#and how none of those 2 halfs manage to congeal well to me at all and creates something that feels so fanficky in its creation i cant help

[ohcrapmyfishwhy]

I feel old bc I didn't like the amazing digital circus.

[upstartpoodle]

Moving Forward (Chapter 2)

Rating: T

Relationships: Dwight & George, George & Ross, George & Cary, past George/Elizabeth.

Summary: The next chapter of my post s5 AU. Cary argues with Valentine over George's disappearance and pays a visit to Nampara, whilst the Poldarks and Enyses speculate over what happened.

@harry-leroy, @forcebros, @ticketybooser. It’s a day late but I got there in the end ha. I hope you enjoy it! :D

AO3

***

“Uncle Cary, where is Papa?”

“Hellfire and damnation” Cary Warleggan muttered from where he was stood, arms folded, staring down at the fire crackling in the grate of the parlour. When they had spotted the dubious activities of Ross Poldark from the clifftops that day, he had thought that they had finally, finally, found their way to victory against the cursed man. In the cold light of that winter’s morning, however, he found that—far from the triumph he had envisioned—not only had George, after running off to Nampara in the middle of the night, vanished off the face of the earth, but also that that unfortunate event had once again put him in the unenviable position of having to deal with the nigh endless pestering of his nephew’s little brat of a son. Turning around, he saw Valentine standing in the middle of the room, fixing him with a determined stare to which he had become all too accustomed in the wake of George’s illness. He sighed sharply through his nose.

“Where is Papa?,” the boy repeated when he received no answer to his first question. “I wanted to speak to him, but he hasn't come down to breakfast.”

Cary let out a growl of frustration, not bothering to disguise it from the child. Had he known the answer to that, he himself would have been sitting down to eat his fill at the breakfast table, unconcerned, rather than treading the parlour rug into disrepair, hoping, each time he turned back to the window, that he would see the slim form of his nephew riding, unharmed, up the driveway. He was of half a mind to tell the boy exactly that, but he had enough good sense—and knowledge of Valentine’s temperament—to realise that it would have done little to get him to go away.

“You can't speak with him now, boy,” he said instead. “He is away from home.”

'Away from home', his own thoughts sneered back at him. How polite a phrase for 'possibly dead in a ditch somewhere', or 'thrown down a mine', or 'tossed over the cliffs for the ocean to swallow him whole—'”

“But why?,” Valentine spoke up again, stubborn. “Where is he?”

“Somewhere where he is not being burdened by the endless questions of nosy little brats,” Cary snapped, trying his best to push the lurid imaginings out of his mind. “Go and bother Bessie if you must. I am busy.”

After all, he thought, George had left very late last night, and it might well have been the case that, all having gone to plan, he had been obliged to stay at Nampara until morning, and had yet to return. Somehow, as the images of the ugly look on Hanson's countenance as he had left the evening before—and that of the fierce determination on George's—flickered in his mind's eye, he rather doubted it was. But if it were, he resolved to give the damned little fool a scuff about the ear at the very least when he returned.

If he returned.

God damn.

“You aren't doing anything expect pacing about the parlour,” Valentine argued, and with another surge of frustration that would have had him tearing his hair out in the days when he still had any, Cary noted that he had not, despite his instructions, moved an inch from his spot in the middle of the room, what little that could be seen of his brow beneath his unruly mop of curls marred by a frown that was part worried, part mutinous. “And I don't think you know where he is.”

Cary snarled. Why the sheer, blunt nerve of the child—

“Don't be absurd, you cheeky little—!” he barked, ready to give the boy a piece of his mind, but he was cut resolutely off.

“I heard you arguing last night,” Valentine said, glaring at him. “Papa said he was going to Nampara. Why hasn't he come back yet?”

And was that not the very question that had been plaguing him ever since he had woken that morning to find George still missing. Where was he? Why had he not returned? No matter how he tried to reassure himself, a thousand possible answers were whirling through his head, each one so horrible that, caught up in the thought of them as he was, he barely even registered that Valentine had just admitted to eavesdropping on them the previous night. Perhaps Hanson, furious at his betrayal, had attacked him. Or Poldark himself, having seen his long-standing enemy enter the fray and thinking him ill-intentioned. Or maybe Poldark had already been dead and dealt with by the time George arrived, and the General had overpowered and shot him, or slit his throat, or whatever it was that such men did to those who interfered with their plans. He felt faintly sick. God curse it, why had he ever let him go? He should have had him dragged up to his chamber and locked in for the night, sane or no, his own guilt and discomfort be damned. George would have been furious with him, no doubt, but at least he would have been safe.

“That,” he said through clenched teeth—damn and blast it, why would the little nuisance not leave him alone?, “is none of your concern—”

“Why?” the child retorted angrily, before he could even finish chastising him. Cary wanted to yell. George would never have questioned him in such a manner as a child—indeed, even the slightest hint of anger on his part had often been enough to have him scampering away to hide—so why, good God, why, would his blasted little brat not do the same?

“If you ask that one more time,” he growled, marching up to the boy and brandishing a threatening finger in front of his nose, “I will be forced to tell you what happens to little boys who say 'why' too much. Now go and eat your breakfast.”

Valentine, however, did not appear much impressed by the threat. His dark brown eyes narrowed, fixed on the finger in front of him with a disturbingly familiar look of disdain that seemed out of place on his round, childish face. It was, Cary realised, an exact replica of the expression his father reserved for the likes of Ross Poldark.

“I don't want to eat my breakfast,” he said, stamping his foot in hard on the floor in a manner which, had said father been present, he would likely have been chided for as being ungentlemanly. “I want to know where Papa is!”

His voice was growing rapidly louder in his anger, and Cary foresaw that, should he not take action now, the argument would devolve into a shouting match for which his already frayed nerves would not thank him. And so it was that, fed up and fast losing patience, he simply grabbed Valentine by the shoulders and corralled him back into the hall and to the dining table, where his half-eaten bowl of porridge sat, fast cooling and abandoned.

“Sit” he said.

“No!”

“Sit!” he repeated.

There seemed to be something sufficiently dangerous in his tone that Valentine actually complied, but only with extreme reluctance. Something in the way he sat there, arms folded, glaring mutinously up at him, told him that, though he may be sitting now, he—Cary—would not enjoy the consequences of it. It suddenly occurred to him that he had just put a cross Valentine in range of a number of potential missiles, which he knew from experience the child was unlikely to balk in employing. Porridge, for example. Grey, pasty, lukewarm porridge which might at any moment be catapulted his way.

“Don't you even think about it” he growled low in warning.

Valentine stared back at him, unmoving. They stared and stared, until Cary broke his gaze with a scowl, looking about for the nursemaid, who was stood to one side, doing her utmost to impersonate a stretch of the wall.

“Bessie,” he barked. “Make sure that he eats all his food. And see to it that he does not disturb me again.”

Bessie gave a little bob and a soft “yessir”. With a sharp nod, Cary made to depart to the parlour once more—if nothing else but to remove himself from the line of fire—though not without a sour glance towards the dearly departed Elizabeth, where her portrait hung beside  the door leading from the hall. The whelp's wilfulness surely must have come from her. It was true that George could often be stubborn and wilful himself (something which had greatly irked Penrose when he had explained the need to use more robust—which he would absolutely not think of right now), but he had never been so openly defiant as a child, and certainly not towards his guardians. Personally, he thought the boy had been overly-indulged—Francis' lad had been overly attached to his mother and he had grown up to be a brat of rather impressive proportions, after all. Having said that, though, he could hardly claim that George was much stricter a disciplinarian than his late wife when it came to his children.

“Uncle Cary?”

Cary bit back a groan. He had barely even managed to reach the doorway and still the little brat would not let him be.

“What?,” he scowled, whirling back around to face him. “What is it?”

He fixed the boy with a stern gaze, but there was something he saw in Valentine’s face that had him frowning in what a charitable—and as far as Cary would have been concerned had he been present to hear such an opinion, deeply mistaken—person might have described as a worried manner. He was still angry and recalcitrant, yes, but there was something else in his expression—something frightened and uncertain that he hadn't quite yet learnt to hide.

“Uncle Cary,” he said again, and Cary thought he detected a slight wobble to his voice that had him inwardly cringing even more than his defiance had. “Have the bad men done something to Papa?”

Cary fought back a flinch with all his might. A horrible image of his nephew lying in some unknown dark hole, covered with red, congealing blood, eyes blank and glassy, flashed through his mind, but he forced it down. Carefully schooling his features so that his own fears would not seep through into his expression, he looked Valentine right in the eye and forced himself to speak.

“What bad men?” he said, as if he didn't know exactly to whom it was that the child was referring, as if that very possibility hadn't been what had had had him pacing about the parlour in a frenzy ever since he had woken. Valentine, however, did not seem convinced, for the look he sent him in return was both deeply cross and far too withering to sit naturally on the features of a child so young.

“The bad men that were here last night,” he replied. “You and Papa were arguing about them. I already told you that I heard you.”

Cary glared. Even when he was verging on upset, the boy still could not suppress the urge to show disrespect. He should have just walked out of the room and be done with it. But then, he would probably just have followed him again. What he would do to give the brat the hiding he deserved, but George, he knew, would have been furious with him, and so he swallowed down his anger as best he could.

“Eat” he snapped.

He nodded his head sharply towards the still untouched porridge. It would be unpleasantly cold by now, but really, it was the child's own fault for letting it cool. Valentine, though, didn't even cast the merest glance at it. He simply stared right back at him, and shook his head violently from side to side, so that his already messy curls flew even further out of place. For a moment, Cary was inexplicably reminded of the way in which his old hound, Ambrose, had used to shake the water from his shaggy coat after a foray into the sea, before he noticed that, though Valentine’s jaw was clenched tight, there was a distinct tremble to his lip which sent a spark of panic rising suddenly into his chest. Damn and blast, please say that he would not cry. He could not abide wailing children. George, he had always been able to scold out of it, and he had soon learnt not to do it, but somehow, Cary suspected, the same would not work for his son. And in that case, what could he do to stop him?

“Do you think I would let anybody into the house if I thought there was a risk that they might hurt somebody here?” he said with a sigh, attempting more to appeal to reason than to comfort, but unfortunately, it seemed to do little to appease Valentine.

“You let that man in when Papa was ill,” he argued, and his voice was most definitely shaking now. “You let him hurt Papa.”

