June 3rd, 2019

Harry Potter Fanfiction

Draco wasn’t quite sure when he’d begun counting days in fingers of Firewhiskey, but he surmised it started sometime between the war trials and the September of his eighth year. Not that he was a lush; he simply wanted for an occupation that didn’t involve tinkering with vanishing cabinets or plotting assassinations. Or owling in job applications to no avail, he added, lip already curling into a sneer. Hoisting himself up from the floor, he steadied himself on the terrace door. The sun beat down on him senselessly, mercilessly, through the glass. White peacocks strode — no, strutted — through manicured gardens. It was a scene that hadn’t changed since his Hogwarts days.

“Tempus.” Half-past noon.  Shite. As if summoned, Winky popped into his room.

“Madame requests sir’s presence at breakfast,” she squeaked, still unable to look him in the eyes.

“Alright.” He quickly showered, changed his clothes, and drank a Pepper-Up potion before making his way downstairs.

His mother sat at the head of the dining table, a folded copy of the Daily Prophet in hand. Celestina Warbeck Weds Washout Warble?! screamed the society section. Narcissa was ever the apt socialite and possibly the only Malfoy to still read the papers. Lucius was absent. A large, steaming dish of poached eggs, toast, and bacon materialized before him as he took his usual seat.

“Good morning, Draco. Did you sleep well?” She treaded carefully, in the way that made him almost resent her. She didn’t mention the hour or his stubbornly flushed face. And so they followed their routine dialogue.

“Have you heard from the apothecary in Diagon Alley? Valentino’s, was it?”

“Not yet,” he parried. “Though I’m sure they have more seasoned applicants to choose from.” It was a lie, and they both knew it, if her thinned lips were any indication. Valentino had a muggle wife and likely Incedio’d his resume upon receipt. 

“Well, I’m confident your luck will turn around. The upcoming Ministry function seems a good opportunity to make the right connections.”

“Hm. I suppose, as long as I jump through the right hoops,” he said noncommittally. There was, after all, no real need for an additional source of income. Nevertheless, Draco didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate staying at the manor. It felt a bit like a gilded cage no matter how well he avoided the foyer and basement. So he did what no fashionable scion did: look for honest work, the distastefulness of bending over backwards in politesse be damned. 

“Speaking of,” said Narcissa. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve planned a little outing for you.” He inwardly groaned. “Outing” had, as of late, become code for a date of the romantic sort, candlelight, tipped-off paparazzi, and whatnot. Of course, she didn’t schedule them too often. It would be indecorous.

“Dare I ask who?”

“If you’d like.”

“Okay. Who?”

“A Greengrass.” He raised a brow. “Might as well maintain some of the mystery,” Narcissa teased. 

“That I can respect,” he said soberly. She laughed in response, the gesture lighting up her face. “When and where is it?”

“Friday at six. The new French restaurant at the North end of Diagon Alley.” Nodding, he finished nibbling on his toast and stood. Before she could voice any concerns about how he must eat more, Draco Lucius Malfoy, you’re a young man, he dismissed himself with a quick “ThanksmumI’llseeyoulater” and ascended the west wing staircase to enter the library.

It had been years since the Aurors confiscated most of the Malfoys’ more magically dubious antiques and heirlooms but Draco still found himself unused to the almost barren hallways. Lost in thought, or maybe it was just the hangover, he collided with something solid. He blearily blinked at a disheveled Lucius. “Father.”

His father had clearly seen better days. Before his stint in Azkaban four years ago. Whey-faced and lank-haired, he paused, book securely tucked under his arm. “Draco,” he rasped. Then he cleared his throat. “I was just leaving to go to my room.” Lucius’ eyes searched his face, as if taking Draco in for the first time in months, before turning away once more. He left.

Hours later, alchemy remained a lost cause. He restlessly skimmed one of Nicolas Flamel’s treatises, still reeling over the exchange. It had been the most Lucius said to him in weeks, between Draco’s drunken escapades and coerced social calls and Lucius’ meetings with a glorified parole Auror. Having narrowly avoided a life sentence in Azkaban, not even Potter’s vouching for Narcissa and her family could salvage the Malfoy name. Draco suspected this was only part of it, though. He still didn’t know what to make of his father’s refusal to talk to him. Things were either undone completely or untouched since his sixth year, and his father’s distance was yet another frustrating constancy.

September 5th, 2019

Writing Challenge (List of Required Vocab and a Time Limit)

The air was teeming with energy, as if the town was on the precipice of some great happening. What was more foreboding, however, were the bombastic cries of the resident psychic, or so the old, sun-beaten man claimed. 

Jaw held taut, he proclaimed the town’s end. His dogma became increasingly frantic by the day, a marked difference from his typical vague statements and self-assured demeanor. With a scraggly white beard and strangely bright eyes, he was an exemplar of the crazed town lout. 

In truth, some of them believed him, even if he was often the target of lampoons. To the conspiracy theorists, the signs that the village was on the verge of collapse were plentiful; the lightning-struck chimney, the few dead fish reeled in by the fisherman, the discovery of a child-sized bracelet that was not known to belong to anyone. 

