#i could easily have put whose body? and clouds of witness on this list too but i didn't want it to be all sayers lol

[kareenvorbarra]

Meme: favorite books read so far in 2024 (tagged by @child-of-hurin)

Ju's post doesn't say how many books to pick but she listed four, so that's what I'm doing.

Honorable mention goes to the six other Sayers novels I've read so far this year, because I've been absolutely devouring them and it was hard to pick a favorite (and no I'm not done with the series yet)

tagging @wizardysseus, @anghraine, @yavieriel, @thecrenellations, @roseofbattles, and anybody else who would like to do it!

[songofclarity]

i hc that nhs went to cloud recesses early bc nhs used to be ahead of the curve in certain areas of academic development (ex. his interests in astronomy and poetry—not anything martial, but cloud recesses is a scholarly place after all), but when he got to cloud recesses he didn’t have his standard structure and without that structure (in true adhd fashion) he kind of fell apart, and then it was easier to own it as “laziness” and make that a personality trait than admit that he really had Tried and Failed (can you tell i’m projecting lmao)

Oho, that's a good headcanon, Anon!

The fan is the sign of the esteemed gentleman, but now you’ve got me also thinking... the most beautiful fidget toy

I like how you specify astronomy and poetry, once again the subjects of a refined gentleman, because by all means he could still be ahead of the curve in those areas! It’s just they’re never talked about because that’s not what he’s at Cloud Recesses to learn. Although I feel like I’m going to completely deviate from your headcanon in a moment, projection is just one way we show our love for characters so keep it up, Anon, you’re doing great!

My understanding is that Cloud Recesses is what was supposed to give him structure. The structure back in the Unclean Realm was likely, “I do whatever I want when Da-ge isn’t looking, and then I do whatever I can to slip away” judging by how he behaves when we finally get to see him in his natural habitat lol

So Cloud Recesses is, practically by it’s definition, structure. And the dilemma I see with measuring Nie HuaiSang’s academic success/intelligence here is that, by what I recall, Cloud Recesses doesn’t teach science or art to these 3-month-long guest students. It’s a cultivation sect and it provides instruction to young cultivators about clan history, clan politics, historical cultivators, etc.:

Lan QiRen’s lessons were not only tediously long, but everything was also tested on. The generational changes of important clans in the cultivation world, the division of their areas of power, famous quotes by famous cultivators, family trees…

Although he didn’t understand a single bit as he listened in class, Nie HuaiSang worked as hard as a slave when the date of the test approached. He copied Virtue two times for Wei WuXian, and begged before the test, “Please, Wei-xiong, if my grade is lower than yi, my brother would really break my legs! Stuff like telling apart direct lineage, collateral lineage, main clan, clan branches… For us disciples from big clans, we can’t even distinguish our relationships with our own relatives, randomly calling everyone who are more than two tiers away from us aunts and uncles. Does anyone have enough capacity in their brain to remember those of other clans?!” (Ch. 14, ERS)

So it’s necessarily that Nie HuaiSang is unintelligent or a bad student but rather the subjects being taught are really... well, boring for someone who prefers science and art! He’s not even lazy about his learning. He still listens in class. It’s just that it all goes in one ear and out the other.

In that way, I’m not sure I see any signs that "he kind of fell apart" when he arrived at Cloud Recesses. From the sound of it, he had the same struggle at home and that didn’t change: he can't memorize the lists of names of these aunts or those famous cultivators, and he can't remember the birthdays of all these cousins or when all these random famous people were born, either.

(The people in his p*rn books begin and end with the shapes drawn on the page! Please don’t make him think too hard about genealogy and politics!)

He’s getting the education he needs, the kind of education he absolutely wasn’t getting at home, and he flounders because it’s a type of learning and thinking he hasn’t been forced to do, and that alone is a struggle to overcome.

Now I’m gonna bring Bloom’s Taxonomy into this because I can, but the school at Cloud Recesses focuses on remembering, understanding, and applying. It explains why Lan WangJi is so unwilling to bend against the rules. They say remember this rule, understand that it is important to live by this rule, and apply this rule to every day life.

Meanwhile analyzing, evaluating, and creating involve taking that information and making it one’s own.

[Disclaimer that Bloom’s Taxonomy is based on Western thought and may or may not have a proper place in a collectivist society like the Fantasy China which MDZS is based on. This is NOT to classify higher order skills as being more intelligent or better than lower order skills. It’s just to describe how much mental manipulation is done to the subject matter. Geniuses on Jeopardy are masters at Remembering! The brain shows physiological changes and develops new neuron pathways regardless of learning method. Nonetheless, for our independent thinkers like Wei WuXian and Nie HuaiSang, this kind of scale seems applicable.]

Consider when Wei WuXian ponders the benefits of demonic cultivation at school. He takes the application of current techniques and the knowledge of the known world and creates something by blending the two. It doesn’t go over well in the classroom:

Another book came flying from Lan QiRen. He spoke harshly, “Then, let me ask you again! How do you make sure that the resentful energy only listens to you and does not harm others?”

Wei WuXian ducked while speaking, “I haven’t thought of it yet!”

Lan QiRen raged, "If you thought of it, the cultivation world would not allow your existence! Get out!" (Ch. 14, ERS)

This is a case in point for no analyzing, evaluating, or creating allowed. It’s sit down, listen, memorize, and obey.

(Note that Demonic cultivation is dangerous to everyone, as we later witness, so Lan QiRen is not wrong to be furious and having no tolerance for this line of thinking. Wei WuXian is literally talking about desecrating people’s graves and bodies and using them as weapons. This is so far out of line with Gusu Lan teaching, but it still deprives Wei WuXian of hypothesizing other ideas with the material he’s being given.)

And, it should be noted, Nie HuaiSang is the only person who not only understands where Wei WuXian is coming from but builds upon it. The same Nie HuaiSang who has to beg Wei WuXian to help him cheat when it comes to clan heritages and family quotes is the one who realizes ANOTHER use for Wei WuXian’s idea all on his own.

Wei WuXian suggests using demonic cultivation to fight evil with evil, resentful energy vs resentful energy.

Nie HuaiSang suggests using demonic cultivation as a possible power source -- for people who don’t have a core:

After thinking for a few moments, an expression of envy and yearning appeared on Nie HuaiSang’s face, “To be honest, Wei-xiong’s words were quite interesting. Spiritual energy can only be obtained through cultivation and taking great pains to form a golden core. It would take I-don’t-know-how-many years to do, especially for someone like me, whose talent seems as if it was gnawed by a dog when I was in my mother’s womb. But, resentful energy are from the fierce ghosts. If they can easily be taken and used, it would be beyond wonderful.” (Ch. 14, ERS)

Nie HuaiSang has analyzed, evaluated, and then created a new place in the world for demonic cultivation. And the notable element is that he thinks in regards to himself.

And despite how this appears, this is not egotism. It falls quite soundly under Erikson’s Theory of Psychosocial Development for Nie HuaiSang’s age group: Identity vs. Role Confusion. Poor, self-deprecating Nie HuaiSang is trying to find his place in the world where his brother won’t yell at him for his grades lol He’ll take whatever help he can get!

