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thedistantdusk · 3 years ago

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Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

#harry/ginny fanfic #harry x ginny #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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eurovision-del · 3 years ago

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37. 2018 – Israel – Toy

I remember hearing this as just an audio track back when it leaked before the contest, and I straight up dismissed it as a joke entry. Then the music video came out and I saw just how much potential this entry had. Netta owns this entry – she wraps the song around her finger and makes it completely hers, you can't imagine anyone else singing this, let alone with the charisma that she has! I also think that Toy is a really interesting song, to the point where I feel a little defensive of it when I see it get dismissed as ‘weird chicken song’. It’s got a lot going on musically, and it has a straightforward but solid message. Those ‘chicken’ noises also made for a great hook, and did exactly what a winning entry should do – get people talking! I’ve read an explanation for them being there (implying the ‘stupid boy’ is a chicken – a coward, and baka is Japanese for stupid) but honestly I think they’re there because it’s an interesting sound which captures attention in the build-up to the chorus. It’s far from the only hook in there, this song is packed full of them – I particularly like the main riff behind the chorus, the rhythm is infectious! I also really enjoy the intro to this song, it sets the quirky but confident tone straight away. Netta’s ability to make all the sounds she makes in this song with just her voice is super impressive, and she’s a really strong vocalist – I’m always blown away by the power in her voice on the final note, that’s the moment in my mind where she sealed her victory.

So after heaping a load of praise onto this song… yeah, it’s fine. Toy is pretty obnoxious, and even though it’s deliberate, I still find aspects of it annoying. I’m not a fan of little vocal flicks in general, and there’s some in this song on the ‘pam-pam-pa-hoo’s. Similarly, some of the sounds she makes at the start grate on me. Little moments like that are enough to irritate me and drag my enjoyment of the whole thing down. I also wasn’t sold on the staging, the inclusion of the dancers from the music video was great, but I’m less sure about all the Japanese influences, from the shelves of maneki neko figurines as set dressing to Netta’s outfit. The link between them and the song is super tenuous, as the only connection I can see is that explanation about the chicken noises being ‘baka’. I wish they’d found a way to keep the staging visually interesting in a way that related to the song more – actual toys may have been too on the nose, but maybe it could have been more Israeli influenced, especially since the song used lines in Hebrew and Hebrew slang.

In the end though, as much as I appreciate this song, it doesn’t do too much for me. I enjoy it for what it is, an infectious and interesting tune with a seriously charismatic performance, but I'm not going to seek it out to listen to in my own time.

In Its Year – There Were Better Songs

2018 has my favourite Eurovision song of all time, Eugent Bushpepa’s Mall, and I will always maintain that it would have made a fantastic winner. There were also three other songs I adored that year, Viszlát nyár, Stones, and Under the Ladder, the first two of which I think were winner quality. Even putting my personal favourites aside, there were plenty of other great entries – Estonia, Germany, and Italy all deserved a look in for the top spot. I ranked Toy 13th back in 2018, and while I was happy with its victory in the immediate aftermath of the contest, most of that was due to me being very glad it won instead of Fuego. In a year as strong as 2018, the top 3 was disappointing.

#eurovision #winners ranking

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warninggraphiccontent · 6 years ago

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31 May 2019

Have I Got Views For You

Alongside three Peston Geek of the Week badges we can now add an appearance on Have I Got News For You for IfG charts. Ian Hislop seemed surprised by the appearance of 'A graph on a comedy show' - he should check out the open (data) mic night vibe of a Whitehall Monitor launch or a Data Bites event...

The most up-to-date version of that chart, and our other resignation charts, is here - and thanks too to BBC News for including a number of our charts in their summary of Theresa May's premiership, the beginning of the end of which began as this newsletter went out last week.

The end of May is likely by the end of July, once the Tory party leadership contest is complete. Having overtaken Gordon Brown this week in terms of time served, May will boot the Duke of Wellington out of the way shortly, followed by Neville Chamberlain, before falling short of Jim Callaghan.

