I never intended to fall for Harry Potter.

I liked him, of course, the detached way that you're fond of a chum who pops by twice a month. I should have known, though. The lure of proper British humour, and the way that I broke out into hysterical laughter every other page, for starters, should have warned me that it was bound to happen. But I I smiled indulgently-- loftily-- at those who insisted that Harry Potter was taking over their lives. And somehow, in between Goblet of Fire's publication, and the premiere of Chamber of Secrets, I've managed to become a fangirl of the highest order. My Slytherin scarf is being knitted into green and silver-grey stripes day by day, in homage to the house of all the most gorgeous men the fictional world has ever seen (outside of Jane Austen, of course). I am hopelessly, irrevocably obsessed with everyone's favorite Potions master, one Severus Snape. I swoon when Lucius Malfoy taps his silver-tipped cane on screen. Sigh when Sirius Black reveals himself to be A Good Guy, for we all know my Sirius couldn't be anything but. Cross my fingers that Ewan will play Lupin. Giggle madly when Fred and George hex the custard creams. Cry for Cedric, love Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, smile at Ron and Hermione, scan pages desperately for glimpses of Ginny's future with a certain Boy Who Lived.

And now I'm writing fanfic.

Goodness, but I'm infatuated.

“Do you know who she reminds me of?” she asks, finally, her fingers curved around Hester’s favorite coffee mug. Hester raises an eyebrow-- strange, Kate thinks, how we keep little bits of ourselves like that even when our smiles are wrought on our faces and our breasts lie deflated against our chests. Hester will always be the same, though-- she can’t imagine Hester ever fading into an oblivion of red knitted sweaters and hair rinsed to the dark of thirty. Not Hester, whose long hair, wet at ten after noon, is defiantly grey. Kate smiles a little to herself-- this is where the difference shows. She thinks of it to convince her that she and Hester are not the same person, paper dolls folded in half onto each other. Kate thinks of herself proudly; she will always be blonde. Always been some shade of pale, pale gold, be it the grey water blonde of adolescence or the silver-blonde ringlets she tossed in college. Hester reaches out; fingers the tight cuff of Kate’s black tafetta blouse.

Occasionally I write something worthwhile after all.

When the finals are over, I fully intend to lock myself in my room with a pile of books. The problem is, you see, I haven't a clue what's to prevent me from doing it now, since my motivation apparently extends only to reading Virginia Woolf and nevously drinking cups of water from the dispenser in the honors lounge.

On the plus side, I redesigned for the holidays. I'll put it up later tonight.

Surely my Civilization professor will see the necessity of that over Dante?

Winter. The art of the act of middling, neither one thing nor the other. Coming together, falling strands of tiny white lights that glow faintly golden behind windows. Evergreen, frosted with translucent ribbon and glitter-gems of ornamental snowflakes. Pinpricks of green and red lights threaded through the trees. The soft swishing of cars against asphalt soften beneath the brighter rush of a bus passing by, college students with their noses pressed to the windows. Everyone seems inexplicably young around this time of year. A few people trudge by, their hands shoved firmly into pockets to hold out chilly, ice-blue winter wind. Shops leak out strains of Christmas CD’s onto the sidewalk, Charlie Brown one place. My favorite, I think to myself.

And I walk down the street, humming a little song in the back of my throat. I pause for my favorite place, an enormous trove of cosmetics and costumes crammed together in one brightly lit room. The smell of nail polish and hair spray mingles underneath the manufactured sugar cookie scent. Satin gloves and peacock feather fans, cream blush and elaborate wigs.

And now it’s misty outside, a soft, lilting fog glimmered with the Christmas lights.

Oh, December, you’re just too delightful.