(But it’s not Nie HuaiSang who has to put this theory into practice)

I think what I’m trying to get at is that Nie HuaiSang is perfectly intelligent, perfectly active in his learning, but his talent lies outside of cultivation -- and saber practice:

[Nie HuaiSang,] “I can’t learn it means I can’t learn it and I don’t like it means I don’t like it! What’s the use of forcing me?!" (Ch. 49)

And yet we always see him try, until he has to try something else:

Nie HuaiSang also wanted to join in, but he had been reminded of his older brother as he met Lan XiChen. Cringing silently, he didn’t dare to have fun, “I’ll pass and go back so that I can review…” With this act, he hoped that Lan XiChen would put in some good words for him to his brother. (Ch. 16)

“WITH THIS ACT” -- Nie HuaiSang is so sneaky but he’s so obvious about it, I love him. This is the mind that’s going to bring down the Big Bad in the end. Keep up the good work, Nie HuaiSang!

[ukdamo]

KZ Sachsenhausen

One of mine... 

KZ Sachsenhausen ; there and then, here and now

In the summer of 1936 the posters on the underground in Berlin declaimed to every traveller, “Escape the big smoke. Come and enjoy the forests and lakes of Oranienburg". A forty-five minute train journey from S-Bahn Friedrichstrasse (1), in the heart of the city, brought sun seekers into the pleasant countryside to the north.

And why not? The dappled forest paths and clear lakes offered welcome relief from the thronged streets of the capital, streets filled with thousands of visitors who had come for the Olympiad being held in the new stadium, built to the west of the city.

People from all over the world had flown in to Flughafen Tempelhof, the airport whose buildings were a stone testament to the vitality of the l000 Year Reich. From there, visitors jostled along Swastika-hung streets to view the city sights: the Brandenburg Gate, the treasures of the Pergamon Museum, Schloss Charlottenburg; to climb to the top of the Siegessäule (2) not yet moved, on Hitler's order, from its home in front of the Reichstag; to stroll down the Unter den Linden  - although the crowds were no longer shaded by its eponymous trees since they had been felled so as not to obscure the vista of Nazi (3)  parades.

Few visitors, admiring the State Opera house, recalled the newsreels of 1933  which showed this building lit by the flickering light of a great bonfire - a bonfire of burning books heaped on the adjacent square.

Impressionable tourists lunched in the Café Schottenham, by the Anhalter Bahnhof (4), and then walked admiringly past the Bauhaus designed Europahaus en route to the splendid new Air Ministry building. Only a few years earlier the sightseers might have taken their coffee and cake in the Hotel Prinz Albrecht but this was now the HQ of Reichsfűhrer SS (5), Heinrich Himmler.

With every pavement, café and square teeming with tourists it was no wonder Berliners escaped to the relative calm of Oranienburg, to take a boat out on the lake, or to walk through the woods.

There were some city-dwellers, however, who travelled there under duress and for a more sinister purpose. To prevent the possibility of any embarrassing incidents in Berlin during the period of the Games, to disguise its anti-Semitism, and to forestall any negative publicity, some of the measures taken against the Jews by the regime were suspended.

Behind this façade (quietly, unobtrusively, diligently), the Gestapo (6) intensified its labours rounding up the enemies of the Reich - Communists, Social Democrats, trade unionists, liberals, Christians, Jews, Sinti and Romany peoples, pacifists,

Jehovah' s Witnesses, homosexuals, those designated 'anti­-socials' or criminals - and took them to the purpose built camp on the outskirts of Oranienburg. It was known as KZ Sachsenhausen. (7)

On a wintry day in February l996, I followed in their footsteps.

---------------

I was part way through my week in the city when I made my ‘pilgrimage’. After breakfasting, showering, and dressing in my most colourful clothes and dangliest earring,

I picked up the remembrance (8), quitted my Berlin lodgings and set out for Oranienburg. The journey that had brought me to this time and place had begun years before in quite another location. As a younger man, studying Modern History at the University of Liverpool, I had focussed my enthusiasm on nineteenth and twentieth century European history: Berlin was a pivotal place in the scheme of things. My perspective, particularly on twentieth century German history, was informed by the lived experience of being a gay man. There and then reached a spectral hand into the here and now.

The cold February sky was downcast; grey, lowering. pedestrians turned up their coat collars to insulate themselves and hastened to their destinations. Sometimes I drew startled looks - my appearance being somewhat conspicuous - opposing the bleakness of the morning as it did. It was the fluttering ribbons which attracted most interest though.

(Like the compelling image of the red coat in the film "Schindler's List"?)

      The train journey to Oranienburg was a journey in time as much as through a landscape. The train trundled across the city, heading northwards. Tenements gave way to light-industrial enterprises, these, in their turn, to detached houses with steeply-raked roofs. The houses thinned out and were separated by fields, wooded areas, little ponds and watercourses. As we clanked onwards, the landscape became more open. I could see now that the ground was waterlogged; crusty, muddy and frosted with snow. Even the larger lakes were frozen. Denuded trees pointed bony fingers to the sky. Somehow I had drifted into the winter of l944/45. The train reached its terminus and we few passengers reluctantly turned out of the warm carriages to brave the wind-scoured platform.

         Almost immediately, a gentle dusting of snow began to fall. (I am surprised to find that 1 feel glad it is snowing. It seems appropriate). I am possessed by the unshakeable conviction that no-one should visit at a pretty time of year. It would be  sacrilegious.

There is a mixture of buildings in the town, old and new, the streets are cobbled not asphalted. It requires no effort of imagination to see columns marching along this road. Straggly columns, sore-footed, threadbare.

        Oranienburg is a smallish town, similar to my own home town in NE Lancashire. There is some road traffic thudding over the cobbles; Trabbies and Wartburgs as well as VWs and Opels. Some kids look at me with unrestrained interest, older people with more reserve. Some of them even have a reproachful aspect.This is no longer Berlin, where people of unusual aspect arouse little notice and less comment. This is not even Manchester, where gays can be visible with a modicum of safety. This is the familiar, narrow, inhospitable ‘small-town’ Bronski Beat sang about with such eloquence.

I recognise it from my own lived experience.

I become conscious of many thoughts; "This building would have been there then"

"What must it be like to live here now, with such a legacy?"

"What do these little kids make of it?"

Practical considerations imposed themselves and I looked for a signpost. There was one. How sobering, how chilling, to see it written. No longer a name from the past but a place here and now: Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen (9).

Following the directions indicated, I walked towards the camp. As I neared it, the monument became visible above the rooftops. It stands uncompromisingly  - a concrete grey monolith with pinkish triangles on the upper section. You could easily imagine that it was physically holding up the clouded sky, like Atlas.

At the corner of the Strasse der Nationen (10), which leads to the entrance, there is a small display board that remembers those who were killed on the 'Death March'. In the spring of l945, when it became obvious that all was lost, the authorities decided to march the camp inmates to the Baltic, intending to put them on ships and sink them.

Six thousand died before the column was liberated - they were shot, beaten to death, or killed by cold and exhaustion. It was a sombre marker for what lay ahead.