Cary scowled, turning sharply away. First George, and now his wretched son. Were both of them determined have the shadow of Penrose hang over his head like a cloud for the rest of his life?

“Dr Penrose was not a bad man,” he retorted, with a conviction that, even as he forced away the memory of watching his nephew, limp and pained and vulnerable, being shackled tight to his own bed, he wasn't entirely sure he believed. “He—”

“He hurt Papa,” Valentine interrupted, with a fierce simplicity that only a child could achieve. “He was a bad man.”

Cary turned back to look at him and, feeling his heart sink to somewhere in the region of his stomach, realised that he was on the verge of crying, tears shining in his dark eyes, though he had not yet let them fall.

“The bad man who was here...,” he spoke again, and this time, his voice was surprisingly small. “He wanted to hurt Uncle Ross. What if he hurt Papa too?”

It was Cary's instinct to snap at him not to be so foolish, but his own whirling thoughts stopped him. After all, he could hardly claim it to be so foolish a thought, else he would not have been entertaining the notion himself. He was fully aware that Hanson and Merceron were dangerous men. They had had Despard hanged because he defied them. They had had Poldark thrown down a mine and then plotted to have him murdered by the French because he had supported the man. They had even had that little dog of the Enys woman's poisoned because she had helped to besmirch their reputations. What they would do to an ally who had betrayed them, he did not know, but he doubted that it would be anything good. Suddenly, he was horribly aware of how little he knew, and he could no longer bear it. Could no longer bear the thought of going back to stand at that blasted window waiting for something to happen, whilst he was pestered with endless questions that he could not answer. He had to know for certain what had happened, no matter how terrible the news that awaited him was.

“Fine, fine,” he growled, half to himself as much to Valentine. “I am going to Nampara! Now will you eat?”

“No,” Valentine said, his voice suddenly firmer, though the tears had not quite dissipated. “I'm going to come with you.”

He had already slipped halfway out of his chair, but Cary strode forward and, taking him roughly by the shoulders, pushed him down again.

“No, you are not,” he said. “You, young man, are going to sit here and eat your breakfast or so help me I will—!”

Valentine cut him off with another of his defiant looks, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Shouting at the boy would achieve nothing, no matter how satisfying he might have found it.

“Just stay here and wait,” he sighed. “Patiently. I will return soon enough. Bessie, make sure that he does not go running off.”

Another bob and a “yessir”, and he was already striding out into the hall, not daring to look back lest the boy be encouraged to scamper after him. He grabbed his coat, hat and gloves and donned them without care, then wrenched open the door and stepped out into the weak morning sun, marching off in search of his horse. He did not yet know what it was he would find at Nampara, but whatever sight he might have to steel himself for, there would be Hell to pay. The only question was: who was it that would be doing the paying?

***

The fire was crackling low in the grate when Ross was jolted out of the light doze he had been slipping into by the sound of a crow cawing in the tree outside. He groaned—his neck and back were aching from the unnatural position he had been contorted into by the rickety old chair—and rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. He couldn't fall asleep now, not when it had been stressed to him how important it was that George's condition be carefully watched over.

As much as he might have wished it, George had not so far proved illuminating in the matter of his unlikely intervention and the cause behind it, but Ross was not so much of a fool as to have thought that he would be. The man had not even so much as shifted in his sleep in however long he had been sitting there—how much time had past since he had left the parlour to watch over him, he really had no idea. Exhausted and weakened by pain and blood-loss though he was, however, George made a surprisingly good companion, as he tried to make sense of his rioting, tumultuous thoughts. His silent presence was somehow comforting to him—no pressure to talk, to plan, to take action. And perhaps it was a little more than that as well.  Even white and wan and as close to death as he looked, being able to watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, assured of the fact that, despite all, he still lived, he felt he could cling a little tighter to the hope that he would pull through and survive. Elsewhere, in other company, he thought, it would have been like trying to hold onto smoke with his bare hands.

Smoke. Smoke from a fire. There was a slight chill in the room, the flames, he remembered, nearly dying in the hearth. That would not do. Dwight had wanted George kept warm, and there was a definite bite to the draught that was beginning to creep in through the window—there was gooseflesh on the bare skin of his forearms, he noticed, the hairs standing right on end. With an enormous effort, he forced himself up from the chair and, taking ahold of the poker, mindful not to make too much noise, stoked the fire back into life. The flames danced higher, and he couldn't help but stare at them, transfixed, as they flickered back and forth before his eyes.

He was too dazed and tired to take note of the footsteps padding along the corridor outside , and so when he heard the door creak slowly open behind him, he gave a violent start, whirling about to see who had entered. It was Dwight. Though still pale and rather grey, he seemed a little better, as if he had caught a little sleep, but the look in his pale eyes was still grim and sober.

“How is he?” he asked softly.

Ross shook his head.

“No change,” he said. “Neither for better, nor for worse, as far as I can tell.”

Dwight nodded thoughtfully, heading over to the bed where his patient lay, motionless, like a corpse awaiting burial.

“That is encouraging,” he replied, though Ross did not think from his tone that he sounded particularly encouraged. “As long as he does not take a turn for the worse, we might hope that he will recover fully.”

He was still nodding to himself, as if he were trying to convince himself of his own words. Carefully, he reached out and took one of George's limp hands in a gentle grasp, pulling back the cuff of his sleeve so that he could check his pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed convulsively.

“You should get some rest, Ross,” he said with a frown, his focus still fixed firmly on George. “Last night was as much of a strain on you as it was on the rest of us.”

Ross stared at him tiredly, barely registering what he was saying. He had let go of George's wrist, and was now gently thumbing back each of his eyelids in turn, his lips pursed in concentration. The sleeves of his shirt, he noticed, were clean and white, whereas the night before, they had been soaked red with blood. Ross frowned. The only men's clothes he had at Nampara other than his own were some old things of his father's, but the shirt Dwight was wearing was not near loose enough on his slim frame to have been borrowed from him. Where then, had he got it?

“Caroline is here,” Dwight said, as if reading his mind—though Ross knew his expression was probably open enough in his exhaustion that his friend would only need working eyes, as opposed to the power of telepathy, to determine what he was thinking. He had turned to look over his shoulder when he didn't reply, and was frowning at him in concern. “I had a note sent to Nampara to inform her of what happened, and she was kind enough to bring some clean clothes for me.”

There was a pause.

“Jeremy and Clowance are here too.”

Ross gave a strange jolt, the sound of his two children's names pulling him sharply out of his stupor as if he had been struck by lightning.

“Jeremy and Clowance?,” he asked, his voice suddenly very rough. “Are they—?”

But he didn't quite know what it was he wanted to ask. Whether they were alright, safe and unharmed? Whether they were hurt, upset or scared by what had happened? Or maybe—he swallowed—whether they were angry as their mother surely was, after how he had seemed to behave? Luckily, Dwight came to his rescue as he floundered, and spoke up in his stead.

“Caroline brought them back home,” he said. “They were really very worried. Geoffrey Charles has taken them down to the beach for the time being. That should at least cheer them up a little. Besides, we wanted them kept away from Hanson whilst we dealt with him.”

Ross had no idea what to feel at that. Guilt that they had been worried? Disappointment that they were not here for him to see? Perhaps dread at having to face them and their unknown reactions later. If there were one thing he did feel in bounds, however, it was relief. Relief that they were safe and cared for, and that the others had the sense to keep them away from the loathsome Hanson. It occurred to him that he could no longer hear the man grousing, though he faintly recalled there having been some commotion in the corridor outside earlier on.

“Dealt with?” he asked, wondering exactly what that meant. He suspected, though, that the reality would probably disappoint the wilder fancies of his imagination.

“Sent back to his lodgings in Truro,” Dwight amended, somewhat confirming Ross' suspicions. “He complained the whole time, of course, but at least he has gone.”

“Yes,” Ross replied with a scowl. “Gone right back to his brother so they can plot our demise, no doubt. We would have been better served had we smothered him with a pillow.”

It was not an entirely serious suggestion, but Dwight didn't seem to find much humour in it. He turned about to face him fully, the frown on his face morphing from concerned to a little cross.

“You agreed earlier that it would be best for him to sent back to Truro to recover” he reminded him, sternly.

Ross scoffed.

“I agreed that I didn't want him in my house,” he said darkly. “As far as I'm concerned, the only favour he's earned from me is to be tossed on the midden and see if that heals him.”

The crow in the tree outside cawed again, as if in agreement. Dwight, on the other hand, crossed his arms in front of his chest and clenched his jaw, eyes darting briefly to the wall and back with an expression of deep frustration with which Ross had become increasingly acquainted ever since Ned Despard had barrelled his way back into their lives.

“What other course of action was there, Ross?,” he said, and there was a hint of annoyance in his voice that he was too tired and overwrought to suppress. “It behoves you to ensure your actions are beyond reproach in this matter, if only to prevent us from being painted as the villains of the piece.”

Ross frowned. He opened his mouth—to say what, he did not entirely know—but one look at his friend's face had him reconsidering his words. Already, Dwight seemed to be flagging, his eyes dull and tired, with dark bags beneath them like bruises.

“How much sleep did you get?” he asked suspiciously. If Dwight had been awake to deal with Hanson, then he couldn't have rested for more than perhaps a couple of hours, surely.

Dwight shook his head.

“More than you.” He settled down into the chair beside George's bed, wincing slightly as it creaked. “Go, Ross. I shall be here to watch over him. You shan't do him or yourself any good by driving yourself past the point of exhaustion.”

Ross rather thought he would have been better served to follow his own advice, but he had just enough sense left in his sluggish brain not to say it aloud. Dwight was not to be persuaded—that much was clear—but then, neither was he. He conceded enough to leave the room as instructed, but despite his exhaustion weighing on him so heavily now that it seemed as if his limbs had turned to lead, he still balked at going to his bedchamber to sleep. Who knew, after all, how the events of the night would resurface in his dreams? And so, instead of heading down the corridor to rest as advised, he made for the stairs, intending, vaguely, to make his way through the decanter of brandy in the parlour as he waited for something—anything—to happen.

The sight that met him when he stepped through the parlour door, however, instantly made him regret his decision. Demelza, Caroline and Prudie were all huddled together around the table, and had been deep in whispered conversation right up until they heard the creak of the door opening behind them. As he entered, they cut themselves off abruptly, swivelling about in their chairs to stare at him, each with a worried, questioning look upon their face. Fighting not to squirm under the combined force of their gaze, Ross was suddenly reminded of why he had so wanted to be alone before.

