am very self-involved, and self-reflection appeals to me.

2) I am very depressed, and re-visiting the happy times seems like a good idea; you know, if I ever wish to conjure a Patronus or change my hair again. (It's a long story, and I will recount it soon enough, so please keep your knickers on.)

3) I'm stuck in this hospital bed, and what else am I supposed to do?

4) If I don't write down all the amazing things that happened to me last year, I'm afraid I'll forget them, or even worse, dismiss some of the juicier bits as nothing more than products of my over-active imagination, and maybe, seeing the aforementioned juicy bits in ink will help keep them real to me. (As you know, it's very wise to believe everything you read.)

I'm sure there are more reasons for me doing this, but I can't really remember them right now, and my hand's starting to cramp. I'm lucky that I got this ink bottle for my birthday, as it spouts color-changing ink on its own and I love it, though I wish the person who gave to me was not the person who gave it to me. Now whenever I use it, I'll think of him, and I'm completely torn between loving the hell out of this ink and hating the hell out of him.

This is an autobiography and it does not double as a last will and testament, as I'm sure Dedalus Diggle will testify to. However, if my mother is reading this, I leave her all the awful furniture she gave me when I first moved into my flat. Daddy, to you I leave my Comet Two-Sixty and assorted Quidditch memorabilia. To Harry Potter, I leave all my Auror books and knickknacks and whatnot. (Those are the technical terms.) To the Person Who Gave Me This Ink for My Birthday, I leave you this ink. And this life story, so that when you read it, you'll cry over it and realize what you're missing out on.

Maybe I should scratch out that last bit.

The Healer just came to check on me. She told me that I'm not good to leave yet. I even begged. I tried to change my hair (AGAIN!), but I think I just ended up making it mad. Me and my hair used to be on such good terms, but now I'm afraid there's a mutiny going on. I'm tempted to put it up, though at the rate it's going, it may very well be immune to the threat that is the elastic hair band.

Well, I suppose I've rambled enough. Reading over this, I'm terribly afraid that if this were to get into anyone's hands I'd sound like a loon. Or maybe not a loon, but it reminds me of what Kingsley used to say when I'd show him the drawings I'd do during Auror training – my favorite thing to do was combine animals; for example, I'd draw a squid body with spider legs – and, anyway, what Kingsley said was, "We've got to get you something to do."

Kingsley was always so wonderful to me. I would like to rectify my earlier statement; I'd like to add an addendum to my will. Kingsley, to you I leave my record collection. I know you hate punk, for some unfathomable reason, and I'd like for you to be able to burn all my Weird Sisters LPs. That's right. I love you that much. I can picture the smile on your smarmy face now.

I think I'm pretty sure at this point that no one else is ever going to get to read this, and I would be terribly embarrassing if I did die and somehow this was the only thing people had to remember me by. But oh, well!

As my Dad used to (does) say, "Let's get this Kneazle and Puffskein show on the road!"

Harry Potter fanfiction - "Why I Am An Astronaut" - Chapter One

2010-07-04T01:45:00.000-07:00

Editor's Preface

You are holding in your hands a collection of notes my mother began writing during the summer of 1996, immediately following the Battle at the Department of Mysteries. In these, she briefly outlines her life story, and the role she had in the Second War against Voldemort.

When I happened upon these papers, I was seventeen and cleaning out my parents' things for the very first time. They were stuffed in the very bottom of a box, hidden underneath several ratty, wool jumpers.

I could only assume my mother had never intended on letting anyone read them (as she states in the introduction note, which in itself is a contradiction of sorts), but there were still calls for first-hand accounts from the war, and I knew that these papers deserved to be read by someone, so I called a small wizarding publication house, and within the year, my mother's words were out there for massive consumption.

What I did not count on was the overwhelming reaction and universal acclaim that this autobiography would garner. If you are reading this editor's preface for the tenth anniversary edition of this book, chances are you are a Hogwarts student assigned to read this for History of Magic. Or maybe you decided to buy a new copy because you wore your old one out. Or maybe you just bought this book because it seemed thick enough to prop up your broken desk.

Whichever kind of reader you are, I appreciate you, and I thank you. I thank you for helping to keep some part of my mother alive.

And now for a word of warning: My mother was not a writer. She often wrote things whenever she felt like it, and in whatever form she felt like using, and sometimes she wrote in cursive and sometimes she wrote in print and sometimes she wrote poetry and sometimes she wrote prose and sometimes she did nothing more than make lists.