Her resignation speech highlighted two data-based initiatives as successes: the race disparity audit (which we welcomed at the time, and which the women and equalities select committee applauded while demanding better data) and the publication of gender pay gap data. There have been a few other open/data initiatives of note, such as the Home Office crime map, which Paul reminded me of during this event. But May's premiership - if it is remembered for anything other than Brexit - will be remembered as an object lesson in opacity and secrecy, hindered by her closed style of governing and decision-making, on everything from Brexit to the disastrous dementia tax announcement. Ben Worthy's 2017 piece and 2018 piece on these issues are still well worth reading. It should prompt politicians to consider a more open style of leadership in the 21st century, as an opportunity as well as an obligation. But it probably won't.

Political support for the open government agenda has undoubtedly weakened, to a concerning degree. The UK finally published its Open Government Partnership National Action Plan this week, many, many months late. (Full disclosure: I'm a member of the Open Government Network steering group in the UK.) Thanks are due to the civil servants who got it over the line. But Tim's take on the 'lamentable' state of open government and his disappointment with the Plan is required reading (see also Mor's pre-publication pessimism). We can rightly blame the political situation and political disinterest for a lot of the problems; we *can* find positives in the plan (the contracting commitments are in line with our recommendations, amongst others). But there is a need for some civil society soul-searching. What are we trying to achieve from and through open government? Are we trying to bring together too many disparate areas, interests and groups under one heading? Are we after big, headline-grabbing initiatives or smaller, more practical business-as-usual steps (and did we get either)? Where do we go next?

This is a more optimistic development. Though the less said about Justin Trudeau's session at the Open Government Summit in Ottawa, the better, by the sound of it...

This side of the Atlantic, we've had the European elections to contend with. Putting the politics to one side (*knowing look to camera*) it's a great opportunity to compare how different outlets treat the same data - see the many, many links below. The fact the elections were somewhat unexpected in the UK may have been a blessing - rather than money wasted on thoughtless 3D graphics we got simple, succinct storytelling. (Though I do wonder whether we could think even more deeply, and, well...) There may be some more to come from us on this, too - keep an eye on our explainer, Aron and Lee.

I've rambled on far too long. In part, that's compensation for what will be a very short W:GC next week, if it appears at all: after hosting our third Data Bites on Tuesday night (come! or livestream! and put Wednesday 3 July in your diary for the next one!), I'm heading to Berlin for a conference and then preparing for the Orwell Foundation's Barbican residency.

And if you've not had enough of me, you can keep track of the IfG's future technology in government project here, and you might even hear me if you tune into Radio 5 Live this morning...

Gavin

Today's links:

Graphic content

D'Hondt you want me baby?

European Election 2019: UK results in maps and charts (BBC News - includes this one)

European election latest results 2019: across the UK (The Guardian)

GB - final results (Europe Elects)

Thread: change in leave/remain areas (Will Jennings)

My Euro-election post-vote poll: most Tory switchers say they will stay with their new party (Lord Ashcroft)

2016 referendum vs 2019 election (Ross Atkin, via Lee)

UK’s European election results: four key findings* (FT - more here from John Burn-Murdoch, via Lee)

If the results were translated into GE constituencies... (Peston, by Chris Hanretty - more here)

Two-party share (Aron for IfG)

Context (Johnny for IfG)

D'Hondt you want me? Oh

EU election results 2019: across Europe (The Guardian)

European elections 2019: Live results (FT)

European Elections (Politico)

European Parliament Elections 2019 (Bloomberg)

European Election 2019: Results in maps and charts (BBC News)

Europa von links nach rechts (Zeit Online)

So hat Europa gewählt (WAZ)

Elections européennes 2019 : les résultats en sièges, pays par pays, et la future composition du Parlement (Le Monde)

Elections européennes 2019 : les résultats par département rapportés à la population (Le Monde)

Flow of votes: Italy (via Leonardo Carella)

Centrist liberals gained the most power in the EU Parliament* (The Economist)

Don't you want me baby? Don't you want me? (No)

Charting Theresa May's premiership (IfG)

May overtakes Brown (me for IfG)

Theresa May: Premiership in six charts (BBC News)

May and Corbyn are now the most unpopular PM and opposition leader duo of all time* (Telegraph)