Before going into the camp proper visitors walk through an entrance gate and along a wooded way that leads past the information centre. Through the trees to the left (sparse, wintry and naked) glimpses of the perimeter wall can be had. I went in to the office and collected an English guide map. The room was dominated by a big, green-tiled stove that radiated masses of heat. It made the cold outside seem that much more intense.

"What must it be like to work in such a place?" I wondered,

"Do you grow used to the horror of it all? Can you afford to forget?" I quitted the building and felt very alone. There was just me, the remembrance, and the reality of Sachsenhausen. There and then, here and now. I feel strongly that Sachsenhausen is not history: history has no life in it. Sachsenhausen can never be mere history as long as there is someone who knows, who remembers, who lives in the light of that remembrance.

The first place that presents itself to the visitor is a modern exhibition centre (1961) which houses photographs, archive material, and an allegorical stained glass memorial window. The building dates from the original opening of the camp as a centre for national remembrance, in what was then the GDR (11). It focuses on the wartime history of Sachsenhausen. It stands in what was the SS barrack area, just in front of the gatehouse. Inside, I noted the brief descriptions of the photos in English. Many needed no explanation: the horrors were all-to-evident. Among the most harrowing were the pictures of those murdered on the march to the Baltic.

    Corpses were scattered along the route - in fields, in ditches, in the woods, by the roadside - killed by a single pistol shot to the head. From under makeshift coverings (which those who found the bodies had used to try and afford them the dignity denied them by their tormentors) poked emaciated limbs, bruised and disfigured faces, unshod feet. Other photographs detailed those who were left behind, the three thousand in the 'hospital', found when the Russians entered the camp on April 22nd 1945.

On that April day, some few miles to the south, Hitler was in the bunker beneath the Reich Chancellery. He had celebrated his last birthday two days previously. The sounds of the strife above ground were muffled and did not disturb the delusions of ultimate victory he cherished. In the cold reality of day, Flughafen Tempelhof was about to fall to the advancing Russians.

Within a week Hitler would be dead.

Some of the prisoners in Sachsenhausen made slow recoveries and joined the sea of 'Displaced Persons' trying to get home in post-war Europe. For others, death's grip was too tight for liberation to make a difference.

Leaving the photograph collection, I turned toward the entrance to the camp proper and walked through. Arbeit Macht Frei (l2) said the mocking inscription on the gate. By the end of 1944, over 204,000 people had read that sentence as they passed under the lintel and in to the Appellplatz (13). Once inside, more than 100,000 of them were systematically put to death. Others met death in camps they were transferred to. It would be invidious to try to describe the sufferings endured by camp inmates in a purely statistical way; in any case, the destruction of records means that an accurate total can never be known. The information in Sachsenhausen suggests that some 30,000 gay men were sent to the camps under the Nazis. Estimates vary. A figure of 60,000 or more may not be unduly high. Perhaps as many as 2/3rds of these men did not survive.

Standing there, 1 felt as if I had ought to remove my boots and go barefoot. A stupid idea but an almost overpowering feeling. I gazed across the open courtyard, at the monument towering beyond, and was filled with unutterable sadness.

The camp is laid out like a gigantic triangle, with the gatehouse in the centre of the baseline. Emotionally, I felt this to be an obscene joke. Apparently, it was simply the result of Nazi thoroughness and the exigencies of security - a shorter perimeter, fewer watchtowers, fewer unobserved corners, better sightlines. All so easily calculated.

The courtyard presented a large semicircle - the placement of the first row of huts being indicated by a latticed wall. Behind me, to my left and right was the neutral zone (actually a killing field); a wire boundary marker, a few yards of bare earth, then an electric fence.  Finally, and almost superfluously, there was the perimeter wall with its barbed wire crown. To step over the marker invited being shot without warning. Photographic evidence shows that some prisoners chose this. Still others crossed the death strip and embraced the electrified wire.

I looked down at the map in my hand. It was difficult to use it nimbly because of the cutting wind and my chilled muscles. My eyes were watering, too, but I could not blame the wind for that. The ribbons on the remembrance fluttered; the only colour in the landscape.

Immediately in front of me was a great concrete roller that weighed three metric tonnes. The Häftlinge (14) were forced to run pulling this and were beaten if they moved too slowly. A semicircle just in front of the first row of huts was identified as the Schuhprűfstrecke (15), Here, in a broad arc, were nine sections - each of a different surface - gravel, flint, broken stone, sand etc… Prisoners had to walk over these for ten hours each day (about 25 miles, carrying 35lb in weight) to test the durability of shoe/boot soles. I looked down. The frost-frozen ground cracked beneath my own booted feet and I sank into the mush. Scattered snowflakes flitted by. A few rooks called, screechingly.

A party of British teenagers came in through the gatehouse. They were chatty, boisterous, as kids are. But their voices grated on my ears even more than the shrill rooks. Some places in the world must only ever be silent places. Not because noise is a bad thing.

No, Act Up is right when it says that Silence = Death. But in Sachsenhausen the silence is needful. It is what makes it permissible to be noisy elsewhere. If the potent and clamorous silence of that place is ever trodden underfoot, then the laughter, songs, protests, whistles and dancing that enliven and affirm us wherever we are will be themselves in danger of being silenced forever.

There are those who wish it so.

In September of 1992, a number of individuals broke into the camp and burned down two of the huts (known as the Jewish Barracks). It is thought that this act was a deliberate desecration of the memorial and was an indication of the resurgence of xenophobia and anti-Semitism in the recently re-unified Germany. In Berlin itself, on Oranienburger Strasse, stands the recently restored Neue Synagoge (16). It is guarded by three armed policemen and is protected by stringent security measures. Inside is an exhibition that focuses on the history of the Jewish people in Berlin, even so, it acknowledges that racism and prejudice have deep roots are widely prevalent.                      

Closer to home, there is a latent racism abroad on the streets of my own town. The National Front has contested, and continues to be active, in local elections. Dispersed asylum seekers meet with thinly veiled hostility. In 1994 an NF candidate was successfully elected in local council elections on the Isle of Dogs, London. Jewish cemeteries are regularly vandalized. Violence directed at lesbians and gay men, is, sadly, an unremarkable occurrence.

My train of thought had been interrupted by the noise of the school kids, so I allowed them to go their own way and then turned my attention back to the map. Over to the right was a temporary exhibition that told the story of the Jewish Barracks and their inmates. The future of these two barrack blocks (38 and 39), destroyed in the arson attack, remains to be decided.  

Further on was the special detention camp set up for prominent political, and other, prisoners. A number of the cells are still there. Prisoners were often held in solitary confinement for long periods, tortured, denied food and drink, kept in darkened cells for months or even longer. Martin Niemőller (17) was a prisoner here. To walk along and look into the tiny cells (some with memorials inside) was a humbling experience. It was not hard to imagine the clang of steel doors, the turn of keys, the sounds of brutal interrogation echoing down the narrow corridor.

What was the date again?

At the far end, the building opened on to an exercise yard, separated from the rest of the camp by a high wall. I stepped out again into the bleak, dismal light. To the left was the Erdbunker (18), a burial cell or pit where prisoners were virtually entombed, exposed to bitter cold and oozing wet walls with only a small, steel barred hatch above.

What would you see from inside? A cross hatched patch of blue? A slate grey torrent?