When I felt it best suited the story, I injected a word of explanation, but, for the most part, I've left these 'notes' – and I continue to call them that, for lack of anything else – relatively unscathed.

I've also assembled these notes in the order that I believe they are best read, though there is no way of telling when my mother wrote them, though she did (thankfully) title each one. In them, you will read about my mother's relationships with some of the most famous wizards of our time, including Kingsley Shacklebolt, Albus Dumbledore, and even Harry Potter. Through them, you will gather a picture of my mother as a young woman, an Auror, and a Metamorphmagus.

And on a final note, I will address Witch Weekly's claim that this is "the most heart-wrenching autobiography since Hairy Snout, Human Heart."

Though there will be much talk of werewolves and werewolf rights later in this text, as my father, my mother's husband, was a werewolf, and in fact was the first werewolf to be awarded an Order of Merlin, which he received posthumously for his heroic actions in the Battle at Hogwarts, I do not want this to be thought of as a 'werewolf text.'

I want the difficulties my parents faced to be taken seriously, of course, and my father was one of the most active lobbyists of werewolf rights, but I want this to be, first and foremost, an account of the war.

And also, in the writings of my father, he regularly called Hairy Snout, Human Heart, "a load of tosh" and several other, much-less-nice things.

So with that in mind, reader, I present to you my mother's Magnum Opus. I hope that you get something out of it, and I would like to think that my mother would understand why I had it published.

- TR Lupin

Daria fanfiction - "Number Seven" - Part One

2010-01-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

Number Seven
by the writer formerly known as lm

Part One

The young woman slid out of the taxi, holding the door open with one hand and hiking up her pants legs with the other. The driver looked back after a moment, curious as to what was holding her up.

“Oh, jeez.” He noticed that he’d parked next to a puddle. “D’you need me to pull up, lady?”

“No, thank you.” The bespectacled woman sent a small smile his way, subtly turning her head to move her hair out of her face. “I think I’ve got it.”

Frowning down at the ground, she eventually gave up and stepped into the water. Feeling it soak through her pants and into her shoes was an unpleasant experience indeed, so she worked quickly. “How much?” she asked, pulling out her wallet.

“Uh.” The bearded man squinted at the meter, pushing his own glasses up on to his forehead. “22.50,” he finally said.

“Here you go then.”

“Thanks.”

No sooner than she’d slammed the door shut did the taxi speed off, weaving throughout the traffic, off to wherever the driver was in a rush to go.

The woman wasn’t in a rush, so she sauntered down the Boston street, alternating shaking each leg as she went, oblivious to any odd stares she may’ve received.

She took in the stores she passed and made a mental list just for fun. There were six coffee shops, (three of which were Starbucks,) several indie clothing stores, and a couple of record stores. Nothing particularly caught her fancy and most of the stores were different than what she remembered. That depressed her for some reason. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t like she ever spent any great amount of time shopping, but there was something to be said for familiarity. She drove this street every day during her sophomore year, when she’d finally gotten that damn car, and she’d grown accustomed to seeing the same shops.

Most of them didn’t exist now.

Pausing in front of a boutique, she allowed her eyes to trail along the lines of the dresses on display in front. The front-most, a pink, frilly number, instantly reminded her of home, and she contemplated going inside before a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“You know, I think it may suit you.”

“Do you now?” she replied, refusing to turn to the voice but barely containing her smirk.

“Sure,” came the nonchalant voice. “Pink. Lacey. Tight-fitting. Cleavage-exposing. Everything you’re known for, amiga.”

The woman met the face of the voice’s owner then, kind blue eyes the first thing she noticed. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey, yourself.” The woman with the kind blue eyes looked virtually no different than the last time the woman in glasses had seen her. Her jet black hair hung slightly past her ears, and her lips were adorned with red lipstick, her eyes with thick black liner. She still wore three silver hoops in each ear, but had added another piercing to the collection.

“A nose ring, Jane?”

“You like?” Jane tilted her head back and forth, as if that would really give her friend a better view. “Claudia did it.”

“Good for her.”

“I like your jacket, Daria.” Jane pointed to the brunette’s long, green coat, which was of almost the same design as the red one she wore. “Great minds think alike, I guess?”

“I got mine from Quinn’s shop,” Daria said, trying to force the locks of her thick brunette hair behind her ears as a persistent wind blew in. “You?”

Jane shrugged. “Bought mine online. . . from Quinn’s shop.”

“Well, then, we really do think alike.”

“Either that or we were both just looking for ways to spend the gift certificates she got us for Christmas.” Jane shrugged again and started walking down the block, motioning Daria to follow. She did, hugging herself in a vain attempt to keep warm. Giving her friend the once-over, she frowned.