How the competition to succeed Theresa May has played out over the past year, based on the implied probabilities of betting odds (Alasdair)

Liberal Democrat leadership contests – how do they work? (IfG)

Elections

Westminster needs to pay attention to the European election results – in Northern Ireland (IfG)

India general election 2019: What happened? (BBC News)

Are Blowout Presidential Elections A Thing Of The Past? (FiveThirtyEight)

Energy

The power switch: tracking Britain's record coal-free run (The Guardian)

Temperature change visualized in 10 different ways (Antti Lipponen)

Maps

Migration flows in the European Union (via Alberto Cairo)

Neighborhood Disparities in Investment Flows in Chicago (Urban Institute)

Help us name your neighbourhood (UK Parliament)

Children

Child mortality is an everyday tragedy of enormous scale that rarely makes the headlines (Our World in Data)

Today at @TheEconomist we published a new data-driven IG Story with a lot of data and a bit of gamification (Francesco Zaffarano)

Sport and leisure

Six? The ICC Cricket World Cup (Simon Beaumont)

Monaco Grand Prix 2019: 60-Second Animated Recap* (The Upshot)

SCALING EVEREST* (Washington Post)

How English clubs re-conquered European football* (The Economist)

Critique

WHAT CHARTS SAY (Elijah Meeks - reminds me of a chart I use in our dataviz training, alternative take here)

Examining Implicit Discretization in Spectral Schemes (or, whether rainbow colour schemes are bad - Visualization Design Lab)

Meta data

Openness

UK National Action Plan for Open Government 2019-2021 (UK Government)

Statement by UK Open Government Network at #OGPCanada (UK Open Government Network)

The lamentable State of Open Government in the UK (Tim Davies)

From Enthusiasm to Stagnation: The Tale of Two Countries Ahead of the OGP19 Summit (Mor Rubinstein)

The sum of our parts: Open Organisations

Cities

Tech Billionaires Think SimCity Is Real Life (Jacobin)

The ‘Smart City’ is as much a political challenge as it is a technology challenge (bytherye)

London’s TfL and Toronto’s Google Sidewalk Lab both show that cities need better ways of managing data (CityMetric)

Jobs

JOB: Communications Manager (360Giving)

JOB: Band B2 - Analyst / Data Scientist - Civil Service People Survey, Analysis and Insight (Cabinet Office)

The team I work for at @TheEconomist is looking for a new data visualisation designer. Let me tell you why you should apply (Marie Segger)

Data

GDPR One Year On (BBC Click)

Taking Next Steps to Harness the Value of Health and Care Data (Future Care Capital, via Nick)

What can the NHS learn from learning health systems? (Nuffield Trust)

Related (Harry Evans)

How could new metrics help to end homelessness? (ONS)

Everything else

Parent trap: WhatsApp groups are feeding our fears* (The Spectator)

DIGITAL SOCIALISM? (Evgeny Morozov, New Left Review)

ANTHOLOGY: TECH AND INNOVATION (Delayed Gratification, via Pritesh)

THE NEXT GENERATION OF ANTI-CORRUPTION TOOLS (Oxford Insights)

The FOI request related to @GDSTeam's Submit #GaaP service (stopped after discovery) has come in... (via David)

Translating Principles into Practices of Digital Ethics: Five Risks of Being Unethical (Luciano Floridi in Philosophy and Technology)

And finally...

D'Hondt leave me this way

Lib Dems, bar chart, but... (Stephen Tall)

When you crash the chart they prepared. (Terry Reintke MEP)

Fun framing of Shetland (Matt Smith)

Snacks

Honestly my take away from this chart is that donuts are healthier than I thought (Dr Glaucomflecken, via Pritesh)

National Biscuit Day... (NCVO)

Everything else

Less words in Game of Thrones (Joanna Robinson - and yes, I know, that's the joke)

Eurovision Song Contest: a market basket analysis of voting patterns and international relations (Gwilym Lockwood)

#AI (Florian Roth)

A People Map of the US, where city names are replaced by their most Wikipedia’ed resident (The Pudding)

Remember the 3D map I did of the local election results? Well... (Jamie Whyte)

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escoverthinker · 8 years ago

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Song 10: Italy (Francesco Gabbani - Occidentali’s Karma)

youtube

***Now for something totally different***

Now, let’s be honest, if you’re reading this then you actually know all these songs already, in particular you know a lot about this one. The hyped up favourite, the predicted winner on a similar scale to Alexander Rybak and Loreen. Surely all of this year is just a glorified contest for second place at this point? Well, allow me to burst the bubble in this piece I am jazzily titling…

…Why Italy is not winning Eurovision 2017.