On the February day I was there, the ground was waterlogged. I could hear the drip of icy melt water as it fell into that dark maw. A great puddle surrounded the hatch, frozen on top, squelchy underneath.

Just beyond the bunker, on the wall, was the memorial plaque that I had come to see; journey’s end for the beribboned remembrance, journey’s beginning for my living remembrance. The plaque is a stark in its simplicity: a black rectangle with the letters punched out by stencil, exposing the wall behind. On the ground below, a few tiles, and, scattered on them, a few carnations. Had they once been pink? The wording of the memorial was as stark in its simplicity as the plaque itself. How else could it be? How can you dress it up in fine language?

TOTGESHLAGEN

TOTGESCHWIEGEN

DEN

HOMOSEXUELLEN

OPFERN

DES

NATIONALSOZIALISMUS

Taking hold of the remembrance, I drove the pole in to the ground as far as it would go and then banked up the mushed, sandy, ice-filled soil around it to hold it steady. Not caring whether I was observed or not, I knelt down in the waterlogged yard,

sank back onto my haunches and waited quietly for about the length of time it takes a man to walk a mile slowly. Everything was hushed. The ribbons flapped and the poem waved about as  the wind caught it. For a moment or two, there was a dancing rainbow

When the time was right, I stood up to continue my journey. (I returned to the remembrance before I finally left the camp, the hard frost meant that the banked earth at the base of the pole was already beginning to freeze. Almost as if to ward off the chill, the freedom ribbons fluttered gaily. This optimism made the leave-taking that much easier).

I moved on item the exercise yard to the exhibition mounted in the former prisoners’ kitchen.  The route took me past the sites of the gallows where prisoners deemed to have committed offences were hung,. Other grisly punishments were also meted out here during roll call "pour encourager les autres". Away to the right, by the perimeter wall stood a monument to those who died in the camp during the period 1945-50. For Sachsenhausen's infamy did not end with the war's end. The Soviets operated the site, under the name of ‘Special Camp No. 7’, and imprisoned former members of the Nazi Party, members of the SS, and the Wehrmacht (20), as well as prisoners of war released by the Western Allies, and others. Later on, inmates included people who were victims of denunciations, people who were arbitrarily arrested, growing numbers of Social Democrats, Christian Democrats and Liberals, opponents of the Soviet occupying power, and of the emerging East German Communist regime. It is estimated that 20,000 people died as a result of the conditions in the camp..

The sights that met the eye once inside the former cook-house were stinging. Further calculated horrors, to which the prisoners were subject, were held up for unwelcome yet necessary inspection.. There were artefacts from the wartime history of the camp – Zyklon B canisters (21). Human hair, gathered for use as war materiel. Fillings from teeth.

Striped uniforms, with their triangles of various colours (22). Plates and cutlery, stamped with prisoners’ numbers. The ‘height measurer’ from Station Z (23). This building was a place I wanted to run through quickly and escape from. Instead, I walked slowly and deliberately through it all, step by step, case by case, from one information board to the next. It was like the Stations of the Cross. Is it realistic to hope for a Resurrection? ‘Can there be lyric poetry after the Holocaust?’ someone asked.

Can there be?

I do not feel able to answer that question. But I can witness to this: the even in Sachsenhausen it proved impossible to crush the creativity and aspirations of the human spirit. Prisoners crafted necessarily small but beautiful things from the most basic materials and contraband. They made chess sets, inlaid cigarette cases, even a crude radio receiver. Furthermore, there is at least one recorded instance of resistance, carried out by the ‘Jewish 18’. In the autumn of 1942, in protest at their inhuman treatment, eighteen Jews staged a protest in the Appellplatz. Their act of resistance, though brutally suppressed, did result in some amelioration of camp conditions for the Jewish inmates. It did not save the 18 from Auschwitz-Birkenau.

When I had reached the end of the exhibition I paused for a long time by the visitors’ book because   had to frame carefully what I wanted to write there. What response can on make to such horrors?

"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one remain silent", noted Wittgenstein in his philosophical investigation of language. He must have been thinking of the situations that test the boundaries of human experience when he formulated that precept. And here was I in such an extremity. Just how do you write down a howl of anguish in the soul?

When I left the block I saw the great monument towering before me. I went up close and looked at its huge bronze figures and its concrete vastness. The scale was so big as to be scarcely human. In a way, this is perversely fitting since the dreadful events to which it testifies are equally vast in scope and inhuman in character. The sculpted group of figures at the base of the tower is entitled "Liberation". (A secular version of Resurrection?)

Feeling tiny, I turned and walked the short distance to the site of Station Z.

If Dante's Inferno is taken as a metaphor for Sachsenhausen, then Station Z may be thought of as the deepest and most damned region of that place. Perhaps it is fitting that this was the last place I visited and the place where I most nearly lost what measure of self-control was left to me.

The area is shielded from the elements by a canopy. The suffering and the loss are recalled in an affecting monument; bronze figures two adults with a dead child. More affecting still are the remains of the building that stood on this spot. It was built in l942 and was staffed by the SS. Here thousands upon thousands were gassed, or shot. Their bodies were profaned (treated as the source of raw materials for the war effort) then burned. Any remains were crammed into a subterranean bunker close by.

Given what preceded death, this can be no real surprise. Often, camp inmates were used as a slave work force for various SS-run enterprises. Prisoners from Sachsenhausen were compelled to build the canteen and recreational facilities, used by the Gestapo and SS, on the Prinz Albrecht Terrain (24). In the 'hospital' prisoners were used in experiments to test drugs, chemical weapons, and 'treatments'.

The foundations only remain.

No access is allowed: visitors look through a wire fence on to the features that rising up from the earth. Clearly discernible are the rooms that comprised the gas-chamber (disguised as a shower room) the ante-room where prisoners stripped before going in to the 'shower', and the ramp where the dead, having been thrown on to carts, were pulled the few yards to the crematorium.

          Also evident were rooms used for interrogations and a killing room made to appear like a clinic. Prisoners were stood against a height measurer attached to a wall. (A wooden finger that ran between two slats, marked off in centimetres). Unknown to the inmate, there was a hidden room behind the wall. Once the wooden finger was upon his or her head, someone in that room would shoot them in the back of the neck. Bodies were dragged across the floor and through a door that opened on to the crematorium.

           All so convenient, so duplicitous, shielded from the eyes of the other inmates.

But there could be no secrecy; the smoke, the smell, the miasma, the point of no return.

It must have been evident for miles.

The wind whipped up again. Steam rising from the boiler house in the old laundry block caught my eye and was transformed into the smoke from this charnel house. It was suddenly 1944 again. The camp was filled beyond capacity with the enemies of the Reich, 90% of them non-German. There were representative groups from virtually all of Nazi occupied Europe.

Russian prisoners were being systematically exterminated. Food was scarce, warm clothes scarcer still. Prisoners were beaten, worked to death, tortured, subject to crazed experiments.

The rooks sent up a cacophony of cries that brought me to myself again. Here I was, in 1996, looking& back at what had been. Statistics in Sachsenhausen indicate that there were more than 2000 concentration camps, sub-camps and detention centres in Germany alone.