“Are you wearing pajamas?”

“You say, ‘pajaMAS?’ I’ve always pronounced it ‘paJAMas.’”

“Well, then I guess we can’t be friends anymore.”

“Damn it. I’m kind of - sort of - used to you.” Jane stopped at a coffee shop, and Daria mentally added it to her list. Noticing the tables arranged outside, the overhang shaking in the wind, she grimaced. Please don’t pick a spot outside, she thought. Please don’t pick a spot outside.

“What the hell are you shaking for?” Jane asked, pulling out a chair at a nearby table and sitting down. Daria, not in the mood to argue over where they should sit, pulled out the chair next to her friend and slid off her loafers.

“I was standing in a puddle,” Daria said, peeling off her soaked socks, her embarrassment at being uncouth overshadowed by how freaking cold she was.

“Well, why the hell would you do that? That’s not very smart.”

“Really?” Daria said, sitting back in her seat, slipping her wet socks into her pocket. Just that little change did wonders, and she was already in better spirits.

“It was a requirement to give up your common sense when you joined on at that paper, wasn’t it? I told you that those corporate bastards would take everything away from you.”

Daria smirked at her friend’s genuine worries, masked by her humor. Daria didn’t exactly know the definition of selling out, but in that moment, she felt like she had. She stared at her best friend, legs extended out onto the table before her, sneakers with skulls on them upon her feet.

“I do have to cut this weekend short. I’m supposed to do a story on the oil shortage and how it’s affecting American airlines.”

“Oooh. Juicy stuff.” Jane tipped her head back and sent a devilish smile at her friend, her tongue barely visible pushed against her front teeth. Then, suddenly, she dropped her feet to the ground and wringed her hands excitedly. “Claudia’s gonna open a shop. For both of us.”

“What?” Daria blinked, allowing the information to sink in. “I know that’s her dream.” She spoke slowly, wanting to broach the subject with caution. “But I thought you said tattooing was only meant to be a temporary thing for you?”

“It is a temporary thing, amiga. It’s a good way to keep food on the table while I work on my paintings.”

“But isn’t that going to cut into money for your studio? I mean, you said Claudia was planning on using your savings to buy the place, right?”

“Well, yeah. Of course that’s gonna cut into my savings, by, like, one hundred percent. But, who cares? Relationships are about compromise, you know.” Jane flippantly waved her hand. Daria knew that Jane would get the moon for Claudia, and she couldn’t help but smirk a self-loathing kind of smirk.

“Don’t think I ever got to that part in a relationship.”

“Oh, well it’s disgustingly overrated. Loving someone who loves you? Talk about blech!”

“What really gets to me is your sincerity.”

“You’re welcome, honey.” Jane winked and opened her mouth to go on before getting interrupted by a waitress.

“You two want anything?” the woman asked, pen poised on her pad. Daria raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“Waitresses still exist?”

Jane picked up on the thread, poking at the sleeve of her coat with an air of indifference. “Yeah, I already e-mailed my order in.”

“Oh. Well, okay, then.”

The woman went back into the shop, the door welcoming her with a ding, and Daria wondered aloud, “You think we should’ve told her we were joking?”

“She’ll pick up on it, and hell, even if she doesn’t, we could always, you know, walk in and order.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Or we could wait until Quinn shows up with her PDA and then e-mail our orders in!”

“Sounds good to me.” Daria leaned back against the uncomfortable metal seat once more and closed her eyes, realizing that, at just the right angle, she could get the sun to hit her face. It felt nice.

“You went and saw your folks?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?” Jane asked. Daria opened her eyes and frowned, then wondered why she was feeling so peeved at being disrupted from her sunbathing. Seeing Jane was a big part of this visit.

“Okay.” Daria suddenly found her eyes glued to her hands, situated in her lap.

“And here I was worrying you were going to be vague.”

“You know the only reason Mom and I started talking to each other again was because Dad got sick.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Jane said, stroking her chin, staring off at something in the distance. It was sarcasm, but maybe a bit truthful, too. There was a period when Daria hadn’t really been talking to anyone.

--

Daria exhaled for the fiftieth time, her fist shaking as she held it out to knock on her door. Her Lawndale home looked exactly as it did when she was in high school. No doubt the bedrooms long abandoned by her and her younger sister would be redone, but they would still look the same. The furniture in the living room was probably arranged the same way. But it would all feel different.

What the hell am I so afraid of?

Daria knocked on the door three times before hastily dropping her arm, panting like she’d run a marathon.