The review will be broken up into mini-sections as my blog usually is, but not the one’s I usually write around. By the end I will hope to shine a light on the cracks in the theory that Italy are running away with the win.

1. It became the favourite mostly based on when San Remo fell in the selection calendar

When Italy’s annual clusterfucky hot mess of a parade that is the San Remo festival finally drew to its conclusion and Francesco won, less than a quarter of the competing songs had been selected. At that point, the only other jolly uptempo number was Belarus’s NAVI and their folksy stomper. Plus, for the next fortnight or so, a lot more countries seemed to be picking songs with mid to low tempos. This created the impression that seems to have stuck that we’re “drowning in ballads” this year which feeds into the conventional wisdom that this is definitely winning. Having had all of the entries now declared, that simply is no longer true. But because it seems to have stuck that this is the lone uptempo, it hasn’t really shifted from its position atop the odds.

2. Other songs have come up that can win, the fan community has just been too infatuated with the Italian entry to appraise them fairly

Belgium can win. Australia can win. Israel can win. Sweden can win. Romania can win. Bulgaria might be able to win. It’s not impossible for Serbia to win. Some misguided eurofans seem pretty sure Portugal can win so I’ll include them for rhetorical effect. If all of the previously listed candidates fail in some way then Estonia could even win (but I’ll concede that’s a stretch).

But when all of these songs debuted, the fans (who are 100% of the people paying attention at this point) who were all convinced of the inevitable Italian walkover by that point jumped immediately to the “I just can’t see it winning” (pause: which is an opinion, which is infinitesimally susceptible to bias and not a legitimate reason why something can’t win) or it “isn’t as good as Italy” (again, an opinion which is totally fine if you’re describing what your favourites are, less so if you’re assessing the relative strengths of the potential contenders).

3. It didn’t win the San Remo televote until the final night

On the first night that this was in the San Remo heats (or semi-finals? I’m unsure what the exact nomenclature is) it came fourth on the public vote. That’s right, fourth. It was boosted into first place overall by the “press jury” that really loved it but it was very much dragged up to just barely beating Michele Bravi.

The second time this was up for a vote (we’re not counting the covers round where he came 8th because, obviously, nobody’s going to be voting on it), it came third both in the public voting and in the overall voting (the public vote is weighted at 40% in the second and then again in the final round – I know it doesn’t make sense, it’s San Remo – just go with it). A comfortable distance behind Michele Bravi and Fiorella Mannola.

Only in the final night of voting did it win the televote but even then, it was kept off first place by Fiorella. Only in the superfinal did Francesco turn it around and make it over the line. What this suggests to me is that the song wasn’t strong enough to win domestically in the first round and needed the week’s build up and hype that the format of San Remo allows to happen because of the nature of what it is as a show to make it over the line, and even then only just barely. Compare this to the last time Italy won the televote, Il Volo’s Grande Amore in 2015. That won every single televote round it was in by an absolute landslide. This is an especially pertinent precedent of the SR televote being a good indicator of the Eurovision televote as Il Volo would then go on to comfortably win the final televote, but were brought back down to third by an only ~okay~ jury score (which was even indicated as well in San Remo as both sets of juries marked Grande Amore last out of the three superfinalists in 2015).

If you think that, for instance, Sweden will have difficulty winning because it didn’t win its televote, then you should also be mindful of Italy’s slow start in winning the televote.