I blinked back tears as I looked through the fence and reconstructed these terrors in my mind's eye. Walking round the site, moving clockwise past the sculpture in the near left hand corner, I caught site of a feature that I did not immediately recognise and so moved closer. Suddenly, even through eyes misted over, it became all-to-evident.

The few courses of bricks, the metal doors and the flues, resolved themselves into ovens. There were four in a row. I was absolutely stricken. My legs buckled and I let out an involuntary cry as I stumbled and reached out for the wire to support myself.

From then on, I was in a daze. I tottered across the frozen earth and picked my way gingerly down the trench that led down to the bunker where the bones had been dumped. Signs on the sides of the wooden ramparts indicated where prisoners of war had been shot. Others who met their death at this entrance to Hades included those sent to Sachsenhausen by Reichssicherheitshauptampt of the SS and the Gestapo (25).

Most sickening was the mechanised gibbet, worked by a winch and pulley, which allowed four people to be hung at one time, with the minimum expenditure of effort or manpower. It was what 1 had come to expect of the Nazis during the course of my visit. That I was no longer shocked by such atrocity was a shock in itself. I stared out of the pit at the vast grey sky, punctured only by the concrete finger of the monument. The sky was heavy under the weight of its own sorrow.

The closing scene from the film Judgment at Nurembergcame to mind. An American (small town) judge visits his leading Nazi counterpart whom he has just sentenced for war crimes. The German judge offers, as mitigating explanation, that he thought the Nazis could be controlled and used, that he never imagined it would come to this. His counterpart dismisses this very cogently and simply: "It came to this the first time you sentenced a person to death whom you knew to be innocent."

If Sachsenhausen indelibly imprinted one idea in me, it is this: that every step down the road which begins with disrespect for another person ends at KZ Sachsenhausen. All the sentences which begin, "I'm not …………… (insert your own favourite prejudice)…… but ......" conclude, ultimately, with the sharp report of a pistol shot, or the creak of rope, or the bolts sliding home on the door to the 'shower'.

Many of the entries in the visitors' book say, "This must not be allowed to happen again". My feeling is that it has never stopped happening. I believe that it may prove truly fatal to think of there and then and exclude here and now. I am convinced that the celebration of life and difference, the promotion of human flourishing, is dependent upon us being ever vigilant, and ever respectful of the dignity of others.

My visit to Berlin showed ample evidence that a significant number of people share this perspective. In the wake of the arson attack on the 'Jewish Barracks' at Sachsenhausen, there was a spontaneous gathering at the memorial to express concern and regret. Subsequently, a demonstration was held which focussed on the theme 'reflecting in Germany - together against xenophobia and anti-Semitism'. 7000 people attended.

When the Berlin city authorities were considering what uses the Prinz Albrecht Terrain might be put to, concerned citizens and organisations took an active interest and even direct action, including a symbolic 'dig' on May 5th., 1985. The discovery of the foundations of the buildings associated with the site, particularly the cells used by the Gestapo, and those parts built by the slave workers from Sachsenhausen, together with the insistent pressure brought to bear by those who saw the necessity of an explicit recognition of the role that the site played during the period of the Third Reich, resulted in the opening of an exhibition pavilion and associated memorials which currently comprise the site. The motto of the groups coordinating the May 5th dig seems very appropriate: "LET NO GRASS GROW OVER IT!"

The city is notable for the number of memorials and plaques that detail the location of many buildings, and chronicle many events, which some would rather forget. Berlin's insistence on facing up to the past and continuing to confront it in the present struck me very forcefully. Less formal but no less striking is the graffiti that can be seen in the city. Particularly in the workers residential areas, like Prenzlauer Berg, graffiti appears to be regarded as necessary.

Graffiti ist kein Verbrechen!

Lesben Pauer

Nazis vertreiben, Auslanderinnen bleiben  

This is a Nazi house

Much graffiti was focussed on current concerns – Kurdish refugees, the confrontation between Neo~Nazis and their Anarchist and Anti-Fascist opponents. Some was witty and creative but most was political in its inspiration. Amongst my favourites was the pointed reminder: "Wer bunker baut, wirft bomben" (27).

Comparing this situation to that nearer to home gives cause for unease. I do not feel that we recognise the dangers of forgetfulness, or apathy. Remember Pastor Niemöller's lament?

       Muted public concern permits our government to play fast and loose with human rights - witness the attempt to expel the Saudi dissident, Mohammed al Mas'ari, to protect lucrative arms deals with the Saudi government. Consider how the Criminal Justice Act is used against travelling people and against those who wish to undertake direct and legitimate protests.

Examine closely those churches who claim to esteem the unique dignity of the human person in absolute terms yet couch their teaching and pastoral documents in such a way that the human dignity of some is completely abrogated. This may be noted particularly when the churches address themselves to women’s issues, lesbian and gay issues, or issues of race and ethnic origin. There is no comfort to be had in looking at the wider situation - the former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Chechnya, or Rwanda.

I wish I were able to claim for lesbians and gay men some innate virtue that renders us impervious to the propaganda of racism and sexism, but I can't. Though we may identify more strongly than some with the women, children and men who were butchered there and then in places like Sachsenhausen, and though we might feel their suffering acutely and recoil in genuine horror, still that does not confer an automatic immunity to the hateful thinking patterns that produced the concentration camps.

If it is true that lesbians and gay men (among others) have a 'privileged' access to the experience of the Häftlinge, then we have a particular responsibility to be vigilant. The danger we face because of that propaganda and its attendant terrors may be more subtle and understated in Britain than it is overseas but it is no less invidious. We must be vigilant not simply to prevent the virulent return of those values that consigned us to the camps (the fear of being inmates in the here and now) but also to prevent us from being seduced by the simplistic slogans and false promises that would make us accomplices in their institution. Without such vigilance we face the awful an almost unimaginable possibility of being deceived into acting as the new guards.

The lesson that Pastor Niemöller learned (too late?) was that if it could be you, it could be me, and if it were me, then it could be any of us. For that reason the same thing is demanded of each of us:

Vigilance and respect; there and then, here and now

                                                                                              2001 © PD Entwistle

Notes

(1) S-Bahn Friedrichstrasse:

Berlin is served by a variety of train and tram routes. S-Bahn refers to the Schnellbahn - the overland train network, Friedrichstrasse to the station in the centre of the city.

(2) Siegessäule:

Victory Column, built to commemorate the military victory over the French  which led to the founding of the Second Reich in 1871.

(3) Nazi:

NSDAP  Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. The National Socialist German Worker's Party. Elected to power in 1933, the party began to usurp the power of the state, supplanting the rule of law and government by the fiat of the party and the instruments of terror it wielded. Within a few months Hitler had stifled all opposition and abandoned any pretence of democratic rule.

(4) Anhalter Bahnhof:

This was one the chief railway termini for Berlin. Severely damaged in wartime bombing, there now remains only a portion of the facade.

(5) Reichsfűhrer SS:

Himmler’s official title, ‘Reich leader of the SS’. The SS (Schűtzstaffel) was the Protection Squad of the Nazi Party.

(6) Gestapo:

     Geheime Staatspolizei, the secret state police.