Maybe they don’t need to see me. Maybe just the fact that I knocked is a big step for us. I really don’t think I could face them today.

The door swung open then, revealing an elderly woman with blatantly dyed brown hair and wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. Her forehead was frozen; she was an obvious victim of Botox.

“Daria?” She broke into a wide grin. “Oh, sweetheart! It’s so great to see you!”

She enveloped Daria in a hug, and Daria patted her on the back, awkwardly. “You sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”

The older woman pulled back and held Daria out at a distance, staring at her with a twinkle in her eyes. “There is only one Daria Morgendorffer.”

“To God’s credit he rarely makes the same mistake twice.”

“God?” the woman asked, letting go of Daria and stepping inside, obviously intending for her daughter to follow.

Daria felt a bit uncomfortable about the slip, and try to shrug it off, taking a seat at the familiar dining table while her mother poured them coffee in the kitchen. “You know.”

Helen reappeared in the living room. “Quinn’s been taking you to church?”

“Well, I’ve been going of my own accord,” Daria said, defensively, accepting the yellow mug proffered. “I am a big girl, you know.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Then what did you mean, that I’m not the type of person to go to church? That Quinn’s the ‘good one?’ Seriously, if you could enlighten me, I’d appreciate it, Helen.”

“Daria.” Helen said, sitting next to her daughter, holding her own mug. “I did not mean to imply anything. I wish you wouldn’t be so hostile. I’m happy to see you. Honestly.” She patted Daria on the leg and smiled awkwardly. “Can’t we just – talk?” Helen’s big brown eyes were imploring Daria to put forth some effort on her part. Reluctantly, she sighed.

“Well, then, uh, how’s Dad?”

Pleased that Daria was responding, she exhaled and began, optimistically. “The doctor said he's doing better, but you know he’ll probably never regain those motor skills.”

“You two back together for good this time?”

Helen froze like she’d been slapped across the face before looking down into the depths of her mug like a chastised puppy. Daria felt herself very incapable of being sympathetic, and in fact felt very vindictive. “You know, since you had the affair and all.”

Helen’s head shot up. “Daria, I wish you wouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“Maybe I’d be more understanding if you told me exactly what happened,” Daria said, leaning back against the chair, crossing her right leg over her left, sipping smugly out of her glass.

“You enjoy making me squirm, don’t you?” Helen was smiling, but she wasn’t pleased.

“I should go see Dad.” Daria stood, setting her cup down on the coffee table before her.

“Daria.” Helen stood, too, and Daria met her mother’s eyes once more. “I. . . I’m very happy with the woman you’ve become.”

Daria was so caught off-guard that she could think of no retort to her mother. “I should go see Dad,” she repeated.

“Yes, yes, you probably should.” Helen broke the connection, wiping her hands on her skirt even though she had no real reason to. Neither moved, and they stood in a stony silence for a few seconds.

Finally, Daria broke and went upstairs to see her father.

--

“Hey! You guys! Jane!” a familiar voice called, awaking Daria from her reverie. Walking from the opposite direction she and Jane had taken was none other than her sister Quinn.

“Oh! Hey!” Jane said, waving her arms back and forth.

“I think she’s seen us.” Daria couldn’t help but be amused at her friend’s antics.

“You can never be too sure.” Jane resumed waving, and Daria leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes again.

“Right. She may’ve mistaken someone else in the immediate vicinity as us.”

“Exactly, amiga. Oh, hey! Look who showed up, Mrs. Fancy Schmancy Designer Woman herself.”

Daria couldn’t see her group, but she heard her sister pull out a chair and sit down. “Why, thank you, Jane! But I’m pretty sure schmancy’s not a word.”

“We could ask Daria. She’s the scholar.”

“Ooh, good idea! Daria, what’s your ruling? Daria??? Is she alive?”

“Hey! You said that I should do everything in my power to get Daria’s body here, you said nothing about her being alive!”

“Goodness, Jane, that is so morbid! Is she asleep?”

“If she is, then I’m the worst hit man in the world.”

“Ugh. Why don’t you guys have anything to drink?”

“Oh, Daria and I simply scared off the waitress with the sheer force of our personalities and have yet to muster up the strength to go inside and order some cappuccinos.”

Quinn sighed, but Daria could tell that she wasn’t agitated and was still being entertained by Jane. “You want me to get you guys something?”

“Your treat?”

“I guess so.” The sound of metal scraping against cement signified that her sister was getting up. “Daria, is a cappuccino good for you?”