4. Italy are an automatic qualifier

Automatic qualifiers are at a structural disadvantage in terms of going for the win (which for being automatic qualifiers is probably a fair compromise) because the ‘buzz’ and media coverage that might have propelled them forwards to the victory gets eaten up by the semi-final qualifiers. Sweden’s Frans and France’s Amir were widely believed to be in contention for the win in the build up to last year’s contest but the momentum from the semis was swallowed by by Russia, Ukraine and Australia. If they’d both had to qualify from a semi to get there, things may well have been different. Italy will face a similar hurdle they have to overcome this year to make it over the line, arguably amplified to even greater levels because the song relies on the buzz of “omg this guy with the dancing gorilla is going to win Eurovision” going into the final for enough people to be looking out for it. Wednesday morning the buzz will probably be all about “the Belgian girl with the moody electro song and the stunning staging” and Friday morning will likely be all about “that one with the yodelling”.

5. The message/narrative isn’t clearly readable on first listen/viewing

What, if you break it down and analyse it, is the message or narrative of the Italian song? The main crux of the lyrics are about how western culture is vacuous, technology dependant, fame obsessed and inherently depraved. This is emphasised by…dancing about with a Gorilla. Okay. That at least works in tandem with the song in a surrealist/borderline camp way so I’ll give Italy credit for that. The problem is, the vast majority of viewers seeing it for the first time who don’t speak or understand Italian won’t be reading it as a well thought out parody of western culture and a comment on contemporary culture. I bring this up because all of the main challengers for the Eurovision crown over the past few years had a message/narrative that was easily readable even without knowing the words. You knew what the message of “1944” was even if you didn’t speak Crimean Tatar or English. You could buy into the relationship of “Calm after the Storm” even if you didn’t speak English. But if you don’t understand Italian then, in its current form at least, all that is readable about it is a guy the wrong side of thirty doing a kitschy dance with a Gorilla.

And while we’re on that Gorilla…

6. The gorilla actually hampers the song’s scoring potential

A lot of people are cross reading the Gorilla as having the same totemic power as Conchita Wurst’s beard and Mans Zelmerlow’s stick figure animation. This is a false equivalency. While both the beard and the animation worked in a similar way as the gorilla by providing an easily memorable gimmick, neither of them strayed over into being read as crass or kitch. Conchita’s beard was the visible marker of her difference that caused her the pain of rejection and the animation/projections during the Heroes performance made the whole performance stunning on an aesthetic level and made it look just like a live performance of a music video. Whilst those gimmicks made the performance novel, it didn’t make them novelty. When a juror, for instance, saw them, they probably didn’t think ‘oh okay, this country aren’t taking it seriously’ and consciously or unconsciously adjusted their mark for that country.

The Gorilla, by contrast, is easily readable as a joke. If you didn’t know that this had won the San Remo festival and a country like Ireland were sending it, I don’t think people would have bought into the gorilla as working on that level. If you’re a jury in, let’s say, Latvia for instance, are you going to go for the kitschy gorilla dancing OR are you going to go for (say) the young guy with the sleek and modern pop song with memorable staging, the dark and emotive ballad or the young girl with the stunningly staged hooky electropop song.

If you think the jury are going to mark Romania down for being an “obvious novelty song” then you should have concerns about Italy’s jury score.

7. It doesn’t work (at least as well as some of the other entries) on an emotional level

A related factor to being marked down by the juries for being kitschy and an obvious novelty, Occidentali’s Karma doesn’t fit the pattern of the last few years of Eurovision high scorers because it doesn’t work effectively on an emotional level.

Jamala, Mans and Conchita all had the narrative of triumph through adversity (across the spectrum of persecution and discrimination to just personal insecurity), Emmelie de Forest (and basically every other peace ballad that's done well) was a “aww that’s sweet” moment, Sound of Silence was all about the struggle to connect in a disconnected world and Calm After The Storm was a will they/won't they about a couple that were breaking up. The basic thread that runs through all of them is that the message/narrative is about tugging people's heartstrings that is emphasised by things like the staging (and, like the message/narrative section, is performed in a way that is translatable across language barriers). For an expanded version of this (written in the run up to 2015) then there’s this article from Sofabet that provides a good introduction.

