Hello Friends :) It's been quite a while! I haven't been writing, but with the upcoming movie, I find myself motivated for the first time since the dreaded book 5. This is a snippet I had written for a friend a long time ago, and shows when Josh was shipping off to boarding school to help with his father's campaign, and sees Magnus for the first time :) Totally Heart of Light Canon!

I'm also planning to write Josh/Tyler's first date, just because it's adorable and I want to share (if you guys still want to read!)

I've fallen out of fandom and I'm not even sure who's active/inactive nowadays. Drop me a comment if you're still around and still interested in any of this crazy stuff. Or if you want

I've just posted chapter one of a new story called Certain Dark Things, which you can find in my profile.

If there's anything anyone is interested in any more, I'm really in the mood to write, so you could always send me a request/wish/rant about how I disappeared for a gazillion years/confused look about why I'm still rambling misadventurousmongooses . tumblr . com

Love :)

-Sarah

A small crowd gathers around the car as it pulls into the parking lot. I tried to get dropped a block away so I could arrive with the least possible fanfare, but my parents gave express orders for me to be dropped off at the front entrance. They had called ahead to make all the possible arrangements - sending me here was one thing, but I'm pretty sure my mother would have a stroke if she had to step foot in this place.

I adjust my tie, but it doesn't help. It weighs heavy on my chest, as does the knowledge that I'll be the only one wearing one. It wasn't enough that my parents had to send me here, they also have to ensure that everyone will know who I am. Or what I am, since my status is what really matters. If I don't learn anything, if I don't make a single friend, if I don't enjoy a single day at this place, as long as everyone knows that I'm a Fell my parents will be happy.

My bag is unusually light and the lack of strain on my shoulder is disconcerting. I've learned to walk slightly hunched over, and I feel off balance without the comforting weight of all my books. Today there's just a copy of The Aeneid that I've been translating. My Latin Professor at Prescott was probably my best friend at the entire school, and she had tracked my progress every week. Somehow I don't think I'll be taking Latin now, but I didn't want to leave the house without it.

"I'll be back at three, Mister Fell," James says from the front seat. "If you have other obligations, please get one of your professors to call and confirm."

"I will, James," I say, my hands shaking a little as a grasp the door handle.

"Mister Fell?" he says just as I'm about to slip outside. I turn back, and his wrinkled face is split into a warm smile. "They would be lucky to be your friends, Sir."

I flush and clear my throat against the sudden scratchiness that precedes tears. "Thanks, James," I whisper, knowing that he's the only one who thinks so.

At first no one really knows what to do. They stand there, staring, and I try not to shrink under the weight of their collective gaze. I wonder if they expected some kind of celebrity. A movie star's kid, someone with a entourage or beefy bodyguards. Instead they get me: five foot nothing, blonde hair plastered down, blazer much too warm for the September sun. James waits a few moments before pulling away, and I think that's the only the that gets me into the school without any hassle. I don't know whether to feel ashamed or grateful, and both emotions twirl themselves into the maelstrom of anxiety that's already pooled at the centre of my chest.

I manage to make it most of the way down the entrance corridor before my first confrontation. A boy who's got a full foot on me reaches out and tugs the strap of my bag. Not expecting the sudden change, my body flops backward and I end up right on my ass, bag upside down, and The Aeneid open on the floor.

"Nice bag," the boy says, his lips curled into a wolfish smirk. He doesn't look like the kids my mother worried about: no tattoos, neat hair, white teeth. He looks more like the kind of son she wishes she had. "It really matches the tie."

I flush, and two girls beside wolf-boy giggle. I told my mother that the bag was too fancy, but she wouldn't let me leave without it. A few other kids edge closer, the thrill of a fight drawing them like moths to a flame. I fight to stay calm, reaching for my book with as much dignity as possible. Before I can curl my fingers around it, wolf-boy's boot crunches against my fingers. It hurts, hurts so badly I want to cry out, but I clamp my teeth into my tongue and keep looking at the floor.

"I don't think - "

Whatever he doesn't think is cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. A hush settles over the gathered crowd, and wolf-boy pulls away. Expecting a teacher, a grab my book and shove it back into my bag before anyone can see me. I stand up and try to scurry away when I see him.

He's everything my mother was worried about: tight black jeans, ripped down the side; bright green t-shirt that looks like it's been splashed with paint and scrawled with a label I don't recognize; a silver ring through one eyebrow. His skin is the colour of toffee and so clear it almost glows; the only mark on it are the thin black lines of a tattoo that peaks up from beneath his jeans. He walks down the hall with the kind of grace I've only ever seen displayed by professional dancers, and completely ignores everyone around him. Their eyes follow him, and one of wolf-boy's giggling girls even gives him a short wave. He just smiles lazily in reply, and even though it wasn't directed at me, that smile turns the pain in my fingers into a distant memory. The throb is replaced with a sweet, bubbling heat that spreads out to the tips of my fingers.

"Who's that?" I find myself saying, forgetting that I'm surrounded by people who were just ready to watch me getting beaten into the dirty linoleum.

"Mangus Bane," someone answers.

"Magnus Bane," I repeat. The irony of thatisn't lost on me, but his name still rolls of my tongue sounding infinitely more beautiful than any of the languages I studied at Prescott. "Magnus Bane."