“How is he?” Demelza asked. Her blue eyes were alight with concern, though for whom exactly, he did not quite know.

Ross shook his head. It was the second time he had been asked that this morning, but this time, for some reason, he couldn't quite unstick his throat to give her an answer. He staggered over to the table, brandy decanter quite forgotten, and, sinking into a chair beside them, put his head in his hands.

“Is-is it so bad?” That was Caroline, uncharacteristically tentative for a woman usually so bold. It was that, perhaps, that allowed him to mine some deep part of him for the elusive answer that seemed caught on the tip of his tongue. He raised his head from his hands to look at her.

“He isn't worse than he was,” he said shortly. “Dwight says that that is encouraging.”

Unfortunately, however, he had not been any more successful in sounding encouraging than Dwight had been for him. Caroline, it was clear, had seen something of his own fears in his face, for he saw something very strange flicker in her eyes, a dark shadow passing across her wan features. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it to be something akin to guilt, but he dismissed it as a flight of imagination, brought on, no doubt, by the lethargy that had settled over him like a tonne of bricks. After all, what would Caroline have to feel guilty about?

“Did—?” She faltered. “Did he give any indication of why...?”

She trailed off. There it was again—that why, why, why that each one of them couldn't help but ask, but to which none knew the answer. Ross clenched his jaw, tight.

“He didn't exactly have much of a chance to explain himself whilst we were rooting about his innards, no” he said, more tersely than the question had warranted. The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them.

“Ross!” Demelza hissed, her eyes flashing.

Caroline had gone very white, and it suddenly occurred to him that, quite apart from not wanting to hear gruesome details, she—was? had been?—an almost friend of George's, in an odd sort of way. The realisation made him feel all the more wretched, and a strained silence began to stretch uncomfortably out between them.

“'Tis awful strange though,” Demelza spoke up again, after several excruciating minutes of avoiding each other's gazes, mouths clamped tightly shut. “What could 'ave possessed 'im t' do 't? An' t' put hisself in such danger... 'Tis hardly...well...”

She lapsed into silence, but nonetheless, each and every one of them heard what she had left unsaid.

“It is hardly,” Ross finished for her, his eyes fixed broodingly on a burn on the wood of the table before him, “what we have come to expect of George.”

But even as he said it, a memory flashed before his eyes—of George, afraid, clearly, but steadfast, pistol in hand as they stared each other down, ready to defend his wife and unborn child from the raging mob surrounding them. Perhaps, he thought, a deep frown drawing his brows together, we do not expect such things from George because we haven't been looking in the right places.

Silence fell between them once more, but this time, it had barely had a chance to settle before it was interrupted by a loud and angry pounding on the door outside. The four of them started, alarmed by the sudden clamour.

“Judas, who could that be?!” breathed Demelza, her eyes wide.

“Th' hordes o' Hell come t' tek us all, by th' sounds of 't” Prudie grumbled in reply.

She stood, reluctantly, and headed out to the door, muttering to herself all the way. Ross heard it creak on its hinges as she opened it, followed by an unpleasantly familiar snarling voice that had him leaping up from his chair so violently that he almost overturned it. The hordes of Hell?, he thought to himself wryly as he heard swift footsteps in the hallway and Cary Warleggan burst in through the door like a charging bull, a horrified Prudie scurrying along behind, his hat and gloves in hand. More like the Devil himself. Well, you wanted something to happen, and now it has. I suppose I must be more careful what I wish for.

“Where is he?!,” the man snarled, pale eyes flashing dangerously as he stepped into the room, fixing Ross with a fierce glare. “Where is my nephew?!”

Ross gritted his teeth, bracing himself for confrontation. He had no love for either Warleggan, but though it was George with whom he often clashed, he found Cary, objectively speaking, to be far more objectionable—in temperament if nothing else. The man was rough, rude and acerbic, and blatantly loathed him, and he was not sure whether, in his current state, he could endure the man's anger without lashing out in return.

“Sir George is resting at the moment,” he replied, attempting to remain calm. “I can assure you, however, that he is in good hands. Dr Enys is tending to him.”

Cary scowled.

“And why, pray, does he need tending to?” he said.

There was a movement behind him, and next thing he knew, Demelza was standing at his side. They exchanged an uneasy glance. With everything that had happened, neither of them had thought to inform the elder Warleggan of his nephew’s injury. How he would react to finding out that George had been shot, Ross had no idea, but he was hardly likely to jump for joy at the news. Well, at least the old man’s ire might be directed away from them and towards Merceron and his loathsome brother, he considered—so long as he should be inclined to listen in full to what had happened, that was.

“Forgive us, sir, but have ‘ee not heard?,” Demelza asked, regarding their unexpected and very much unwanted guest with an uneasy frown. “Your nephew were shot. By Ralph Hanson,” she added as Cary’s face turned thunderous, no doubt suspecting Ross himself to be the most likely culprit for George’s injury.

Ross had expected something akin to surprise from the man, shock or disbelief, or even—and this was the scenario he had been bracing himself for—outright denial. But Cary looked neither shocked, nor disbelieving, and he had certainly made no move to deny anything. Indeed, if he seemed to be anything, it was purely and simply angry.

“And how am I supposed to have heard?!,” he sneered. “Perhaps you expected the birds to have twittered the news in my ear with the dawn chorus!”

There were no questions posed of why Hanson might have wished to shoot George, or even why he might have been at Nampara to be shot in the first place. Slow and sluggish though his thoughts were, Ross could only come to the conclusion that he must have known something of what his nephew had intended to do, if not why. This realisation, however, was buried down to the back of his mind as a spark of temper, faded to embers with exhaustion and confusion, started to burn hot in the pit of his chest. The man's displeasure was understandable, yes, but he would not have him speak to his wife in such a manner.

“We hadn't had the chance to inform you,” he said, firmly. “It was of utmost importance that George be operated on immediately—”

“Yes, and no doubt in the chaos, it slipped your mind,” Cary interrupted, his voice rising by degrees. “I suppose he is actually alive, or did he pass away in the night and that just happened to slip your mind too?!”

The memory of gunshots, of pained cries and the smell of blood, and of George lying deathly still on the bed, white and wan, began to seep, unwelcome, back into Ross' mind, and all of a sudden, that spark of temper in his chest erupted into an inferno.

“Forgive me, Mr Warleggan,” he growled through tightly clenched teeth, trying, with all his might, not to shout, “if I was not entirely abreast of the situation after holding down your screaming nephew for God knows how long so that we might remove a bullet from his gut!”

Despite his best efforts, his voice was beginning to rise too, but he felt a hand on his arm, distracting him momentarily from his anger. Demelza. Before he could turn towards her, however, Cary snarled in fury, and, in three large strides, they were suddenly nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball. Though his instinct was to recoil, Ross refused to back away.

“And of course how terrible that must have been for you,” he hissed sardonically. “Or perhaps you wished for time to revel in the moment. Did it satisfy you to see him brought so low? You've enough hate for him, after all. I imagine you'd drink to providence had he died.”

Ross opened his mouth to tell him that, if he were to find satisfaction in anything at all in that moment, it would be in punching him on the damned nose—as he richly deserved for making such insinuations. Perhaps if he managed to break it, he thought, it would make it as crooked as the rest of him. Before he could speak, however, he felt Demelza's grip tighten on his arm. He turned to look at her. Her gaze was imploring, and her brow was crumpled in a worried little frown. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and, taking a deep breath, he nodded back at her, trying to calm himself down.

“You may imagine all you wish,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “But you are mistook, sir, if you believe me to be so twisted as to delight in George's injury. Perhaps it amuses you to think of your enemies in such agony, but it is not my custom to wish harm upon others.”

Unless they really deserve it, a traitorous little voice whispered in his head. Such as the likes of Hanson. But he barely had time to think on it before Cary scoffed loudly at his words, his lip curled in a sneer.

“Is that so?,” he growled, like an angry bear that had been successfully poked out of hibernation and was longing to take a swipe at the source of its temper. “In that case, what precisely did you wish upon that customs officer you once beat half to death? Or upon my nephew when you tried to shove his head into a roaring grate? But perhaps you simply intended to give him a nice, rosy complexion. And the customs officer, no doubt, would only have benefited from having his limbs... rearranged.”

“I—” Ross tried to protest, but Cary cut across him him sharply.

“No!,” he barked, teeth bared. “George may have become yet another in a long line of people ready to throw themselves in danger to save your sorry hide, but I assure you that I have no intention of fawning at your feet or comforting you with platitudes when I have spent this whole morning and the better part of the night not knowing where in God's name my nephew was or what had happened to him or if I would find him days later dredged up as flotsam on a beach somewhere—”

He cut himself off, turning sharply away, his jaw clenched. Ross stared, seeing something dark flash in his eyes, something almost...almost... In a moment, he felt his anger deflate as if it had never been, leaving him feeling oddly hollow.

“I will take you up to see him” he said.

Cary sneered.

“I will take myself up if I have to,” he replied. “I've no care to be accompanied. But I warn you, Poldark, if I so much as suspect that you caused him the slightest harm, I will make your life so wretched that you'll no longer wish to live it.”

And with that, he spun on his heel and marched away before any of them could even tell him where his nephew was, like a bloodhound on the scent of a fox. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Ross rushed off after him—though not before he heard Prudie, who had throughout the exchange been glancing between the hat Cary had thrust at her to hang up and the fire in the grate with an expression of utmost disgust, say to the room at large:—

“D'ye suppose Cap'ain Ross would be awful angry if I burnt 't?”

[arazialotis]

Hunters Academy - Part 6

Word Count: Around 4100

Summary: The reader is looking for a way forward in life. A cryptic business card may provide her with a new opportunity at an unconventional school. Catch Up Here -> Introduction Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warnings: Language, General SPN violence and creepy settings

Pairing: Dean x Reader

This is purely for a hobby and my enjoyment. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I am by no means a writer so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

Beta’d and influenced by the beautiful mind of @misguidedconqueress​

---

After your conversation with Dean you found it impossible to sleep, but tried anyway; knowing you needed your rest for the big day tomorrow. Without thought of consequence or an official graduation, you threw yourself into full on hunter mode. There was no consideration for your preparedness or ability to do so. You’d simply  take what you learned from the Winchesters and figure the rest out along the way. Thankfully, you still had a suit in your pack. A car and weapons, those would have to come tomorrow. 