What then, really, is the emotional or affective core of Occidentali’s Karma? Most people if you ask them why it’s their/the favourite will tell you either “it’s funny”, which implies that this is a glorified novelty track, “it’s catchy” or that there’s a “euphoric instrumental”. Whilst it certainly makes sense that that should mean it’ll have an undeniable cross-continental appeal, the battleground of Eurovision is littered with the corpses of “catchy” songs with a “euphoric instrumental” that failed to make any kind of impression much at all (the song from last year that probably fits that description the most is probably Spain’s Say Yay and we all remember how that went!).

So why has the fan community elevated this catchy and frivolous song to the level of favourite when it seems so comparatively out of step with what you’d expect to be majorly challenging for the win? Well, in addition to the reasons we discussed at the start of this piece…

8. Italy is the “fetch” of Eurovision

For all that they don’t seem to have the same kind of approach to the contest, Sweden and Italy have more in common in terms of their positions in the Eurovision fandom than most people would care to believe. Both have their own extensive and popular independently from the Eurovision world selection show, both generally send songs that are professional and well produced and both will generally be overrated by the fan community in the run up to the main event.

Much has been said about why this is the case with Sweden. Generally if you’re over about 35 then it’ll be because of the peak schlager music days of Charlotte Perelli, Carola and Linda Bengtzing (among others) and if you’re under 35 it’s because the high quality and quantity of quality pop music the Swedes export around the world, currently best encapsulated in Zara Larsson. Italy faces a similar type of overhyping because people tend to have a very over-romanticised view of Italian music, related to the over romanticised view of Italy as a country in general. The difference is that a substantial part of the fandom will instantly write off the Sweden fans as “fanboys”, “the fans” or “the OGAEs”, nobody uses such words to deride people about overrating the Italian songs. And they are overrated. From 2012 onwards, the Italian song has always finished higher in the OGAE poll than they have in the final contest. So if you’re distasteful about Sweden being overrated by the fans every year, you ought to be equally as suspicious of fans overrating Italy (unless of course, your stereotypical view of the types of people who enjoy the Italian song every year aren’t perceived to be from a cultural minority in the way that the fans of the Swedish song are, in which case, stop being such a prick).

The fandom has been trying to make Italy “happen” ever since their return but, for the reasons I have outlined above, I have extensive reasons to believe that it’s not going to happen.

In Conclusion

Italy might still win. I’d be foolishly blind and blindly foolish to say that it isn’t going to score very well. What I wanted to show in this piece is that there are still reasons why it isn’t the locked in runaway that people are hyping it up to be, based on both the context in which it failed to win San Remo until the last moment, the fact that the staging makes it easily readable as a joke entry ergo the juries have an excuse to mark it down, Italy’s history of being overrated and over hyped every year since 2012, the fact that Italy cannot gain momentum via the semi finals and that the song doesn’t have an emotional register that other eurovision songs both past and present do have.

#eurovision #eurovision 2017 #italy #francesco gabbani #occidentali's karma #reasons why your fave won't win eurovision

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sole-cuore-amore-e-droga · 6 years ago

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Tel Aviv 2019: Straight outta Czech Republic to Eurovision with an unexpected geographical sight name

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Another year, another Czech attempt at a national final that wasn’t televised also BUT this time we got some excitement announcements out of them - even if they were blatantly boring, kind of.

Keep in mind though that I know that the revamp's out, BUT this whole review is just me reviewing the version we all witnessed back when ESCZ hit. The one and only.

So the NF’s here because we saw Mikolas succeed from it the last time (eventhough it’s just a secret internal selection for just the Mikolas’s song and there’s no no denying hihihi), right? And thanks to that we got pseudo-official-but-not-so-official hotel music videos of each contestant’s songs just in case they decide to... like... change it for something different. Like those lyric videos last year. Eventhough they looked so very lowbudget this year, I still liked them to some degree, and eventually I had to witness this one video (set in presumably mostly the living room) where the lead singer confettis all over himself win this year (well not really the video as much as I only got to first hear that song on ESCRadio hahaha). Well, just the lead singer of it. As the buddies were on the other official video (the one I’ll talk about in my revamps update I guess but has anything changed other than the singer singing one of his talking parts?). As a whole the Czech entrants this year are known as Lake Malawi (it exists) and “Friend of a Friend” is their A-game! Let’s listen!