Daria didn’t acknowledge the question, and after a second felt a presence close to her face. “Daria,” Jane said, “if your heart rate increases, I’ll take that to mean you want a black coffee. If it stays the same, I’ll make sure Quinn gets you the most overpriced thing they’ve got!” Jane pressed her head against Daria’s chest, and Daria tried to put on an unimpressed front.

“I’m sorry, Jane, but that has got to be the lamest attempt to feel me up ever attempted.”

She opened her eyes and caught sight of Jane leaning back into her space. “Okay, first of all, how many attempts have there been to feel you up, and secondly, what? You’ve got no boobs!”

“Uh, I’m going inside. Glad you’re awake now, Daria.” Quinn, who was blushing, smiled before disappearing into the coffee shop abyss. Jane put her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand.

“Quinn turned out all right.”

Daria didn’t see it as requiring a reply, so she said nothing. Jane went on.

“Better than me, at least. She’s got that business, and everyone wants to buy her clothes, and she’s married to a doctor. . .”

“They are handy to have around if you have a heart attack.”

Jane chuckled and let it slowly fade out. She exhaled, and, after a slight hesitation, spoke.

“You know what really bums me out? What really makes me feel like a failure?” Jane was intense now, serious, but backtracked before making any revelations. “I mean, you’re gonna think I’m such a bitch, that I’m so selfish, after I tell you this.”

“I’m not supposed to think that now?”

“Well, you, uh – see Trent a lot, right?”

“Uh, why would I see Trent a lot?”

“Because you’re both in New York.”

Daria blinked and sat up a bit straighter, appearing genuinely perplexed. “Jane, believe this or not, New York is a fairly large place. I’ve only seen him a couple of times in the last few years. Why’re you asking?”

“Oh. Well, never mind. I, uh, see him quite a bit. He comes to visit me. Never stays with me and Claudia, always puts himself up in a hotel.”

“Well, he can afford it,” Daria said, simply, and the way Jane’s face fell at that comment suddenly made it perfectly clear just what was bothering her. “Jane. Trent’s success was a- a fluke! Not even Trent likes Trent’s success!”

Jane didn’t say anything, just slouched and frowned a little more, focusing on the table before her. Daria opened her mouth to say something else, but Quinn’s reappearance hushed her.

“Here, guys,” Quinn started, putting some drinks in front of the girls. “I got you guys regular coffee and me some hot chocolate; goodness, it’s cold out here!” As she sat down, she pulled a curl of her red hair in front of her face and inspected it. “All the cold air cannot be good for me.”

--

It was raining. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but the wind gushing in from the east gave the impression that the storm was much more dangerous than it was. The New York skyline wasn’t bright, but muddled and grey. It was a nasty night, but people were still loitering about, smoking cigarettes like they were too cool to be caged in by things like walls. The traffic was zooming past like it didn’t give a damn about the weather.

Walking alone down the sidewalk, Daria pushed through the crowds, ignoring some of the catcalls and random honking horns. She didn’t have an umbrella, so her black dress was left clinging limply to her frame. She had to pause every few seconds to wipe off her glasses, her line of vision; the last thing she wanted was to run into some sleaze. She cursed under her breath at the lack of taxis.

Her feet hurt. The boots were supposed to be trendy, she knew, the way they outlined her calves, but the small toe and the high heel were just hell. Utter hell. She vowed to go barefoot the rest of the weekend.

She didn’t exactly know why she had been in such a rush to leave the party. She should’ve stuck around; she should’ve gone home with Luke. Luke was finally getting published, and he was expecting his girlfriend to be supportive, but damn it did Daria hate arty-intellectual types. She hated having to endure their conversation.

Or maybe that’s not what she hated at all. She liked a good discourse as much as the next guy. She liked being surrounded by people who shared her mental capacity and general beliefs. No, what she didn’t like was how the conversation always ended with the other party making the inevitable conclusion.

“You must feel so happy for Luke!”

Like it was Daria’s duty to feel happy for Luke and like she couldn’t write better than that bastard could in her sleep.

Daria paused and wiped her glasses again, using the sleeve of her dress, frowning in thought. That’s not a very nice sentiment. But who said she had to be nice???

Shaking her head, she began walking again, only casually noting that the storm was letting up. She saw the hotel ahead, feeling at first relief and then a bit of apprehension. She hoped he didn’t mind her stopping by like this. Then again, she was so exhausted, she really didn’t care what he thought. She just needed a place to crash.