You were graced with a few hours of sleep to recuperate, but woke in the wee hours of the morning to start your day. In an abandoned tow lot, frayed by time and weather, you managed to find a running Corsica. It was no Mustang by any means; but it could get you from point A to point B with a touch of 90s nostalgia seeping up through the cushions. As for a weapon, well, you decided it would be best to first understand what you were dealing with. The best place to start would presumably be at coroner's office at the police station. 

Standing at reception, your hand shook with nerves as you flashed the FBI badge. The seasoned woman from behind the desk firmly grabbed it and analyzed it. Her eyes skeptically peered over her glasses. She gave it back to you but eyed you suspiciously. 

You were absolutely terrified, but forced the words past the lump in throat. “I need a meeting with your sheriff.” 

“On what business?” Her gruff voice asked. 

You pinched your lips together. “On business concerning the Federal Bureau.” Or more non-professionally; none of your beeswax, lady. 

She sighed and looked at her half-eaten doughnut, wishing to get back to what she deemed more important. “Sheriff is booked up today, but he is bringing in a corpse right now. Coroner’s office is down the hall to the left, ya might be able to catch him.” 

“Thanks.” You nodded before taking off, a boost of confidence in your step. 

Perhaps it would be easier than you thought. As you neared the end of the hall, you heard muffled voices raising with tension, You pressed yourself against the wall hoping to get a listen. 

“Same as the others?” A male asked. 

The responding male conveyed a more timid and soft impression. “Yes.”

The first man sighed, before barking his order. “Run it as a heart attack.” 

“Sheriff.” The other voice pleaded. “This is a growing problem, we need help, we need…” “That’s none of your concern and a scare is the last thing a town like this needs. Good people live here, depending on tourist dollars. If a drug scandal…” 

He interrupted. “You saw the first report same as I, no drug is capable…” “Then in your medical expertise, what do you suggest is the cause?” There was silence. “I don’t need no scandal. It was a heart attack. Now if you’re not willing to say so, I’ll find someone who is.” He threatened. 

There was a period of silence and then heavy footsteps heading your way. You sunk back into the wall as the lumbering sheriff waltzed past you without notice. A few moments passed as you held your breath, waiting for the tension in the air to fade before you made your entrance. The man was slim, hiding kind brown eyes behind thick glasses. He was muttering furiously to himself before he noticed your presence. 

“You’re not supposed…” You held your finger up to your lips and held out your badge. Thinking quickly on your feet, you spoke it a soft voice, attempting to match his manner. “We’ve received a complaint. I’m here to ask a few questions.” 

“I uh…”  He stuttered pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m not sure legally what I can and can’t say.” Clearly this job was important to him. “We can offer you protection and only want to affirm your work in this town is done ethically and with the people’s best interest in mind. Can I ask if you have any concerns?” You pushed. 

He set his clipboard down next to the cadaver. “How much did you just hear?” “Enough.” You stated. “Just out of curiosity…” You walked closer to the cadaver. “You mentioned drugs aren’t capable. Capable of what?” He pulled the sheet back revealing the body. “Are you familiar with autospies?” 

Shock must have registered in your face. Sam went over some basic human anatomy, where to look in the body for marks, abnormalities, etc., but this was your first actual corpse. She was so cold and white. You shook back into the act, trying to remain unfazed. “Though I mainly investigate corruption, I had to study anatomy in the bureau.”

He lifted up the victims arm, pointing at the crook of her elbow. “You’ll notice the track marks on her arm. Same as the others, initially leading us to believe it was a drug spree in the town. But when the first one came in several months back and I went to draw blood for lab work, it came out empty. I thought maybe it had congealed. But proceeding further through the autopsy, I realized she was completely drained. No blood at all.” 

Vampires. The word rung so clearly through your mind. 

“Even if you came to investigate the sheriff, if you could use your connections to get a medical expert opinion, I could really use the help. This one just has me baffled.” He covered the girl’s body back up. 

“I’ll make sure to get a hold of someone.” You assured. 

Although you had a clear path forward, to sell the ruse you stayed with the coroner a while longer allowing him to vent his complaints. Now with a target in mind, your next step was obtaining a weapon. You found yourself longing for your Mustang again, with the concealed katana on the back wing. It would have been perfect for this case. 

There was an upscale camping store in the center of downtown, yet on you way to get there  shady pawn shop caught your eye. Iron bars lined the windows and it seemed like fewer questions would be asked. Inside was piled high with junk. A decrepit carousel horse stood proud in the center of the small shop collecting dust as the years passed. 

You rummaged through the ominous piles but didn’t spot your prize until passing a glass case displaying relics of war. 

Clearing your throat, you caught the eye of the shopkeeper. “How much for the machete?” 

He peered up from his comic book, reminding you of an older and heavier set version of Ned. “What can you offer?” His eyes grazed your figure. 

“Cash.” You put simply ignoring any hint of innuendo.

“25.”  

Not a bad price, but you didn’t want it’s rusty edges disintegrating after the first swing. “Can I see it first?” 

He sighed and walked over, unlocking the case. He handed it over to you. It was heavy but balanced. Teeth ran the edge of the blade, perfect for sawing if necessary. They were still sharp too. 

“Deal.” You agreed, fishing through your pocket. 

***

Weapon. Check. Monster. Check. All you needed was the location. And you knew just the ghost to ask. 

You waited until dark to head back until the cemetery unsure if she would spectate earlier. It would be a risk, looking for vamps in their protection of dark, but it was your best lead. Seated on her gravestone, you used a rock to clean the blade waiting for the time to pass. A chill slowly began to creep up your neck until your hair stood on end. When your breath turned to fog, you knew it was her. You stood up, bracing yourself as the spectre took form. 

“Run!” She commanded, same as before.

You knew you couldn’t back down despite the uneasiness shivering down your spine. “Actually I am here to help.” 

“Run!” Her shouts morphing into screams.

You persisted. “You were hurt, weren’t you? By a monster?” 

The ghost began scratching her arm where the marks were, pacing back and forth.   

“Where did it happen?” 

She hollered out in frustration and jolted towards you, shuddering in and out of sight as she did. You held your ground as her arms stretched out as if to push you away. Instead she passed right through you; the shock of her energy sent you stumbling back, shivering and shaken. The buzzing in your limbs slowly subsided but by the time you came back to your senses, she had disappeared. 

“Please.” The word fell from your lips; gentle, pleading. You cleared your throat, gathering courage. “I know what I am doing. I want this to end. I don’t want them to hurt anyone else.” Your words rang out in the empty graveyard. 

You twirled around, looking for any sight of her, stopping when you saw her mimicking your earlier stance on her gravestone. She rested her chin in her palms as she contemplated the idea. 

“That’s what you have been doing isn’t it? You’ve been warning the others, trying to save them. I can help.” She began to weep. “Can you tell me where they are?” She pointed east, leading to a crypt further into the graveyard. 

“Thank you.” You turned to walk, realizing she was not following. You paused and addressed her one last time. “When this is all over, I hope you can rest.” With that, you left her. 

It was quiet by the crypt. The ground around it was bare as if grass refused to grow near it. The iron gate and padlock had been broken. As you pulled it open, a loud, rusty groan echoed through the air. You held your breath, waiting for any movement. None came. 

You pressed further into the chamber. The moonlight shone through a window, illuminating what little could be shown. The walls were engraved with the names of the fallen and large marble vases walled the corner. Worn stone steps crumbling at their edges descended into total darkness below the earth. You took a deep breath before following their lead. 

You slowly approached the bottom of the stairs, holding your breath and hugging the wall. It took a few moments, but your eyes adjusted to the surroundings. The cavern was big. Coffins lined the walls, set to the height of your shoulder. The tunnel lead onward, splitting off into two different directions. A warm light glowed to the left. You tucked around the corner, hearing voices and laughter from afar. 

This close, holding your breath would be useless. They very well could have already heard your heartbeat. You breathed slow and deep, trying to control your pulse so anxiety wouldn’t betray your bold front. The only thing keeping you grounded as you walked down the center of the tunnel was the cool feeling of metal rubbing against your thigh. 

You were at the edge of the light, peering into their room. Had it been any other hangout, this ninja turtle setup didn’t seem too bad. There were three visible, but something seemed off… they should have noticed you by now. 

A hand came down hard against your shoulder. You tried to turn, but the grip was too harsh and panic stormed inside you. The cold form pressed against you and forced you out into the light. The three faced you and the figure behind, laughing as they did. A low voice sounded behind you. “What a lucky night when the prey walks willingly into the den.” 

A boy, who couldn’t be older than 18, jumped up from his video game. “I didn’t know we had the option to order delivery."

The only female of the group, leaned against the wall gazed at you up and down. "She's pretty. I say we keep her."

"No one asked you." The fourth and final group member spat. 

"Hey!" She argued back. "Since day one, I've been out numbered here…" 

Your heart raced and you choked on your breath fearing this would be the end. But they didn't even suspect you might put up a fight, or be armed for that matter. As they fought back and forth, you went through Dean's class in your mind. But it was always one on one combat… 

You felt the leaders grip falter and sighed with annoyance at the bantering before him. It was now or never. You had to prove Dean wrong. You were made for this. You were ready. 

In a single second, you used your unhindered arm to free the hidden machete and swung with all your might, twisting your body to face him before the blade connected and beheaded the monster in front of you. You quickly turned around to face the others, ready to fight but the were all dumbstruck. 

You twirled the machete into a more comfortable grasp. "Is this where I say something about not playing with your food?" 

“Oh shit!” The youngest yelled. 

The female snarled through pointed teeth. “You’ll pay for that, bitch.” 

You smirked. This snarky side fit you. “Do you take credit?” 

But they didn’t seem as amused as you, all of them charging at once. You dodged fangs and fists, barely managing to strike with the blade here and there, never hitting the target but keeping them at bay. 

It was the youngest who stumbled first. For a moment you hesitated, but follow through in the swing. Though your machete hit its mark, your falter had betrayed you. Before you could recover, the female was on you. Pain radiated into your right shoulder as she bit deeply. You screamed out in agony, dropping the blade out of your grasp. 

Her fangs released but her hand was instantly around your throat. “I’m going to keep you… Make your death drawn out so you can feel every drop of blood leave your body.” 