I liked it ever since my first acknowledgence(??) of it through ESCRadio. It reminded me of those happy-clappy 80s synth sounds (eventhough the 80s songs were mostly about gloom and doom), somehow somewhat mixed in with a bit of that ‘modern’ synthpop sound from the British music scene (Years & Years maybe? Nah that’d be too far-fetched). The lyrics, while cheap enough, at least paint a bit of a picture? I don’t think the person in the song was “making love” to his ‘old’ neighbouress back when she was 13, anyway. She’s, afterall, the “friend of a friend”. Who is a friend of a friend. Who is a friend of a friend. Who is a friend of a friend’s COUSIN~

The thing is that some songs out here are enjoyable besides their lyrical content. Or even without the singer’s background (still looking at those who’re shading Sheppard’s family business - shut up and enjoy “Geronimo” in peace, geez!). I, for example, jammed to RiRi’s “S&M” for my lifetime - yes, even since when it got big, and the pop music was being made to sound trashy, and not like something that sounds too somber and ‘foggy’, and with lyrics from r/im14andthisisdeep, and then later slapped on those a e s t h e t i c moodboards with tulips and liquid (of colour blue/red) splashed onto them to make it loof more effective, and placed in front of a yellow background on a white table. I miss late 2000s-early 2010s pop a whole lot, because at least it had fathomable-to-the-ear hits of the time - cheap, fast food, techno melodies with overproduction and lyrics that actually mean something more intimate and grotesque (with sometimes even hinting to the love surface) - that was the shit. Now it’s just drowsy stuff with blurry melodies and lamentings of lost love and devotion in an equally slurry, pathetic, vocal whine. I’m so tired of it. It’s unsettling. Get it off me. And thankfully, none of that invades this small little bubble of Eurovision’s just as of now (unlike the other pathetic musical cliche of nowadays that’s Soundcloud rap - ‘thanks’ a lot USNK). And I guess I shouldn’t be blessed that Lake Malawi brings this “this bangs but the lyrics are... a choice, but it still bangs so idc” back onto Eurovision? Like, come on, we all have had such kinds of songs like those all of that time. From “I Can’t Go On” (a man being a slut for love???) to countless of national final shlocks made by these usual suspects from rent-a-songwriter corner, ESPECIALLY in the 00s, to some of those actual 00s entries that made it - so stupid to sing along to, yet so infectious you can’t drag your earworm out of your ear canals just now. What does “Friend of a Friend” have for itself? Keyboard melody in the 2nd half of the chorus that is easily stuck in MY head, with a female voice (I assume it’s the song’s protagonist’s subject of speech - the neighbourina herself) reassuring that “[she’s] only [his] friend” - not in a “haha I’m friendzoning you forever >:)” way, but “ehhhh there’s truly nothing between us as he says, we’re just friends, not lovers, don’t give me that look” way. Sure it’s believable, sure. It might as well turn out that these neighbours are indeed doing the same thing as in all those local anecdotes where a family’s mother or father has an affair with a next-door neighbour for shits and giggles to move the joke’s plot forward.

So it is, as a whole, a fun little throwback-ish piece of fine and smooth music, accompanied with the lead singer’s ‘British’ ‘accent’ (aha so this is why I get a lot of British radio vibes from this - not to mention, tropical beach ones too for some reason!), some sort of spoken dialogue, energy and the ability to raise you up from your seat the 45875th time you’re actually giving in to all of this. You know you want to, despite this song possibly not being your cup of tea. But I see you, and I look forward to seeing you bopping to this fully in May, no matter if this isn’t Mikolas you’re dealing with anymore, and no camel spaghetti. Ahw yeah!

Approval factor: Although it’s also slowly wearing off me like it already wore off everyone else back then, I’m still giving it one hell of an approval. Yay!

Follow-up factor: I definitely like it more than “Lie to Me” as well. Somewhat. Honestly. Don’t bash me in secret.