The party continued to flash before her eyes, and with each step she got angrier. She hated how people just assumed that her one goal in life was to be Luke’s doting girlfriend. Oh, yes, being subjected to sexist preconceptions for four whole hours definitely ranked highly on her list of worst and single-most humiliating experiences of her life.

Entering the complex, she shielded her eyes as the bright, white light hit her pupils. The man who was sitting behind the desk looked up quickly, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Daria caught sight of a portable gaming device in his hands.

“Uh, can I help you?” he squeaked.

Daria shook her head and gave him a slight wave, before going on her way, on to Room 211.

The elevator took her to the second floor and she turned to her right. She remembered when he’d first came to town and she’d first seen his room. Pretty cool, he’d said, waving his hand as he gave her the grand tour of the hallway. Orange carpet and cucumber walls. Oh, yes. Cool.

Daria knocked on the door hesitantly, surprised at her own diffidence. A thousand worries rolled around in her head. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s out. Maybe he’s got a date in there.

“Oh, hey, Daria,” Trent said upon opening the door. “You’re kinda wet.”

Daria wiped her glasses once more, studying Trent after replacing them. He was wearing black socks, black slacks, and a white button-up shirt, half hanging out of his pants. He was clean-shaven, and his hair looked like it had been briefly combed through. He looked more or less the same as the last time she saw him, but it was still an odd sight.

“It’s raining. I couldn’t catch a taxi, and my place is on the other side of the island. Can I crash here tonight?”

Trent shrugged. “Sure.” He stepped back, allowing Daria room to come in.

The room wasn’t too impressive, even though Daria knew it was supposedly one of the nicer suites in the place. Upon stepping in, it was like an apartment. A kitchen was to the right, and a living room was directly in front of the door. Next to the living room was a closed-off sleeping area.

“I can take the couch,” Daria said, plopping onto the living room sofa and removing her awful boots.

“You can sleep on the bed if you want.” Trent opened the fridge and got out a couple of cans of beer, extending one to Daria. Never a fan of the beverage, she was a bit shocked at how she snatched it up and began drinking.

“Shouldn’t you be drinking Dom Pérignon or something?” she asked jokingly, and Trent quietly chuckled, taking the recliner on the other side of the living room.

“Not really my style.”

“How’s work?”

Trent frowned. “Boring. You?”

Daria shrugged. “My suicidal thoughts have increased ten-fold, so I don’t take that as a good sign. . .”

“Like working with the musicians. Stuffy suit-types I don’t like.”

“Trent,” Daria was a bit incredulous, “you are one of those stuffy suit-types; you know that, right?”

Trent’s frown deepened, traveling to his forehead. He scratched behind his ear before abruptly standing and walking to the bathroom.

“Um,” Daria called, “I’m sorry?”

He didn’t respond, and she sighed, setting her beer on the table in front of her and stretching out on the couch. Trent had been in town the past few weeks and talking to him had come as a welcome relief. Her relationship with Luke was on the rocks, her parents were separating, Jane was MIA, and she wasn’t happy with the way things were turning out for her at work.

A flush followed by the sound of the sink’s running water meant that Trent was about to come out. When he did, she called a bit loudly, “Why don’t you just tell them that you really didn’t have anything to do with it? Just come clean.”

No sooner than the words had left her tongue, did Daria roll her eyes at her own stupidity; like he hadn't contemplated that particular option.

Trent was shuffling around in the kitchen and she thought he was going to continue to ignore her, but he eventually spoke up. “Can’t do that. They don’t take kindly to fakes. Milli Vanilli and all that shit.”

“Damn. I forgot that the pop industry was known for its authenticity.”

“Good one. But, really. Too messy to come clean. Danny said I should just ride it out. He’s not pissed. Said he hopes I win.”

“Well, then, what are you so upset about?”

“Not very ethical.”

“That’s true.”

Trent came back into view then, and he sat back down in the chair. “Janey called. She’s in New Mexico.”

Daria sat up. “Oh my god; really?”

Trent nodded. “Yep. Told her I was happy she was alive, but mad as hell she ran off.”

“Me too. I’m glad she’s okay.” Daria was in better spirits just by hearing that little piece of news. “How’d she get this number?”

“Guess Jesse gave it to her; I dunno.” Trent voice was a bit gruffer there, and Daria wondered just what he was mad about. She planned to ask him, but he went on while she was sipping her drink. “She, uh, asked me if I talked to you. Told her not much. Dunno why.”

“Oh. Well, that’s fine by me. It’s not that I don’t like you, Trent, but I have been kind of using you as a Jane replacement. When I squint, you two almost look the same.”