Even if you could think of a snappy response, you physically couldn’t with her grip choking you. You desperately clawed at her hand, kicking at her shins, fighting any way you could, but she held her strong composure. You barely made a dent. Her lips turned upwards into a sadistic smile as your face turned red, struggling for air. 

With an impossible force, she threw you down to the ground. You pushed up to your hands and knees, coughing for breath and stars circling in your vision. Her foot pressed down on your back, pinning you to the floor. “Find something to tie her up with.” She ordered. 

Panic started to set in. You pushed up with all your might, but it was useless against her strength. You were done for. 

As your mind raced through scenarios, you thought your vision was beginning to play tricks on you as a figure loomed in the background. In an instant, all the pressure from her was off as she was thrown across the room. This time you left no room for hesitation. You rushed back to your machete, taking her out first and then the final male. 

You looked around for your savior, images of Dean flooding your mind. It wasn’t until you caught your breath you realized the sharp drop in temperature. The ghost stepped out from the shadows, revealing herself to you. 

“Thank you,” was all you could manage. You looked around, wiping the blade against your leg. “Is that all of them?” She closed her eyes. A look of peace flooded her features as her figure glowed warm and dissolved into the air. 

You stood alone in the empty room. “I’ll take that as a yes then.” 

You made the mistake of looking at your shoulder that had been mauled. Your shirt was ripped through and soaked with blood. As the adrenaline wore off, so did your tolerance for pain. It was going to be a long night. 

***

Dean arrived at the small Carolina town just past midnight. A storm was brewing in the salty coastal air. He pounded hard against your door, giving up only moments after. Managing to get a spare key was easy enough after slipping the attendant a few 20s. 

Disappointment quickly followed his entrance. There wasn’t a hint of a solid lead in sight. A crumpled up gray blazer and skirt were tossed carelessly onto a made twin bed. The phone that had been ripped out from the wall laid on the floor hidden underneath the bedskirt. Aside from your duffle, the room was utterly bare. Dean was beginning to think that he was too late.

***

As you neared the motel the idea of a hospital kept running circles in your mind. You couldn’t recall what medical supplies were in your sack or if they were in your ‘stang halfway across the States. The painful throbbing screamed louder with each movement or turn of the wheel, regardless of how you held your arm. You settled on letting it hanging lifelessly. 

Almost to the motel, your indecisiveness ensued. Lost on whether to fight through the pain or release your pride and seek help, something caught your eye. With just a glance, you knew what it was but pulled a sharp u-turn to get a better look. Stopped in the middle of the road, you stared down at the classic black car nestled in the motel’s parking lot, it’s glossy exterior reflecting the bursts of lightning from the dark sky. 

“Well, shit.” You huffed. The decision was made for you. 

Inch by inch, your car lulled along closer to the Impala. Mustering up the courage to face what was inside, you pulled breath after breath into your lungs rather wishing it was another gang of vampires than him. You watched the rain cascade against the windshield a few more minutes, until it was clear the torrential downpour wasn’t letting up anytime soon. By the time you had walked from the car to your door, your clothes were already soaked through. Most traces of blood had all but gone. There was no need for your key, and you entered with your machete in hand just in case. 

A soft glow from the desk lamp dimly illuminated the room. The figure inside turned around to meet you. Being exactly who you expected, his eyes went wide with shock and relief. He set a notepad down on the desk and took a step forward before pausing, trying to read the expression on your face. Truth be told, you could barely tell what emotions were bubbling up. Guilt, pride, relief, concern? But it was anger that won over the rest. 

You threw your machete to the floor between the two of you. “Fuck you! Fuck you and that stupid school!” Heat rushed to your face. “You ain’t prepared us for shit!” 

Dean’s hopefulness melted way to defensiveness against your words. “Well, maybe if you stuck around, finished the classes before running off, listened to fucking orders…”

His words didn’t register and you held your ground, yelling over him. “”Bullshit! Combat should be five to one. We never even seen a fucking body! Not to mention how to lie our ass off. Or what to do when your partner packs up and runs." Dean realized your anger was now a sign of panic. His hostility calmed and he urged you to do the same. But you wouldn't listen. You continued. "How to erase any potential evidence. What it feels like to kill something.” Your breath was ragged and you were becoming more and more lightheaded with each statement. Dean’s pleas for you to stop went unheard. “What the fuck! I killed someone. I killed…”

At first you thought he had slapped you across the face. You stopped so suddenly, your world turning almost white, your whole body numb feeling like the ghost had passed through you again. But the feeling did not dissipate. You looked at him through a haze. He was closer than you remembered. Tingling rushed to your lips. His hand was on your left shoulder. His words muffled but he was staring into your eyes, bent to your level. 

Slowly his words started making sense. “Breathe. You need to calm the fuck down. You didn’t kill someone. You stopped a monster and saved many more lives. You didn’t need anyone to tell you what to do. You used your best judgement. Y/N?” He looked at your pale face. “Are you breathing?” “Did you…” Your voice was low and raspy. “Did you just kiss me?” 

He waited until your breath was slower, more deep. “You wouldn’t shut up.” He whispered. 

“That worked…” You paused as he took a step back. A new source of adrenaline coursing through your body, yearning to seek a new high and replace the grime of the hunt. “Do it again.” The words held heat, even as they pleaded. “Y/N…” Dean rubbed behind his neck. “Kiss. Me. Again.”

He didn’t think twice, closing in. As if you expected him to protest, you backed up hitting the dresser. Dean pursued, pulling you closer. You used your good arm to hoist yourself up, sitting on top of the dresser. His knee parted your legs getting as close as possible. He grabbed your ribs with both hands and leaned up. 

For a moment, you paused, letting the reality set in. The lightning illuminated the green in his eyes. His freckles mixed with the shadow of rain droplets from the window. His eyes darted back and forth searching yours. You closed your eyes in anticipation, yearning to feel his lips again. Yet instead of feeling his soft touch against you, you felt him pull away. 

Before you could voice your impatience, you opened your eyes and he was headed for the light switch. The sharp contrast of light in the dark room blurred your vision and Dean was back at your side. 

“You’re hurt.” He stated with concern, pulling at the sleeve of your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes and pushed his hands away. “It’s worse than it looks… That’s… that’s not what I meant.” 

“I’ll consider it a Freudian slip.” He continued to eye your shoulder. 

He was about to reach for your sleeve again, when you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him into you. Yes, the atmosphere wasn’t as romantic, but you felt the high dying. You needed this. You needed him. His lips pressed hard against you as you forcefully held him there. The lock between you intensified as both his hands cradled the nape of your neck. Hungry for more, your tongue attempted to push pass his lips but he retreated once more. 

“Dammit Y/N!” Dean rubbed his hands through his hair. “I want this just as much as you, but for the love of god, I need to make sure you’re not gonna faint on me.” 

You sighed but permitted him to continue. “You’re killing the mood.” You mumbled. 

He looked up to you with annoyance and then back at your shoulder. The sleeve peeled away, stuck to the skin with sweat and blood. Dean didn’t seem phased. You suspected he’d seen much worse. Now that fabric wasn’t there to soak it up, blood trickled down your arm. 

“Might be able to avoid stitches if the glue holds.” He stepped back. 

“Well hopefully you brought something stronger than Elmer’s.” You snarked. 

He chuckled sarcastically, not in the slightest bit amused. “I’ll see what I’ve got.” He headed out to his car to grab the first aid kit. 

Meanwhile, you went to the restroom, to clean off what you could, but your heart went cold when you got a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You saw your mother. Your hands grabbed the sink to steady yourself and looked again. Of course it was only you, but the resemblance was striking. The times you had seen her rush in late at night, after a hunt, trying her best to hide the gore from you. Even when you were young. She’d give you a bedtime that you often broke with late night reruns. When she’d come out, cleaned up, she would scold you, but all you could remember now was the heaviness in her eyes. The weight she had to carry. 

You ran the water from the faucet and closed your eyes. The flash of white fangs, the rip of the machete, the sounds of screams. It was too late to go back now. Those memories would haunt you forever. There was no denying it now. You were a hunter. 

---

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Hunters Academy: @deansgirl215 @lupine-princess @faegal04@eatshitcabbageperson @capsheadquaters @ellen-reincarnated1967@daughterleftbehind @classy-sassyandsmartassy @clairese1980@jennandthecats @jensensjaredsandmishaslover @babykay101 @spndeanlover1967 @lear1chmond @elizabeth-silverthorn @obsessivecompulsivespn @vaisabu @reagangeary @assass-is-here@firecrackersam @sasquatch5 @mina22 @allieyolo123 @vvinch3st3r@beffyblueeyes @ruprecht0420 @internationalmusicteacher @imma-winchester-addict @attractiverandomness @alinicole33 @earthtokace@quidigladioferit @brighter-daes @gh0stgurl @shamelesslydean​ @musiclovinchic93​ @hobby27​  @justkending​

[awellboiledicicle]

The Boy Who Ran pt 3

This is a part 3 to prompt: “Imagine that you show up in your favorite character’s universe, only for them to be missing. You ask the other characters about it, but they have never even heard of your favorite character. You soon realize that you’re supposed to play their role in the story/series”. I chose Harry James Potter. [Part 1] // [Part 2]

The problem with coming into the barroom of the Leaky Cauldron after sweating my way through about an hour long Dark Lord induced migraine, intent to do a very dramatic verbal sparring match with a sneaky antagonist professor hiding things from the world, is that one has to remember that I am still an eleven year old boy. An eleven year old boy, wearing magically cleaned clothing that I was swimming in, both from it being hand-me-downs and from being stretched out by desperate attempts to hide inside it like a turtle. A small, tired and anxious turtle that had been sleeping in a tarp under a park bench before he had a chance to sleep in a warm magic pub somewhere in London. I was also tentatively coming down the stairs of a magic pub with no actual protection past the half giant coming down the stairs behind me and, thanks to the self-imposed migraine from a little earlier, I looked like I had just lost a fight with a sauna. Not a good look, Harry. 

None the less, and no thought spared to my vanity or my undying quest for dramatic openings to my day, Hagrid was intent on getting me the biggest plate of food he could physically order me before we went shopping for my school supplies. Thankfully I still had a list from all the letters the owls had managed to drop on me in the park... whichever park that actually happened to be. I had ended up burning a good deal of the letters to stay warm, or using them to wrap oneg leftovers in, so most of them weren’t what you would call readable to the naked or spectacled eye. I wasn’t sure how I felt occasionally eating congealed jam off a paper telling me to buy something with silver buttons, but that was yesterday’s problem, not the problem for today’s Harry.

