hh_mirror

((Rated PG-13 for awkward sexuality, and perhaps some bloodshed. Eventually.))

Anne had found herself restless on the eve of the new month - cusps of any sort did that to her. Moments in time, no matter how contrived by man, seemed powerful things in her mind, and she couldn't help but lend a bit of mysticism to them, with the aid of candles and dramatic prayers alone in the upper rooms of Gryffindor house.
She'd become quite used to living alone, given time... time that she'd long ago stopped noticing at it's passing. Perhaps, with a little bit of effort, she might've been able to tell you how long it had been since she'd last talked to someone, but such things didn't really matter anymore. Only mealtimes - and the occasional lonely tea - were cause for rememberance. And they weren't really all that hard to remember.
But cusps... those were important.
Ryuuji had been a cusp. Despite her best efforts, she could remember exactly how long it had been since she'd kissed the man... a month and a half. A little over a twelfth of a year. Fourty-six... no, fourty-seven days. An eternity.

She sighed, lonely (though she'd never admit it) and deeply melancholy as she lit a few large wax candles around a small altar she'd built. On it were a few items - a clipping of Ryuuji's hair, tied in the crimson ribbon he'd had around the note; a cup his lips had touched; the dessicated remains of a white rose; a long, nasty-looking stilleto dagger, stuck through a sheet of parchment with only one word writ upon it.
Ryuuji.
Kneeling before her altar to her beloved, Anne took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. Foremost in her mind was the knowledge that tonight, of all nights, anything could happen...

"WHOOOOOOOSH."

Anne lets out her breath in a rush, and her body instantly reels sideways, falling against air and landing hard on the thin carpet. Where her bed ought to be. She squeezes her eyes tighter against a growing pain in her head, and an unfamiliar ache that pervades her body. Which, by the way, feels at least ten sizes too large. And seems to be lacking clothes.
Now she's afraid to open them.
Eyes clenched shut against pain, and what she might find if she opens them, Anne sits up, and gingerly gropes at herself. In her head she keeps a tally -
"That's missing... that's missing... those're missing... what's that? And those? And where's... Oh. Oh. Oh my!"
The first thing Anne sees when she opens her eyes is lil' Jayne.
She screams.
The sound is decidedly masculine - deep with panic and horror and the slightest twinge of frightened pleasure. Like a little boy who knows that he oughtn't be taking peeks into his sister's diary, but can't seem to stop himself, no matter how he tries, Anne's hands can't seem to stop exploring.
She closes her eyes again.

When she opens them back up, she forces herself to take a deep breath, and sits on her hands. Large, masculine hands. Hands lined with scars, with a substantial callous on the right index finger. Hands that ache almost constantly. Hands that even now are poking and prodding at all the hairy bits that Anne had never thought could be hairy.
She catches herself not breathing again, and has to force more air into her lungs.
Perhaps it might be a good idea to put some clothes on?
Glancing around, Anne spots something that looks vaguely like the undergarments she's used to, and she gingerely puts them on. They're far too tight on certain things she's not used to having, and her new body responds by twitching a few times and making her breathe shallowly until everything calms down.
Next come the britches, which are easy enough to manage. A bit too tight, again, but surprisingly confortable. The same applies for the one appropriate shirt she finds hanging in the closet - a thin white blouse that she tucks into the denim waistline of the pants.
The belt on the bed proves hard to figure out, but she does manage eventually when it becomes evident that there's a bit that's supposed to go around her leg as well.
She does her best not to touch the guns.
Boots follow, and so does the only hat she can find in the room - an orange, knitted thing with flaps that hang down over her ears. She almost doesn't take it, but something tells her that anything she can use to help cover her facial expressions will be of help.

Help with what, though?
Dressed, she sits on the edge of the low bed, takes a moment to think for the first time. Her priorities really ought to be simple - to find out what had happened to her body, and get back into it.
Only, it really isn't that simple. The idea of having another person's body didn't really seem that odd, now that she really thought about it. She had prayed, after all, for some sort of divine intercession. Perhaps this was it? If it was, it would be highest folly, and in insult to God on high, to not use the opportunity.
Which is why she proceeds to ransack the man's room, going through his things in an attempt to find as many clues as possible. Things that she knew already were - he has a fetish for guns; he liked to spend time in the nude, looking at pictures of people disrobed; he was strong; he REALLY liked guns; he was a Gryffindor; he had aspirations of being a some sort of rich dandy (as evidenced by his choice of media - Playboy, Penthouse, and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous on DVD); etc.
Oh, and his name was Jayne Cobb.

Careful to avoid seeing any more naked men, Anne slowly makes her way into the Gryffindor common room, one of his many guns held awkwardly in her hand. As she walks into the room, she can feel everyone's eyes on her, scrutinizing her minutely, tearing her apart, reading her soul through the sheath of flesh that he'd taken on. My God, they're going to recognize me... She thinks, and panics.
"I say! Are there any young ladies who would be inclined to indulge me in my bestial habit of gazing at at the female anatomy unclothed?"
Consistency of character is key.