“Me too!” Trent pointed at his chest and grinned before amending. “I mean, we’re cool, Daria, you know, but Janey’s just. . .there.”

Daria scoffed. “Or not. I can’t believe she ran off to New Mexico without even letting anyone know where she was!”

“She's just not doing as good as us.”

Daria laughed at that; it was sarcastic, and in that instance, she was glad that she was with someone who was as truly at a loss for the future as she was. She sent Trent a warm smile as he drank from his own beer. He smiled back.

“How’s Luke? Had a party, right?”

Daria’s form slumped, but she was still in a fairly pleasant mood. Maybe she was drying off. Or maybe her feet were happy, freed from their patent leather prison. Or maybe the beer she’d guzzled was finally starting to take effect. “Awful. I think I’m going to break-up with him.”

Trent regarded her with amusement. “Been saying that for two weeks now.”

“I’m just not very good with confrontation. I’m so used to loathing people from afar.”

“You’re not very happy. Should just end it.”

“Really?” Daria snapped, but quickly broke. “I know. I know. I should.”

“He seems like a tool.”

Daria smirked. “That is an eloquently true description.”

“You could do better.”

Daria meant to say “Thank you,” but it never came out. She didn’t know what 'better' meant. Luke was good-looking, wealthy, intelligent, and an all-around nice guy. What the hell else did she want?

“Maybe I’ll quit my job, run off to Montana, live in a cabin or something,” she was talking without thinking, and she didn’t really know where that statement came from, though, as the words continued to spill out of her, she realized that this was the reason she’d come to see Trent in the first place. “What if I just gave it all up? Everything? Ran off into the night without saying goodbye and lived all alone, and just wrote? All the time, nothing but me and my typewriter. Would you think I was crazy?”

Trent was staring at her with non-judgmental eyes, so she already knew what he was going to say. “No.”

Jane would’ve gone on, asked Daria just what kind of cabin she wanted, what kind of typewriter, would’ve asked if she planned on getting tons of cats. But Trent didn’t. At least he didn’t try to preach to her like Quinn would’ve, like Jodie would’ve.

“You ever think about doing something like that?” Daria asked, trailing the rim of her can with her finger. She wasn’t looking at Trent, but she could tell he was seriously thinking it over.

“Would miss going out, listening to music. Would like the solitude. Dunno. Seems kind of cool.” Daria was caught off-guard by what Trent said next. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“What does that mean?”

Trent shrugged. “Not your style.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You’d have no one to complain to.”

“That’s the point, Trent. To cut out my complaints completely. To be happy.”

“You wouldn’t be happy. Just lonely.” Trent stood and downed the last of his can. “I’m going to bed, taking the couch.”

“Trent, I’ll sleep here,” Daria replied with little enthusiasm. The possibility of escape had always been in the back of her mind, a hope she clung to in her darkest moments. But Trent was right. She wasn’t a wandering Lane; escaping wouldn’t work for her. The reason she was so upset now was because she was lonely. Cutting off contact with the outside world wouldn’t alleviate that.

“Nah. Take the bed. More comfortable. I just changed the sheets.”

“Oh, well, now I can’t possibly refuse.” Daria started to stand but wobbled a bit. Trent grabbed her arms to steady her.

“You drunk? You’re a lightweight.” Trent led her into the bedroom. Daria shook her head.

“Had two glasses of dollar store champagne at the Luke fiasco.”

“It sucked that much?”

“It was the celebratory equivalent of a god damn Hoover. Though to be fair, it wouldn't have been if I could possibly concede to the idea of being anyone’s arm candy.” Trent sat Daria down on the bed and then sat next to her, patting her on the knee supportively.

“Never really thought of you as the arm candy type.”

“Should I be insulted?” Daria was feeling slightly nauseous. Trent didn’t answer, choosing instead to lie down. When he spoke, he sounded flippant.

“Nah, just an observation.”

Daria joined him, so she too was staring at the ceiling. Her eyes drifted lazily over the white, bumpy surface. Her eyelids were heavy, and she let out a yawn without thinking. She idly wondered if she should change out of her damp dress but couldn't process her actions any further than that. It wouldn't be likely that Trent would have anything she could wear, anyway, and she was too tired to move. Just when her limbs were beginning to feel like cinder blocks, they went numb. She knew she wouldn't be on this plane for much longer, and her mind, what little of it was functioning, decided that there were some words she needed to say. When she spoke, it was as if she was letting out a confession.

“Trent, I’ve never thought too highly of you in the past. But these last few weeks, you’ve been very helpful. Don’t think that I don’t appreciate it; I really do. And I know that you’ll figure out what to do with all this Grammy mess. Um, anyway... thanks.”