Luckily for me and my anxiety, but unluckily for my general sense for the dramatic, it was rather early and the main room was rather sparsely populated. The wonderful professor Quirrell was in fact present, but he had only just entered and seemed to be peering around the room as my food hit the table and I was, I am not too proud to admit, too hungry to care past that. Tom the barman was happily setting things up along the, well, bar. And, for all of his work to keep his excitement contained the last time I’d seen him, he seemed to be vibrating to get a proper introduction today. I contemplated not doing much other than existing in a cloud of food and the tangent about dogs I’d managed to get Hagrid on, but Tom had been ever so nice and the food was very good, so we started chatting. Then, a man with a very large top hat and a very pleased expression shuffled in and came over, nearly toppling Quirrell on his ass in the process, and said hello— Mr. Diggle he said his name was and I said I recognized his top hat.

I’m not actually sure if I did or not. 

Some part of me was, about the fourth or perhaps seventh sausage I had put in my mouth, vaguely sure I had read something about seeing something about a top hat. Perhaps I could get a top hat. Several even. Mr. Diggle who was very pleased I recognized his top hat. I know because I let him talk about it at length, standing by mine and Hagrid’s table as I continued to eat a seemingly endless amount of food. I tucked away a mental note to look up if that was possible to do, endless food.

The upside of eating in a large room while you are a child, with people who are not children and who don’t wish to offend you, is that they tend to ask very politely if they can join you for conversations, or if they are intruding, and they don’t mind if you keep eating with one hand and shake the other. I know the procession of people filtering in as time passed didn’t seem to want to point out to The Boy Who Lived that his table manners weren’t the best, and I was fine with that. Or so Mr. Diggle, at least, didn’t seem to be so inclined to do, because I kept asking about his hat in the way adults expect obedient and polite children to do so.

I did this primarily because I wanted his top hat or one very similar, because it could have magic properties, or at least look very cool. While I was sure he would have given it—and indeed the shirt off his back—to me, I reasoned that would have gotten me off to a rather poor start. Honestly, come to think on it, I could probably afford many of my own top hats in the future, even top hats for my friends and their families— a top hat legion, if you will. No, would that be a coven? A coven of top hats. Was a group of hats just called a group of hats? I made another mental note to ask when I found a magical hat shop.

This flight of fancy was sponsored by Mr. Diggle now speaking with Hagrid in an extended conversation about the possibility of hats that could fit him, which I engaged in to avoid speaking to Quirrell who was occupying his time trying to break into this three way banter to talk at me, but I refused to let him break in without breaking his persona.  Mostly by making a concentrated effort of doing everything that would make someone with anxiety absolutely incapable of entering the conversation, and it was going very, very well. It gave me more than enough time to size up the enemy so it was, though I found myself unimpressed.

Quirrell was younger than I had expected— not some thirty or forty something secretly devoted man that other adults couldn’t read as creepy because they were too caught up with themselves, not some guy you don’t notice in the break room at work till he loses it. No, he was mid-twenties— not out of place at a university, maybe a really nice community college, if I had to put him somewhere. He had a tic to his face, a fidget to his fingers and his eyes darted around the room when he wasn’t trying to talk. Nothing I would place as unusual for someone with say, paranoia or PTSD, knowing what they are. The way he had approached Hagrid and stood near his chair after greeting him in the stuttering way that was annoyingly natural, shifting here and there with a stance of someone who knew how to move and handle oneself but also one of someone who had seen what happens if they don’t. 

I chewed through my hash and sausages with an increased fervor as Mr. Diggle took his leave and Hagrid started speaking to Quirrell, thankfully not having brought the attention over to me yet. It wasn’t surprising, I supposed. I had a set image in mind for millions of things, I was going to be wrong a lot and I was going to have to roll with it, but the fact that there wasn’t something obviously sinister to this man made my shoulders itch. Paranoia wasn’t even the main explanation of it, I knew, I had the memories, blurred and set in my head— he’s evil. A devil, but he looks exactly like so many people left after Voldemort that not a single person would see something strange aside of me here.

Knowing what I know, before The Green people were dying young and joining causes that were even younger. It was a war of young blood being spilled and young people trying desperately to survive. The old might have been part of it and the old guard might still be around, but it was the younger generations that was most scarred and we’re going to be scarred again and— the more I thought on it, the more I could feel the threat of another headache.

Thankfully for me, I finished the food— or what I had shoved into my mouth at that point in time, really��by the time Hagrid pulled me into their conversation.  I was taking a long drink of water while Hagrid was introducing him to me, probably earning me several ‘rude and unperson-able’ points, but I kind of wanted the following handshake to be as cold and clammy for him as I assumed it was going to be for me.  Surprisingly, it was... not. Timid, thinner than Hagrid’s had been by several miles, and he seemed vaguely surprised at how little there was to my hand when we shook, but that was it. He seemed to study my confused expression as I studied my hand before he bid us both farewell—assuring me it was a pleasure to finally meet me in person, and I’m so sure it was, really—and he was off to buy his book on Vampires or whatever the heck he was actually there for. Paranoia said he was off turn into a snake to stalk us, but some part of my introspection piped up enough to say that my head should be exploding but it was not. 

I knit my brows together while I tried to work out why that was— I recalled something about calling it a plothole before the light, but those don’t exist in real life. Life doesn’t have a plot to have holes; it has problems that have solutions, which I should be seeing about now. Quirrell was wearing his turban, so it could be possible that Voldemort wasn’t at the moment strong enough to be felt, but they had been reaching for other horcrux in an effort to ensure they all still remained, on the off chance some were destroyed while he was dead. It would have explained the headache, but that could also have been purely a happenstance pang of magic due to newly awakened—well, more so newly tapped—magic potential in myself being in proximity to other powerful magic users. Is that how it could work? Maybe my own para—

“You alright there ‘arry?” After I removed myself from the ceiling, having shot straight upward with a yelp of surprise at the half giant’s attempt to check on me. Hagrid tried again to talk, large hands hovering in my direction, seemingly wary of if I would accept a comforting pat. “Woah there, you don’t need ta be so jumpy, you’ve got me with ya, remember!”

“No, yeah, I know I’m fine I just...” I looked around at the few people inside, including Tom who waved with a look of concern, and back to Hagrid. He raised a furry eyebrow while I waved my hands in circles in front of me at everything. “All of these this is a lot? Also does this mean I wasn’t in London? Because I thought I ran pretty far and I was at least 98% sure I was in London. But I saw a sign on the way in that said London and I am now very upset about my directional capabilities and I want to know if that’s important to being a wizard.” I paused after my voice started speeding up and running away on me. Adjusting my spectacles to peer at him, eyes wide as he covered his mouth with a large knuckle while he was listened to me continue with my hands clasped together. “Because, Hagrid, if I have to tell an owl where to go, with details, to send a letter, that owl is going nowhere fast. In fact, it may end up in Africa before it ends up in Scotland, though I have absolutely no idea why I would ever need to send post to Scotland.”

“Harry.” He grinned wider than I ever thought I would see someone be capable of, especially while listening to me go on about owl navigation, and then started chuckling. “I’m thinkin’ you’ll do jus’ fine. But, yea, we’re in London now. All ya need to worry about right now, though, is us gettin’ after them supplies on your letter.”

This is the point where, apparently, just a little, I stalled out in the face region. Around the eyes where someone could tell I had just worked through the fact that while, logically, I was aware Harry James Potter maintains a large sum of money that would frankly be disgusting to even think about counting, I was also used to being poor. Before The Green Light, having more than a few dollars at a time to my name was a rare occurrence and the times it happened were few and far between. While I couldn’t remember how rare, or how long that was—headaches—I knew it was long enough that when I was living in the cupboard and on what was left over from meals, I wasn’t too surprised by it. Soon though, soon I would have enough money that I, Harry James Potter, would never go hungry again—but would it still be there if I had to keep paying for uniforms and ingredients and books and quills and—

I was brought out of my haze of money paralysis by Hagrid waving his hand in front of my face—more of a wiggle motion, given the short span to him, really—and repeating my name a few times in a concerned tone, before I shook my head and put my hands to my face.  On one hand I was still processing that I was going to have money, on the other I had to pretend that I didn’t know that and not vibrate my way out of the chair like any other broke person. 

“Hagrid,” He leaned closer to me with, what I presumed to be a worried expression. It was hard to tell with all the hair. “I don’t have any money.”

“Harry, I’ve told you, your family—”

“I’m 11 years old!” I said it in a frustrated tone and did my best to look annoyed with life. I hopped a seat over to sit closer, lowering my voice and pulled at my hair. “I don’t know how magic people do things, but they don’t just give kids money! What should I say to a bank? ‘I’m a poor orphan, but I happen to be Harry Potter, please give me enough to afford really fancy school supplies?”

“Harry.” The giant hand was yet again on my shoulder and I was not entirely sure when that was going to be comforting. Probably when I got used to it and wasn’t having an anxiety attack over something with silver on it being required. “I understand, take some breathes, right?”

I gave him a skeptical glance, but complied.

“Don’t worry, I guarantee you can afford yer supplies with plenty extra. I’ll even get ya an owl fer yer birthday. Do ya like owls? I bet you will—they got all kinds in the shop. All colors except tangerine, though I bet that can be arranged, if ye want! Maybe some sweets after, too, the less sat on kind!” He was trying, in his own way. Bless his socks. His large, large, half-giant socks.

Honestly, for me going at this as acting, this was doing more for my anxieties of trying to plan around things and thinking about the years of hand-me-downs, the crap bargain supplies bought with couch change Petunia didn’t know about—soon destroyed by Dudley—and the paying other people to let me use their books so I didn’t have to bring things home. Even before The Green I had similar issues, but thinking about that hurt my head. I let out a heavy sigh and nodded, rubbing my face.

“Sorry, I… Petunia never let me get new things for school and if I did get anything it was Dudley’s or he ruined it, so I’m just...” I made a face and gestured, hoping he’d understand. “Overwhelmed, and I read that you need all these nice things...”

A nod from his bushy head sent all his hair flying this way and that before settling back into place. Even in the face of great anxiety, I will find comfort in the sheer amount of volume that is Hagrids’ hair. 

