A Treatise On The Perils Of Excessive Involvement In The Reading Of Fiction by Torak
Summary: ** Winner of Best Overall in the Peter Pan Challenge **
** Winner of Best Unusual Story Creativity in the Peter Pan Challenge **
When the RoR provides an enchanted library for Ginny to relax in, her dreams take on a strangely literary bent... COMPLETE... for now.
Rating: PG-13
Categories: Post-HBP, Peter Pan Challenge (2007-4)
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2007.08.27
Updated: 2007.09.04
A Treatise On The Perils Of Excessive Involvement In The Reading Of Fiction by Torak
Chapter 1: Prologue: Night In The Library
Author's Notes: Night In The Library
It had been a long week, little helped by the tense atmosphere pervading Gryffindor tower — or of course the knowledge that Harry was out there somewhere, working hard to get his silly arse killed. She had barely seen him the last few days, what with his lessons with Dumbledore and all. And to make matters worse, Romilda bloody Vain — sorry, Vane, slip of the tongue — kept trailing after him like a little dog begging for table scraps.
Actually, Ginny mused, the thought of Romilda as a small female dog seemed remarkably apt.
In order to escape the stares of her housemates, which had become a mixture of sympathy and jealousy, Ginny found herself this evening wandering the night-time corridors of Hogwarts (she had, for a while, been punching the walls as she walked, though she stopped after one of the walls tried to punch back) in search of peace and quiet. It proved elusive, however, until she found herself pacing back and forth outside the Room of Requirement. Eventually the door opened, and she stepped in.
Inside, she found a library, dark and warm and gothic and Victorian. Mahogany bookcases filled the walls, their book-laden shelves glowing a deep red through a century’s worth of furniture polish, brass lamps shining a warm, golden light down the face of each bookcase. A fireplace cast a flickering orange light over the room, gleaming off brass and leather.
In the centre of the room stood an oval coffee table, adorned with biscuits, sandwiches, a number of Stay-Warm Flasks, and one mug. And beside it, facing the fireplace and with a heavy brass reading lamp casting a wedge of light onto the seat from its green glass lampshade, stood a large, heavy armchair, deep red leather with burnished gold trim.
Ginny smiled wanly and stepped inside.
She paused at the table, noting with delight that one of the flasks held hot chocolate — with a goodish dose of cinnamon, if she was any judge, which she was — and snagged a custard cream. She twisted off the upper biscuit and wolfed it down, glancing at the rare moving Caravaggio over the fireplace and watching the play of the firelight over the Turner on the wall as she licked the filling off the lower biscuit.
As the last crumbs of the biscuit crumbled between her teeth, she poured a mug of hot chocolate, noting that it was just the right temperature; even the house-elves had a tendency of serving it so hot that it seared the tongue, but it seemed that in the Room of Requirement, hot chocolate was and always would be just hot enough chocolate.
She tried it.
She moaned, closing her eyes to better handle the sensations as the chocolate washed over her tongue. There was the chocolate, and yes, she’d been right about the cinnamon, and there was a fairly strong hint of vanilla as well, and… was that the tiniest smidgeon of ginger in the background?
A shiver ran through her body as she swallowed the chocolate. A second mouthful proved it; the hot chocolate was perfect.
“Oh, I don’t think I ever want to leave this place,” she sighed, dreamily opening her eyes.
She took another sip and started wandering around the room, browsing the shelves. A few books caught her eye, and she tilted them horizontal, sticking out from the main body of books, reminding her to revisit them later.
War Of The Worlds… could be interesting. The Collected Works Of Shakespeare, she decided, she would leave for when she had a lot of time to kill. She found a number of thick, dull-looking volumes by someone called Rowling, but there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about them. The shelf below them held dozens of dire romance novels that all seemed to have the female protagonist gasping a lot, falling in love with some right bastard, and doing anything in their power to mention heaving bosoms.
Ice Station and Seven Deadly Wonders, on the other hand, both caught her attention, and she vowed to return to them some time when she needed a spot of brainless entertainment. The Discworld novels further down the shelf fascinated her, but a quick flick through them made her conclude that if she started them she probably wouldn’t be able to stop until she’d finished them all, so she moved on, earmarking the whole shelf for future reading.
The next bookcase seemed remarkably dull; 1984, Brave New World, and Farewell To Arms all failed to capture her imagination, as did a number of books with dramatic covers which all seemed to be about people whizzing about in spacehips and saving. planets while. trying to avoid. talking. in. complete sentences. And Thadpole Scamander’s abortive attempt at a children’s book, Teenage Mutant Ninja Kneazles, held her in horrified fascination for several seconds before she returned it to the shelf before it had a chance to break her brain.
Then came a whole shelf of fun-looking books; Orphan Island, Guerrilla In The Kitchen, Strange Highways, and a whole row of books by an Elizabeth Peters about a Victorian female archaeologist named Peabody, whom Ginny instantly took a liking to. She tilted out what seemed to be the first book in the series and moved along.
Finally she saw it. A thin, scruffy volume, held together more by sheer willpower than the tatty paper of its covers. “Peter Pan, by J M Barrie”, its frontispiece proclaimed. She turned it over to read the blurb.
“J M Barrie’s beloved children’s classic tells the tale of three Victorian children’s induction into the magical world of Neverland, where mermaids and pirates and Indians vie for superiority, and fairies live not on oxygen but on belief. Ruler of Neverland (if you ask him, at least) is Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. Join Wendy, John and Michael as they…”
That’d do, she decided, although she couldn’t quite see what was so magical about being magical. She picked up the book and wandered over to the chair, hooking a fuzzy blanket out of the basket beside the chair.
She sat, sinking into the soft, worn leather and tucking the blanket around her. She took another sip of hot chocolate, felt the same pleasantly familiar shiver, and started to read.
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Ginny knew was this…
Perhaps it was the blanket, or the chocolate. Perhaps the relaxing crackling of the fire. Or perhaps it was just Barrie’s somewhat lethargic style, but very soon, Ginny fell asleep.
While she slept she had a dream.
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