(7) KZ Sachsenhausen:

Konzentrationslager, concentration camp. In the earlier years of Nazi Germany  the camps were sometimes referred to as Schutzhäftlager, protective custody camps.

(8) Remembrance:

This had its origin in two distinct items which seemed to belong together as a 'token' that could be taken to Sachsenhausen and left at the memorial there. The remembrance consisted of 6 freedom ribbons, in the rainbow colours, attached to a pole. These ribbons had been part of a larger banner that had been carried on the Lesbian and Gay Pride March (London) in the summer of 1994. Together with the ribbons was a poem (see below).

                       The Colour of Forget-Me-Nots

                                         rose pink

                                     carnation pink

                                         perky pink

                                            panther

                                    champagne pink

                                         in the pink

                                        lily the pink

                                            lipstick

                                       blushing pink

                                     candy floss pink

                                         baby pink

                                          bootees

                                    marshmallow pink

                                     bubblegum pink

                                        fuchsia pink

                                           Triangle

(9) Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen:

Many of the former camps have been designated as places of national remembrance and reflection. Sachsenhausen is the one closest to Berlin.

(10) Strasse der Nationen:

      Street of the nations

(11) GDP:

      German Democratic Republic more commonly referred to as East Germany .

       Now, of course, no longer in existence since the reunification of Germany.

(12) Arbeit Macht Frei:

       The motto which was found at the entrance to the concentration camps. Work shall  

        set you free.

(13) Appellplatz:

The place where inmates were assembled for roll-calls, punishments etc…

(14) Häftlinge:

Prisoners of the camp.

(15) Schuhprűfstrecke:

The shoe-testing ground.

(16) Neue Synagoge:

The 'New Synagogue’, completed in 1866. One of two dozen synagogues vandalised and set alight on Kristallnacht (the night of broken glass), November 9th., 1938. Following this pogrom 12,000 Berlin Jews were brought to Sachsenhausen.

(17) Martin Niemöller:

       Pastor Niemöller, U-Boat commander in WWI and a one-time supporter of the      

       Nazis, came to reject Fascism and was incarcerated in Sachsenhausen.

       He is, perhaps, best remembered for the following verse –

First they came for the Jews

And I did not speak out – because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists

And I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists

And I did not speak out  - because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me

And there was no-one left to speak out for me.

(18) Erdbunker:

       Literally, ‘earth bunker’.

(19) Totgeshlagen…:

       A literal translation is difficult. The inscription may be read as –

                                           BEATEN TO DEATH

                                         SILENCED TO DEATH

                                                       THE

                                              HOMOSEXUAL

                                                   VICTIMS

                                                       OF

                                                   NAZISM

(20) Wehrmacht:

       The German Army.

(21) Zyklon B:

      The cyanide gas pellets used in the gas chambers.

(22) Triangles:

       Prisoners in the camps were made to wear triangles of different colours. The

       respective colours indicated the reason for their incarceration, eg. green = criminal,

       red = political offender, black = anti-social, pink = homosexual.

(23) Station Z:

       The mass extermination facility, built by the SS in 1942, and run by the

        Totenkopfstandarte SS  (Death’s Head battalions of the SS). Here, thousands

        upon thousands were systematically butchered.

(24) Prinz Albrecht Terrain:

       An area of central Berlin that housed the offices and HQ of the Nazi state terror

      apparatus eg. the Gestapo, the SS. Bounded by (what is now) the Wilhelmstrasse,

      Niederkirchnerstrasse, Stresemannstrasse, and Anhalterstrasse.

(25) Reishsicherheitshauptamt:

      An approximate translation would be Head Office of Reich Security.

(26) Graffiti:

Colloquial translations might be –

Graffiti is no crime!

Lesbian Power!

Deport the Nazis, let the immigrant women stay

(27) Wer Bunker…:

     Whoever builds bunkers, drops bombs

[ctl-yuejie]

HP!TayNew

part 6: ซ่อนกลิ่น tuberose (sorn klin) - part 1

( 3.6 k)

thanks as always to @earthpodd , @sluttynewwiee , @bl-phillip @ziq-panda + @somewhatavidreader for the cutest live-commentary & sweet comments

read on ao3 (part 1 2 3.1 3.2 3.3 4 5)

The weeks leading up to the Christmas break were the busiest they had had so far.

Not only did almost all of their professors insist on giving them short tests before the break, the weekend trip to Hogsmeade was coming up and they were already busy making use of the new places they had discovered in the castle.

Luckily for them the Slytherin head-boy was too embarrassed to admit that two students had broken into the prefect’s bathroom and stolen the quidditch team captain’s robes, so their incident went undetected by the school’s staff.

Nevertheless, rumours had started to spread and both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students were claiming to house the brave intruders. Tay sincerely hoped that the Hufflepuff’s who had seen him coming back that day, had already forgotten about the incident or at least wouldn’t spread the information.

The robes would turn up on Halloween in midst of the spooky decoration in the Great Hall, adding new fuel to the rumour mill. At first Newwiee was displeased with the obvious spot Tay had chosen to get rid of the stolen item but it turned out that Tay, while on the lookout for the perfect hiding spot, had simply dropped and forgotten them. But as no one had any real proof and the prefect had sworn all witnesses to silence, no one knew who was behind the alleged storming of the prefects’ bathroom besides Tay, New, Off and Gun.

Turning the situation to their advantage, Tay and Newwiee would sneak back into the bathroom from time to time to relax in the hot water. Although the password changed regularly, Tay’s nose for bath salts never disappointed and they were granted entrance without failure. Funnily enough, Off and Gun would never join them, Off having a disdain for being naked around others and when they asked Gun, he simply gave them a lazy smile as if he’d already seen everything the castle had to offer and the prefects’ bathroom couldn’t entice him anymore.

Tay and New had come to the verdict that the best time to hijack the bathroom was after their potions class on Friday. No one was there during that time and it was an unmatchable feeling to strip off the school robes that had absorbed the stuffy air of the dungeons and a variety of cauldron fumes and be enveloped by the scented water.

It was the first Friday after Halloween when they attended an especially gruelling potions class. While none of the students had been able to brew the potion to perfection Snape had fixated on Newwiee and took up station in front of his desk to degrade him.

Newwiee endured the public shaming in silence trying not to give the professor another reason to snap at him. Tay could feel himself getting enraged by the minute, the sleeves of his robes getting squeezed between his balled fists. When Snape started to repeatedly call Newwiee a fool he had had enough. “With all due respect Sir, I think Newwiee has understood his mistakes”, his voice was shaking and sounded even to himself like someone else was talking in his stead. Snape spun around and looked him over from head-to-toe. “Infatuation – does make fools out of us and clouds our judgment. I will not tolerate insolent students in this class. There is no need to act like the chivalrous hero, Mr. Vihokratana. Mr. Thitipoom just has to refrain from showing off and work harder on precision instead of letting – spells – do the work for him.” Snape turned to face the class. “Be advised that fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions and allow themselves to be provoked this easily- weak people, in other words, are not made for the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.” Tay’s cheeks started to burn while he fixed his eyes on the ground. “5 points from Hufflepuff. A new record for the house, I guess. You must make your parents proud.” He could hear a Slytherin choke on laughter. The only consoling thought that came to his mind was that Gun would deal with her later.