“Harry Potter, I swear to ya, them Dursleys will never lay one more finger on you or anything you own once you set foot inside’a Hogwarts and I have a good long talk with Dumbledor. I promise you that.” There was a good, deep, sincere fire to that sentence that I could trust, even if I knew not a single thing would change. I forced a smile on and nodded.

“Thanks, Hagrid.” “Anything for you, ‘arry!” He grinned back and clapped me on the back, nearly sending me spilling out of the chair. “Now, lemme show you what we came here to see!”

Diagon Ally was much more impressive than could be described in a book or on a television screen.

Primarily because there were minor enchantments or whatsoever on some objects hanging from displays that had you momentarily enamored with them in a passing way so as to make you pause to take a look at the rest of the display. Unfortunately, these were on the more drab items—thankfully for me, I am very easily entertained by magical anything and the first stand to do so smelled something similar to someone with a yeast infection.

It was a display of ointments for skin blemishes that promised to remove wrinkles in a ‘safe and Ministry Compliant’ way. Several of the bottles had moving images of weathered witches applying the creams and becoming young girls again, others older men taking tonics and becoming spry. One looked like a packet of powder that you applied via puff to your cheeks and they became so tight that you physically could not have wrinkles, side effects being that you also looked like you had a, as the package put it: ‘enchanting smile’. I thought it looked more like the model for the packaging had discovered the recipe for the Jokers gas by mistake and the proprietor was selling it for beauty purposes, though I was reasonably sure that did cause wrinkles, but those could be worked on by the other products.

I was going to keep poking through the stand to see if they had any cream that made you look like you were constantly holding a frog in your mouth, or perhaps semi-permanently removed the oil from your hair, in the event I was given the chance to get one in on Snape, but I was overruled by Hagrid. Well, until I found the one that smelled like yeast, which turned out to be a potion that made your skin glow like fresh baked bread and the label skirted around every chance to say how or why. Hagrid pushed me along the road at this point because I was very interested in asking the proprietor how they came to this formula and in what manner was Ministry non-compliant before and how long it took them to get there.

There were questions that occur to me, that’s just part of my nature, I explained. Hagrid pointed out that people may not take it as kindly as I might. However, as we passed many a shop, once I looked past the standard star-striking wonder, more questions popped up that only came to pass once I noticed the general run of the mill stock. This is probably due to the fact that I generally used to shop like an old woman and remark upon said shopping as if I had been paid to do standup upon said shopping. 

I, and now Harry James Potter, am simple people. I have simple pleasures and interests and those interests are now: where does the water in a never-ending water fountain go once it’s down the drain, Hagrid. He was patient enough to answer as much as he could before admitting that some of my questions would just have to wait until I was at Hogwarts, though, and I was fine with that.

I did, however, wonder if any of the shopkeepers had bothered inventing anti-smudging spells for their shop windows considering all the noses pressed to the broom shop and some of the other places that seemed to have gathered some crowds as we passed them. 

However, like the magpie I have always been and forever will be, I was drawn to what I assume counts as a supply shop now, stocked with glittering crystals and what I could tell to be jasper and agate in stands. Hagrid saw me drifting from his side and guided me gently back on track. I am not proud to admit I made more than a token effort to go back to the shiny window. He let out a laugh loud enough to get the attention of most the street when he caught the fact I was pouting. 

“Not so fast, Harry! Gotta get yer money and supplies for first year, first, right?”

“I know, but shiny....” I didn’t whine. Nope. Boy who lived does not whine. He also does not get laughed at by a half giant that is leading him to a giant bank. Nope.

The shiny was outshone by Gringotts. In so far as white stone and weathered metal is shiny and aesthetically pleasing. The whole building was impressive—bronze, marble or granite or some other impressive and foreboding white rock walls towering over everything... even the goblin standing guard outside seemed impressive. For being smaller than a malnourished pre-teen, he cut an imposing figure in his guards—I assumed that’s what it was, unless Gringotts had a doorman for the drama of it all—uniform, dark beard styled to a point on his face and his limbs settled in a very unsettling way that radiated professionalism. This was probably colored by the fact I had never seen someone who was a goblin before, and I kicked myself for thinking he was odd. 

Honestly the first goblin to see a human must have looked at them and went ‘my god, what’s he gotten stuck in’ and been rather confused. Maybe they knew we were traipsing about and just sort of ignored us for a while. Perhaps it was a similar thing between Christians and Jewish people, why they were running the banks, with less sin and more “well just do it won’t you, you’ve got nothing better to do you non-human things” aka more racism. Honestly that sounds so profoundly British I could see that being the answer. I was in the middle of this reflection while Hagrid lead me into the middle of the hustle and bustle of the bank, causing me to run into no less than 10 different people, a rope divider, Hagrid himself, and almost a potted plant.

Smoothest Potter to ever live right here.

The actual getting of the money wasn’t the difficult part. No, I really enjoyed that because I experienced a roller coaster that had money belonging to me at the end, which, really, is the best possible version of a roller coaster.

The vault I knew damn well was the Sorcerer’s/Philosopher’s stone’s wasn’t a problem either, though I did in all honesty try my darndest to sense some strange power from it. I couldn’t, aside from an intense feeling of motion sickness from Hagrid and a sort of bemused glee from Griphook about said motion sickness. Nor was the trolley ride back up a problem either, even while Hagrid was taking a breather against a wall.

What was the difficult part was me trying to mess with things by asking questions because I am not and have never been one to leave things where they lay. This, however, is very difficult when you have absolutely no idea how to interact with people, let alone a race of magical people who would really rather you be done in the fastest amount of time possible, thank you very much.

His job of escorting us done, and the cart back on surface level, Griphook had handed me the key to my vault and begun to walk off to wherever the bank employees go when not dealing with wizards and witches. Possibly to a break room with an employee of the month wall, a hang in there kitty poster, and a tea kettle somewhere, and something to take the edge off of working in customer service, or to another client; who knows. Hagrid was poised to sweep me from the bank, and to take my key into his coat of infinite pockets for safe keeping, but I pushed the key into my pocket and make the universal ‘child that has a question but does not want to yell’ sound of ‘ah’. 

“Hagrid, I actually wanted to ask them something about my account… so I’ll know, and feel better.” Hagrid looked like he was about to protest, but nodded and headed to a nearby bench, gesturing quickly after the retreating goblin. I jogged a little to catch up with Griphook, but I managed and caught his attention. He paused and turned around with an expertly swept away sour expression. Ah, public relations.

“Ah, excuse me Mr. Griphook? Can I ask you a question about my vault?” The best part about the acting like a nervous little boy here was that it was only about 50% acting. “I don’t… I don’t really know how these things work.”

“What would you like to know, Mr. Potter.” Less a question and more of a clipped scripted response the likes of which heard in every shop and venue from every hired person ever. Hagrid had taken his seat on one of the benches a little ways off and the following sound of grinding stone earned a withering glance from some nearby goblins. He sheepishly waved and started fanning himself a bit.

“Is there a way to make sure no one else can get into my account?” At this his eyebrow raised and his expression just up and soured. Probably a better way to word that.

“There is no place on earth more secure than Gringotts, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, I- I saw!” I nodded vigorously and shook my head. “I mean, I’m 11! I— I came here with someone today, but in the future I may need to come with someone else. If someone got a hold of my key and said they had permission because they were taking care of me, would they be able to get in? Is that something that could happen? Or if someone said they were related and got my key but I didn’t know, would they be able to get in? If I was in the hospital and someone came on my behalf, would they have access so things are handled? I’m not doubting the bank, I trust that you guys can do a really good job of protecting my money, I’m just saying that I’ve never personally done business here and I don’t know the policies and I think you can explain them. That’s why I’m asking.”

I waited anxiously while Griphook processed this series of very rapid, possibly paranoid ramblings coming from an 11 year old wizard. He seemed to come to a conclusion after a moment and nod, holding out his hand. 

“If you will hand over your key, I can file for a charm to be laid onto it so you must physically be present to enter into your vault. I will also update the terms of your account to reflect your concerns. If an individual does not have your express permission, willingly given, they cannot enter your vault and retrieve an item. If you give permission and they have your key, however, they will be able to enter and use it within reason. If you have concerns in the future, Mr. Potter, ensure that you bring them to the bank immediately.” After I handed over the heavy key, he nodded and gestured over to where Hagrid sat, still looking more green than his usual color. The goblin seemed fine with the fact he was sick, not so fine with the fact he was looking to be sick on the floor. “We can alert you when the process is complete.”

Griphook also didn’t look like he expected me to break into a wide, honestly grateful grin and shake his hand. Considering that all I could remember of this man was that he was rather bitter toward Wizards for some valid reasons and wasn’t particularly a nice man, I could imagine this was throwing him for more loops than were in the track downstairs. Ok, maybe not that many loops.

“Thank you, honestly, so much.” I may have shaken him a bit too hard, but it is very difficult to articulate the words ‘you just made me not want to scream about money’ without saying that. After letting him go, I ran over to Hagrid to make sure he was ok and gave him a gentle pat on the arm. Honestly, I could slug him and it would probably come across as a gentle pat.  “You alright over here Hagrid?”

I earned a sidelong look only a man recovering from motion sickness can give, along with a nod and a gesture to head outside. “I hate them carts. Glad yer seemin’ more peppy after, though.”

I grinned up at him as we headed back down the lines of shops. “I feel better knowing I can feed the owl you’re gonna get me.”

He let out a laugh and then a groan and I made the horrible mistake of trying to physically support a half giant. Bad idea, good for relationships, bad for lower back. 

“Harry, I’m glad yer feelin’ better, but I think I need to nip back to the Leaky Cauldron for a pick me up.” He sounded properly upset with himself, especially after I sounded so excited about going to get an owl. “It won’ take too long, I’m thinkin’ I jus need a couple minute lie down an’ we’ll go get tha owl.”

On one hand I would entirely be up for following him back to the Leaky Cauldron because he is my friend and he looked like motion sickness is the only weakness to be super effective against him. On the other, school supplies, plot, and also shiny objects to acquire after said supplies.

“It’s alright Hagrid, I can explore some and maybe get my uniform while you rest up. Besides, a fitting for something should take a while, right?”

“Well… if you’re sure…” He paused when he realized I was gripping my money—in a bag that was then shoved really deep in my pocket— so hard that my arm was tense. “Harry, no one’s gonna steal it off you.”