She waited for a response for a split-second before realizing it wasn't coming. Trent’s shallow breathing was the only thing she heard, so she knew he was asleep.

--

“Hey, look who it is! Mr. Hotshot!” Jane called, waving as a red Porshe pulled up to the curb.

“At least that’s a word,” Quinn muttered, gathering her things, picking up her purse and standing. “I’m ready to go eat! Oooh, let’s get tofu!”

Jane grimaced. “Let’s not.”

Trent stepped out of the vehicle, and with a click, locked the doors. Stepping over the puddles of water and onto the sidewalk, he approached the three women.

“Hey.”

“Hey, there, stud! Where’s your little girlfriend; Rachel, I think her name is?” Jane asked, with an over-exaggerated innocence.

“Yeah, I wanted to meet her.” Quinn picked up on the thread, smiling sweetly.

“Couldn’t leave the studio. Working on a track. Hey, Daria.”

“Hi,” she finally looked up at him, smiling. “Things well?”

Trent shrugged, a painfully familiar expression that seemed so odd to Daria given the name-brand trenchcoat that covered his thin frame. He turned to Jane again.

“You gonna give me a hug?”

Jane played passive. “I don’t know. I mean, you’re all the way over there. . .”

“Hmmm. . . You guys ready to go?”

“Yes! Let’s!” Quinn said, walking over to the vehicle. “Trent, this car is so nice! Ryan’s been car shopping, you know! I should definitely bring this up to him!”

“Because the most sensible car to get when you have three small children is a Porsche.”

“Ha ha, Daria!” Quinn put her hands on her hips and glared before sighing. “But I guess you’re right. Maybe when the boys are older and have their own cars.”

“Well, that sounds sensible.” Jane stood and sent a wink at Daria. Daria rolled her eyes, but followed her friend, getting in to the back of Trent’s car, while Quinn got in front.

Once they were buckled, Trent started driving. Looking in the rearview mirror, he caught Jane's gaze. "Where are we going?" He turned to Quinn. "You have any preferences?"

"Oh, I like almost anything." Quinn chuckled. "Unlike Jane. I mean, I guess it's not her fault that her palate's not as refined as mine."

"If you like everything, then wouldn't that make your palate, like, the opposite of refined?" Jane half-heartedly argued, instead putting the majority of her energy into staring out her window.

Quinn didn't push the matter, but let out a dramatic sigh. Trent locked eyes with Daria. "What are you thinking?"

"Burgers," Daria said, simply. Jane and Quinn both groaned at that, but Trent nodded.

"Burgers sound cool."

And the matter was settled. Jane leaned forward so that her head was in between Quinn and Trent. Turning to her brother, she asked, "Did you go and visit Lawndale?"

"Yeah."

Daria found herself involved in the conversation. Quinn was, too, nowhere near as adept as her older sister at masking her curiosity.

Jane, for the most part, seemed oblivious. "...Well?" she pushed. Trent was uncomfortable, and he coughed a couple of times before continuing.

"It didn't go as well as I hoped."

"Oh... Trent. I'm sorry." Jane rubbed his shoulder. Trent shrugged once more, and Jane eventually leaned back in her seat.

An awkward silence befell the group then, but not before it could eat away at Quinn's brain. "So, Trent, you're dating Rachel Haze. I can hardly believe it! She's like, the most talented pop singer in the world!"

Trent smiled ruefully at that, and Daria saw an opportunity. "Jane, is talented pop singer an oxymoron?"

Jane feigned mulling it over for a good five seconds before commenting, "I don't know, Daria. I guess it depends on what you're thinking's talented - the mediocre singer or the machines that make her pop."

Trent chuckled at that. Daria started to attack Rachel some more, but Quinn interrupted. "Do you think you could arrange a meeting between me and my family and Rachel? I just know they'd love it!"

"Who? Your three sons under the age of ten or your 40-something husband?" Jane asked. Daria put her hand up.

"Now, now, Jane. As a friend of Ryan's, I can vouch that he has a weak spot for trashy pop music."

"Does he now? Oh well, in that case, Quinn, go ahead."

Quinn whipped her head around and glared at the two in the backseat. "You two are no fun!"

Daria knew that Quinna had finally reached the point of aggravation. She could feel Jane deflate next to her and knew that she'd reached the same conclusion.

"Tell me something I don't know, Quinn," Daria muttered, leaning her head back in her seat, deciding to nap now. "Tell me something I don't know."