Tay stood rooted to the spot in shame. The injustice of it all made him feel sick. He felt bad that Newwiee had gotten dragged back into the situation after he had tried to defend him. “You can pack your things and leave Mr. Vihokratana. Maybe your lovebird Mr. Thitipoom wants to follow you.” Snape’s remark was cutting but his face didn’t show any trace of an emotion. Snickering could be heard echoing in the dungeons. Tay forced himself to not look at anyone as he took his belongings and made his way out of class. He could hear footsteps trying to catch up with him but didn’t slow down until he felt a small pull on his robes after he exited the classroom. He turned around to find Newwiee smiling at him. It seemed like Newwiee didn’t mind to get mistaken as Tay’s lover and had left the classroom with him to Snape’s indifference and the jeering of their classmates.

“Want to take a bath?”, was all he asked and Tay nodded, feeling exhausted. They agreed to meet each other at the statue of Boris the Bewildered after dropping off their books.

The bathroom seemed to have mercy on them and made it easy to enter, the calming scent of lavender already being noticeable in the corridor.

They left the lights off, stripped naked and wordlessly glided into the steaming water. Tay sighed. Scotland was too cold for him and the potions lesson had left him emotionally exhausted. The room was almost completely dark, the water reflected the little light that seemed to come out of the glass-stained windows themselves. It was already dark outside. Tay could feel his body thaw and almost got lulled into a trance when Newwiee splashed him from the side.

Tay still could make out the smile on Newwiee’s face but his features were mellowed by the dim light, making his skin look even more even. Small droplets of water glistened as they were running down his upper body. He got another mouthful of water. Newwiee’s laughter echoed in the room. Tay started to feebly retaliate and waded closer to Newwiee to at least hit some part of him. “What a dick.” “What?” “Snape”, Newwiee clarified blocking Tay’s arm and splashing him with the other. “Let’s just, no…uh-uh”, Tay shook his head in disdain. He didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about that class. Newwiee cocked his head and smirked at him. “You defended me.” Tay splashed him instead of answering. Fingers interlocked they fought for dominance and tried to dunk each other into the water.

After wrestling for some time, the heat and humidity made them feel light-headed so they swam to the pool side, arms resting on the edge.Tay let his head fall down onto his crossed arms and turned to Newwiee. For once they weren’t saying anything, trying to catch their breath. Tay’s small pants echoed in the room and Newwiee turned to him smiling. He was so freaking beautiful to him that Tay got lost staring at him for a while.

Newwiee, whose wet bangs covered his eyes. Newwiee who didn’t know what it did to Tay when he pushed his hair back. Newwiee who rested his cheek on his hand and looked back at Tay. Newwiee who wouldn’t meet his eyes, gaze fixed on his lips instead.

What?

Before Tay could spend more time on that thought, Newwiee twisted his body and scrunched up his face. Rolling his shoulders, he tried to loosen up some kink but it didn’t seem to work.

“Did you pull something?”, Tay asked concerned. “It’s fine, just have to move it a bit.” To Tay it looked like Newwiee was putting on a show but he decided to indulge him. Moving behind him, he held onto Newwiee’s shoulders and started to massage him. He could feel Newwiee stiffening under his touch at first but soon he started to relax when Tay with rather amateurish movements loosened up his arm muscles. Just being allowed to touch Newwiee like this made him overwrought. Using his chance while Newwiee was defenceless, he poked his finger into his side making him squirm. Tay’s laughter filled the room as they got into a tickling fight, which ended up with them wrestling again in the water.

When their movements became more sluggish they emerged from the water, still giggling despite the exhaustion. All of the sudden, Tay felt embarrassed at his exposure and put on his pants as quickly as he could. He managed to pull a hoodie over his head before Newwiee could offer to dry him off with a spell. The last thing he needed was Newwiee’s wand pointing anywhere near his naked body.

Before he could zip up his pants however, hands were grabbing onto the hem of his hoodie, trying to pull it up. Tay stopped Newwiee with his hands and was met with a pout. “I want this.” “What?” "It’s green. I want it”, Newwiee said like it was obvious that he owned anything in that colour.

Off didn’t even bat an eyelash when Tay returned to the dorm wearing a pink sweater.

Off started to regret not teasing them more often when Tay and New constantly hollered at him on their way to Hogsmeade.

They took turns calling out “Peng” and then giggled like little school girls when he turned around. At some point Gun shot them a tired smile and pulled Off away from them towards The Three Broomstricks.

Tay steered Newwiee towards Dervish and Banges instead, a helpful shop that sold and repaired magical instruments. The shop was empty and the door chime rang into the silence when they entered. The goods were arranged in a neat and organized manner and the metal instruments seemed to glint on the dark cupboards.

Newwiee’s mood turned sour by the minute as he went through the list of things Tay had broken recently, all of which he could possibly fix for him. A small witch appeared behind the counter and Tay went over to talk to her. Feeling left out, Newwiee stayed next to the window and with a flick of his wand dancing letters appeared on the back of Tay’s coat reading ‘I’m an idiot’. The little witch rummaged through a small box before retrieving a small object and placing it on the counter. Newwiee couldn’t make out what it was, as Tay was blocking his view. The shop assistant was flourishing her hand at Tay and he complied, pulling out his wand and tapped the top of the item. To his surprise Newwiee realized that he had never seen this wand before. But before he could step up to observe it a loud whistling sound hit his ears and the witch and Tay jumped back, startled. After helplessly watching on as the witch fought to get the gadget under control Tay turned towards Newwiee, immediately being faced with the incriminating letters that were still floating in the air. A sigh escaped him. Newwiee didn’t know why his reaction didn’t sit right with him. Maybe it was because how Tay looked at him made him feel ashamed of what he did, even though it just had been a silly prank to begin with. It didn’t make him feel better when he found out that Tay had only wanted to purchase a sneakoscope and had never intended to have his things fixed by anyone else but Newwiee. Feeling that it was hard to decide where to begin to explain himself, Newwiee decided to just simply pay for the item, face flushed red when they left the shop.

Tay was still confused over the intention of Newwiee’s prank. But whatever had been the purpose it seemed to have gone wrong terribly because Newwiee looked very regretful, deliberately forgoing all shops he might have an interest in and instead heading over to Dogweed and Deathcap so Tay could check on some exotic plants.

Tay thought he was rather cute.

To their disappointment both Dogweed and Deathcap as well as Gladrags Wizardwear had a rather modest variety of goods. The items were mostly outdated and the clothes were more fitting for the elder inhabitant of Hogsmeade than a Hogwarts student.

After leaving the stores without purchasing anything they both decided to meet each other over the Christmas break to go shopping in London. Without telling him where they were headed, Newwiee, now in a better mood, pulled Tay along with him. They ended up on the doorstep of a cute little café. It looked like any old tea shop in the UK except that the frames of the storefront bay windows were painted in a particularly obnoxious pink. The hanging sign read “Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop” and the inscription in turquoise above the door confirmed Tay’s suspicion as it screamed “Tea & Cakes” at him. Through the window Tay could catch a glimpse at the shop, crowded with couples sitting on white chairs in the midst of what could only be described an explosion of pink and cushions.