Qualification factor: the naysayers are saying this will flop but imo they’re mostly just upset that Barbora didn’t go (even if they were only still upset back in the say), STILL. Ugh can’t they just leave. I am positive about this song’s chances somewhat, just hoping it gets a really memorable and stand out staging and maybe it will escape this hellhole of its semi. Not very confident, just positive. (Also they rocked the Vidbir stage so hard even the uncomfortable question queen Dramala couldn’t not give in the dance, lolz.)

NATIONAL FINAL BONUS

Honestly, the best possible thing that came out of this NF was the oh-so-unexpectedly-expected winner choice, and it is like this because, yet again, people couldn’t get over Barbora losing at first, to which I’m like “to be quite honest, you were all into it because that’s the closest thing to Lana del Rey you’d ever get in Eurovision because Lana herself is American and America should NOT set their foot into ESC... besides, she wouldn’t probably do it anyways”. ESCZ wasn’t pretty bad of a NF honestly:

• people actually laughed at the fact every single video of this NF is so low-budget that it looked like it was all filmed in the same hotel room! (in reality I’m just jealous at the slick-ass hotels they’ve had on there, feels like someone’s house more than a hotel actually)

• Pam Rabbit, one of Mikolas’s last year’s backings, brought the second-best NF song this year imo (Barbora for me is likeable but not to THAT degree, lol calm yer tits), as it was a lowkey bop and I can’t not appreciate one!

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(her officially official MV is here but in the spirit of this NF’s, you’re gonna have to subject yourself to this above in order to witness spectacular budget-MVs that happened for this NF especially, come on. Hardly a cool NF without its own little perks!)

• Fine, I’ll bring up Barbora Mochowa too. I gotta say she DOES sound like Queen Bee Lana, same to say on her earlier works which, among them, has one enchanting and haunting forest-like ballad. “True Colors”, her ESCZ entry, is just a pop ballad, which is not THAT bad, it’s just that... did y’all see any more in that song beyond the Lana vocals? Sure sure the melody is pleasant but... did ya?

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(Lord alive, she also has a live video for this song on her channel, which is in fact the ESCZ’s unplugged version video!)

• The ex-ESC entrant jury is back for another year! This time though, the votes of all of the participants in it were all up and public (unlike secrety mcsecret ones from 2018 where I’m not even sure if the Eurojury panel was correct), and most of them were #TeamMalawi or #TeamBarbora... up until AWS (yes AWS are relevant enough for their own panel!), being the “wait do we still have to do Eurovision related things??? it’s sooooo 1 year ago already, let us go goddammit!!” type of participants that they are, totally and utterly half-arsing their own experience in there by 12ing Andrea Holá. The thing is that she’s first alphabetically from the artists so that’s probably the best possible theory why. “GIVE ME A HINT, ANDREA!!!”

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• The best part? The NF itself taking place in the second floor of an abandoned warehouse somewhere in Czech Republic (Czechia go to hell), in the middle of the day, with no live performances, just that video above played in full motion and some random people speaking in between. Silly of them to leak my ideal NF design location if I ever were a Lithuanian HoD. And yes, it was streamed on Facebook, the platform that I can barely play livestreams on my 11-year-old laptop on, while suspiciously enough, it worked for FiK 56... which meant that I was barely able to grasp a screenshot but I managed!

Well of course I didn’t get to watch much but after someone said Lake Malawi (or, in their words, Lake Malala <333) won, I almost believed it until I found out that the show’s still going... and only saw the thing on the projection screen later out of nowhere. IDK who’s hugging who and if that audience on the right are all the participants then I may have an idea but for now IDK. Ahh, relevant video media being projected on projection screens (duh) <33 giving San Marino, Albania’s Powerpoint scoreboards and Belgian 2013 radio NF runs for their money.

I might find mistakes and off-the-wall blabbers in this write-up later but for now I’ll carelessly submit this beauty to Tumblr today and wish the best of luck to Lake Malawi in Tel Aviv! May you qualify for the 2nd year in a row for CZ ^^

#eurovision 2019 #tel aviv 2019 reviews #czech republic 2019 #lake malawi #friend of a friend #czech republic

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