A strange quietude settled, not at all hampered by the dismissal of these omens by many dour townsfolk. 

By the fourth sign, however, even the skeptics began to accept this theory. The cascade of the waterfall on the outskirts of town had halted to an occasional drip. 

September 11th, 2019

Finsta (“Fake Instagram”) Post

Why I Want to Be A Doctor Assignment for FIQWS 10013

I welcomed the all-consuming miasma of embalming fluid as beads of nervous sweat clung to the inside of my gloves. Admittedly, when I started the Heath Exposure Recruitment Program, I did not know what to expect. The mental picture I had conjured beforehand certainly did not include medical students calmly herding wide-eyed high schoolers around sliced up cadavers. 

My eyes trailed from the serene expression of the donor — an elderly woman who died of natural causes — to her jaundiced small intestine. Whatever sense of dread I felt dissipated. I stared, transfixed, committing the intricacies of tissue to memory. The ileum vaguely reminded me of the turkey-tail mushrooms I noticed sprouting on neighborhood trees, almost petal-like in its curved shape and thickly layered. In carefully preserved viscera, I saw only the same divine design.

Our anatomical tour guide reached between her lungs and unsheathed her heart, pointing out blood clots. A swell of emotion lodged itself in my throat as I recalled my grandfather’s weekly pill organizer. While I never bore witness to the heart attack, his wan face and tired eyes were a constant reminder of the confused, dark days I saw him weak and bedridden. Suddenly, my hands gently cupped the donor’s pale heart. Craning my neck, I examined it. The idea of holding someone’s lifeforce no longer disconcerted me. Instead, I visualized the flow of blood through vine-like veins and arteries: a fascinating, dynamically constant cycle. Awestruck, thoughts lingered long after I washed my hands clean. 

Beauty was not the only thing that struck me about medicine. My newly gained knowledge on physiology and the cases we studied in our problem-based learning sessions formed an intricate puzzle I felt compelled to solve. I thought about the other ways we immersed ourselves in medicine, if only for a trial run. In photographs, a child gazed off-camera, blue-tinged and veiny eyes slightly squinted from the flash, transcending the theoretical and becoming a hard reality I could easily envision doctors facing in real time. 

I considered pursuing medicine before these experiences in junior year but having exposure that went beyond my volunteer work at a local hospital — bringing patients into the Ambulatory Surgery Unit and cleaning rooms — legitimized the pursuit. At the hospital, I noticed the nurses responding to the day’s demands with alacrity and enduring humanity. I admired their dedication to their patients but didn’t have much of an opportunity to speak with them. In fact, it wasn’t until I practiced speaking with patients in HPREP that I realized I could be just as sensitive, conscientious, and, well, patient with them. 

So, I suppose this is the other story about my reasons for pursuing medicine. The human aspect of it touched me deeply; I was a child of a family riddled with chronic illnesses. But above all, I was and am fascinated by it and committed to being a lifelong learner. Maybe I can never truly understand our ever-shifting, endlessly complex world, but I can surely try and improve others’ lives while I’m at it.

October 2nd, 2019

Writing Challenge (List of Required Vocab and a Time Limit)

He sneered, nails leaving slight crescent indents on the scroll. The carrier pigeon cooed and pecked beside him. 

“Enter,” he ordered, as succinct as ever. 

A club-footed man came in through the mammoth double doors, wooden and iron-wrought, with intricate vine carvings. 

“Lord Bates,” he began, balking at the sneer on the other’s face. 

Bates’ eyes roved over the man, taking in his pedestrian features, tremulous voice, and the parchment curled in his fist. 

“Keeping the library’s contents clandestine is the first cardinal rule,” he gritted out, elocution faultless after years of practice. “A rule which you’ve broken.”

Years of attrition, especially within his closest ranks, had worn him down immensely. 

“Your daughter is with child, I surmise?” He asked rather needlessly.

“Yes,” the club-foot began to prattle, his ramblings far from pellucid. Some excuse about his girl dying. Bates put an end to his feeble attempts at camaraderie with a cavalier wave and snort. 

“When my ancestors ransacked the Library of Alexandria and framed the Romans, they did so with no intention of allowing commoners access to centuries’ worth of accrued tomes.” A beat of silence. “Your ambivalence is a liability. Best keep such power in capable hands.”

Bates turned, hands folded behind his back as he stared out the stained-glass window. And so he unsheathed a small dagger. Without so much as a warning, he pinioned the pigeon. He relished how it writhed. It almost egged him on. Made him wonder how pain would fashion itself on the club-foot’s own mug. But he wouldn’t indulge himself yet. The Anatolian rug was new and he wasn’t keen on ruining it just yet. Messy, messy. 

“Access to Babylonaica, the history of humans in its entirety, to literature on steam engines, on heliocentrism, and you choose to betray my trust? Foolish indeed.” 

December 14th, 2019

Text Messages with a Friend