Curiously Tay pushed the door open and got assaulted by a waft of warmth and the scent of sweets and spices.

The decoration was very tacky and everything was covered with frilly bows. The windows to their sides were steamed up and Tay couldn’t hear anything over the chatter of what seemed to be at least eight couples.

Newwiee aimed for the stairs and they made their way to the second floor, sitting down on a comfy sofa towards the back of the room. Although the place was bustling with people and the clattering of dishes had been deafening downstairs, the noise was more bearable upstairs as some of the seats were still empty.

“It’s only couples in here…”, Tay started but a waitress came up and he got interrupted by Newwiee listing what seemed to be every item on the menu as he looked at Tay and shrugged. Soon a mountain of cakes, pastries and sweets started to form on their table. Tay took a sip of his oolong tea, the only thing he had ordered, as he watched Newwiee make short work of a pumpkin pastry, hands already reaching for the cauldron cakes. He hummed in satisfaction and Tay couldn’t find it in himself to stop him, even if everything indicated that one of them would experience severe stomach aches tonight. “Here”, and Newwiee pushed half of a treacle tart into his face so he could take a bite. Tay obliged. “Urghhh, it’s really sweet.” “These are from Sugarplum's Sweet Shop. They only have them in Diagon Alley and here.” Newwiee’s pace had slowed down, but now he was excitedly slapping Tay with his sticky fingers. Some of the Toffee eclairs had gotten smeared around his mouth. Tay took a tissue and wiped the corner of Newwiee’s mouth, who happily pushed his face closer.

The couple next to them seemed to have gotten distracted by the amount of sweets Newwiee was eating and Tay could see them shamelessly gawking as they started to whisper. He shot them his iciest look and they turned around.

He tried to make Newwiee drink some of his oolong tea and decided to nibble on some of the sweet treats to humour him. But besides the fresh fruit that was used for decoration nothing was to his taste. However, just watching Newwiee trying to decide between a doughnut and a brownie was all the entertainment he needed. “You can eat all these on Christmas for free”, he laughed. Newwiee force-fed him some waffles for being a know-it-all. They weren’t half-bad. “Hogwarts doesn’t have THESE”, and Newwiee pointed to whatever was left-over of his order and shook his head at the idea that all these delicious treats could taste the same to someone. Tay smiled fondly at Newwiee.

“What’s this new wand about by the way?” Tay seemed to be confused for a moment before he pulled it out of his jacket and realized that Newwiee had only ever seen his practice wands. “Not new. This is the one my parents bought for me.” “What’s it made of?”, Newwiee stretched out his hands for Tay to hand it over. The wand had a beautiful light brown colour, was only slightly curved and adorned by a wood knot at the end. Something pulled at Newwiee’s heart as he looked it over. “Nepalese alder with unicorn hair”, Tay held his wand at a safe distance from Newwiee’s sticky fingers. “The wandmaker told me that I must be stubborn in character for an alder wand to choose me.” “I have to agree with him. Never met someone as bull-headed as you!”, Newwiee smirked and knew he had pushed the right buttons when Tay got worked up more and more about his comment by the minute.

In the end they were almost thrown out for too much arguing.

That night Tay was awoken by a soft voice calling out for him. Turning in his bed he saw a glint in the two-way-mirror. Yawning, he reached out for it and Newwiee’s face appeared in his line of sight. “Ui, Tay. Tay, Tay”, Newwiee whispered into the mirror. All Tay could see where his lips and he had to stop himself from just pressing a kiss on his side of the mirror. Sleep-drugged Tay never made the best choices. “What?”, he grumbled instead. Silence. “What?”, he repeated. Newwiee seemed to have become aware of his presence. “Can’t sleep”, he whined trying to act cute so Tay would take pity on him. “Told you not to eat all those sweets”, Tay nagged, which only let to Newwiee whining some more.

After stretching his legs, he put on a jumper and his boots, walking out of the dormitory leaving the mirror behind on his bed.

He had to give it to the sorting head. The kitchen being right in the vicinity of the Hufflepuff common room was everything he thought he ever needed. Walking down the corridor he stopped in front of the painting of a bowl of fruit and tickled a pear gingerly, trying not to wake up the house elves. The pear giggled sleepily and turned into a large green door handle, revealing the entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens.

It took him some time to find what he was looking for but soon enough he climbed up the stairs to the 7th floor a cup of piping hot tea in his hand.

Waiting in front of the painting of the fat lady he berated himself for forgetting to take the mirror with him. Despite his drowsiness he felt something akin to fear at the thought of being caught by Filch. Just when he was sure to have heard a cat meowing around the corner the painting swung back and revealed Newwiee’s face.

Both got startled and Newwiee dropped the blanket in his arms to clasp a hand over Tay’s mouth before his screams could wake someone up. “Huaaaaaaaaa”, a loud yawn escaped from the portrait. ”You might as well just go inside Hufflepuff hottie”, the fat lady chirped. Apparently she had faked her sleep in order to ogle at Tay while he was waiting to be let in. Now that she had to face the wall and the Hufflepuff boy seemed to be taken she rapidly lost interest. Newwiee shuddered at that thought of the fat lady creeping up on Tay and pulled him in by his arm, while Tay was concentrating on not spilling the tea.

After histrionically flopping down on the sofa in front of the fire place Newwiee curled up with his blanket.

It was the first time for Tay to enter the Gryffindor common room. It was full of squashy armchairs, tables and a sofa, all in several shades of red. Many windows looked out onto the grounds of the school, and a large fireplace dominated one wall. The others were covered with scarlet tapestries depicting witches and wizards, as well as various animals and bookcases filled to the top with novels.

Tay sat down on the sofa, blowing on the tea to cool it down a little bit further before knocking the cup softly against Newwiee’s head. He only got a growl for an answer. “It’s oolong tea, should help with your bloated stomach.” Newwiee pushed himself up to look at Tay and was met with the rim of a cup in his face. Having no other choice, he took a few sips. The tea tasted incredibly bitter but Tay was unyielding and forced him to drink up. Newwiee pushed himself up a little more so he wouldn’t choke and rested his head on Tay’s shoulder when he finished. “Isn’t this going to keep me awake?” he mumbled, eyes half-closed. “I steeped it long enough.” “Huh? You don’t make sense”, Newwiee started to get cranky and knocked his forehead against Tay’s shoulder. “During the first three minutes theine gets released into the water and keeps you awake. If you steep it longer, the tannin will dissolve as well and make you sleepy in return”, Tay patted Newwiee’s head to appease him.

“How did you know I was coming?” Newwiee didn’t answer. A sudden thought made Tay feel all warm and fuzzy. “Did you have that blanket with you to go and sleep at my dorm?” The question was meant to annoy Newwiee, but when he got just another growl in return he knew that he had been dead on. He felt all silly and vulnerable in his hopefulness.

“Tay?”, Newwiee forced his eyes open to look up at him. “Alder wands don’t choose stubborn people. They often are for those who are helpful, considerate and most likeable.” With that he re-positioned himself and fell asleep with his head on Tay’s leg.

Tay had a hard time to control his breathing.

to be continued