“Habit.” I relaxed, but my hand stayed in the pocket, palm over the opening of the bag. He sighed and shook his head, giving me one more pat on the back that knocked the air clear out of me. 

“Just remember: You know where to find me if somethin’ happens before I find you.” 

“Yup!”

Just like that I was left to my own devices in a very magical place with very magical money and very, very poor impulse control.

[noonewantsaduchess-blog]

The real shit you learn during a natural hair journey.

Seriously, none of that googled love your hair, love yourself bull you see on every vloggers channel.  No, how that shit really goes down. 

WARNING!  This is a loooooong rant/truth post.

10. Who understands you, and who will stay ignorant as fuck.

There will be that one friend who will listen to your hair struggles, google the fuck out of your hair type and texture, come back with suggestion (you’ve already tried, but you thank them anyway.) They will compliment the shit out of your hair, they will notice growth.  They will notice health.  They’ll even notice when you’ve done a two strand twist out, or a braid out.  Then there will be the friend that thinks your afro is going to be a phase, they will pass some ignorant, trifling comments like the life-trolls they are.  They will encourage you to straighten, or re-relax your hair.  They’ll try and say shit like, “Oh you looked better when....

You don’t have time for this bitch.  Bye, bye.  Move on.  You have other friends don’t you?

9. The self-esteem hole.

When you first rock your kinks, coils or curls.  It’s the moment of “You’re gonna shit your pants.”

You’re not sure if the compliments are sincere, if that cute guy on the train is staring at you or your hair.  If you can allow one more shit-kicker to ask “can I touch your hair?”

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if what you see in the mirror is what everyone is seeing.  You’re loving your hair, you can’t stop running your fingers through it (when you freakin’ well can). but the way those eyes linger on you.  You don’t know if you should re-relax, or get that weave back in or.....

Woman just leave the house!  You are looking damn fine!

8. The money trap.

You know what I’m talking about.

You’ve scoured the internet.  Watched more youtube vloggers than you have episodes of Friends.  They’re all raving about this one line of products, but when you check out the prices with another tab that’s got google on standby, it costs more than your packed lunch; cue more tabs in your browser of choice as you try to find it as cheap as possible.  You eventually find one seller on ebay that’s selling these products at a reasonable price but your bank account just goes “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!” Even your credit card steps in on the “don’t buy it” argument.

But you NEED to try this golden egg.  You NEED to see if it will work with your hair, so you try the next best (affordable) thing.  They’re so cheap your bank manager is stood next to you giving you the thumbs up and nodding his/her head enthusiastically.  But that expensive, line of hair products that promises queen like status is calling you, but you don’t have the money.  You. Don’t. Have. The. Money.

Seriously, don’t fall into that, just find a line that your hair appreciates.

Speaking of the money trap there’s........

7. The DIY trap

We all know this one as well.

The vloggers that swear by their own homemade products They promise you that it will save you money.  But you work a 60 hour week and you’re lucky if your half hour break is actually half an hour.  They promise that it’s quick and easy to do and all you need is a potato smasher, a wooden spoon, some melted coconut oil, a leaf of aloe vera, toads foot, lizard tongue, a pointy hat and a catchy poem.  Where do they find the time?!?!

You try to make one of these magical potions but you just end up turning your kitchen into a warzone. You attempt to mix it using traditional methods and you end up using more utensils than you use to eat your sunday lunch leftovers. and that shit is still congealed shit.

I don’t know about you, but I can barely find the time to set my alarm for my next shift. When you finally do find the time to concoct one of their magical potions it involves leaving the house and raiding the local farmers market which is two trains, one bus and a taxi ride away, and your day off is too important to go traipsing around in the wonderful British winter, You’ve got a uniform to wash, dry and iron in a 12 hour period and your local laundrette is closed due to “Unforeseen circumstances.”

So damn straight, you’re going to buy cheap and effective if it does the exact same thing

6. The protective styling trap

Real talk.  This was by far the most time consuming, and money draining aspect of my hair growth journey.  I can’t begin to tell you how many hairstylists I visited and grilled and left feeling disappointed, because these bitches just wanted my money and had no idea what to do with my transitioning hair.

When I did (eventually) find a stylist that answered my questions correctly the weave took 4 hours to install and the extensions (box braids/Janet Jacksons/whatever you wanna call them) a mighty 6. In total, the grand sum of my venture into protective styling set me back by £150.  This doesn’t sound like a lot but let’s just say that I ended up finding cheaper ways to get to work until pay day came.  By this time I decided not to go for crochet, and I’ve been caring for the fro myself.

That weave that’s getting you all the compliments, takes too much of your energy to clean, and upkeep.  Those boxbraids, although make you look cool and you get perfect strangers admiring your long plaited locks, you miss feeling the curls, the kinks and the curls.  It’s all been straightened, and plaited into cornrows or individual (depending on thickness) plaits, three weeks in and you want them out, but you go the distance.  You keep them in for 2-3 months, practising patience, caring for that new growth until the day comes for the takedown and it takes for-fucking-ever.  That’s it, a whole day wasted uninstalling that weave, or unplaiting those individual braids (god help you if you take this task up on your own, just remember your fingers will cramp like their having little mini heart attacks).

Because there’s so many protective options, you’re overwhelmed within minutes of conducting the google search, then there’s the style choices......

No girl, find out what works for your hair one step at a time, leave the protective styling for when you really want to spoil yourself.

5. The styling at home trap.

All right.  So.  Protective styling is a bit of a no-no for a little bit, until you've done your homework on all the local stylist/salons in your immediate area.

Let’s try some of this styling yourself.

Well, if you’re transitioning, it’s the two strand, three strand twist out.  Braid out. bantu knot out and so on and so forth, etc, etc.

But learning those skills........youtube becomes your classroom.

Trying that Bantu knot out?  It’s gonna take you 5 attempts to get it right. Gonna try out those flat twists?  Yeah your fingers are going to be confused for a while.  Wanna try some flexi rods/perm rods?  It’s going to take a while to get used to them.  

So while you enter this learning phase, of dealing with your new growth and your old ends, your patience is going to be tested big time.  Every morning you wake up thinking you’ve got it, you’ve mastered this one, this flat twist goin be bomb AF.....no it’s not.  You look like an unsheared sheep, *sigh* whips out same beanie from yesterday.  Gonna have to hid this mess until I get home tonight now.  And that’s a good 2-3 hours you wasted while you attempted to get the products just right, the lighting just right, those splits bordering on perfection, ruined because somewhere along the line you messed up and it’s back to the friggin’ drawing board....again.

Look, if you got it right first time, you wouldn’t be learning anything, so keep saving those youtube videos to your playlist named “tutorials.”

4. The growing trap.

This got to me, big time.  It still does.  I’m gonna call it what I see it.  Iwantherlonghairnow syndrome

You’ve watched so many vloggers with beautiful long, hair as they rave about certain high end hair products and carelessly flick a beautiful lock of hair out of place then proceed to instruct you on how they achieve that bomb looking twist out using only flexi rods after they've told you their entire life story.

I went through this myself.  I started worshipping Nappyfu’s gorgeus 4c hair, FusionofCultures bomb ass 4c hair, Greenbeautychannels ravishing 4a hair, my list goes on.

They start talking about patience, and learning to listen to your hair during your journey, but you want those shoulder length curls, kinks and coils ASAP.  You google all sorts of weird crap like “How to grow hair quickly/How to grow black/afro hair quickly.” Or “How long does it take to grow afro hair.” Or “Hair growth elixrs.”

You find out about the inversion method and you go nuts, you buy every oil you see google suggesting and turn your bathroom floor into an ice rink, you try searching for hair growth techniques, till you find yourself staring at a google images result for the hair growth cycle and your heart sinks.  You find out that you should eat healthy, exercise, drink water avoid junk food blah, blah, blah.  

You do it all, in the name of growth and that monthly length check doesn’t even hit the 1 inch mark, so you end up sitting there staring at the mirror wondering if you’ll have to fake it or just get a relaxer.....

Gurl stop. There’s a reason you’re growing the relaxer out, or if you Big Chopped there’s a reason that TWA suddenly becomes the awkward stage/ Or as I call it, the Dwayne Dibbley era.

3. The Big Chop challenge.

Now, some of us are really impatient, and some of us have bags of patience, on standby.  I want to talk to you impatient lot.

Transitioning was never the best choice, despite what you see during your hours of internet searching.  Transitioning is HARD.  You’re dealing with different hairs, two different textures, two different needs.  You’re dealing evil twin and good twin and you’re on the side of good twin; bad twin....she needs to go, she needs to get out of your life and you want to see her defeated on the floor at your feet begging for mercy.

Some of you transitioners plan to go a year before chopping off your chemical romance, Some of you want to transition for two years and some of you don’t want to transition at all.  I managed a whopping 8 months before I chopped off the evil twin.  Natural hair vloggers such as FusionofCultures transitioned for two years, TWO WHOLE YEARS!  I got fed up after 7 months.  I couldn’t commit for so long.

And now I understand.  Those scissors you found at a bargain price call you, every hour of every day.  They’ve invaded your dreams, and taken up permanent residency on your dresser.  But you made the promise, you made a commitment and you wouldn’t dare break that promise you made to yourself after your last relaxer.  No, you’re going to see this through to the bitter end.

But you’re tired.  You’re tired of flexi-rodding to combine the two twins.  You’ve had enough of hiding the ends in one of your signature “I had two minutes to get this done” looks.  You’re done with washday rolling round the corner and you see your beautiful fro getting weighed down by these straight ended nasties.  You’re finished, you’re out, you’re calling time at the bar.

But you made the promise to yourself, you have it written down in your diary, or it’s one of your things to do on your calender, you can’t disappoint yourself like this?!

Honey, when the time comes, you will know.  

2. The (Creamy Crack) Calling.

Yup.  We’ve all been tempted back.

You reach that 6 month mark, and you reckon you’ve got a few basic hair care regimen techniques under your belt.  You’re working hard on your detangling methods, you tried co-washing, you deep condition like clockwork.  Your strands feel and look amazing, and that supportive friend from number 10 is noticing a real change in the way your hair behaves and looks.  You feel great about your new hair.

Then you have a sudden, almost spiteful urge to sabotage your own journey.  You want your straight hair back.  You want to swish your hair and feel the wind pick it up and toss it about so that you can do your Pocahontas impression.

You’re tired right?  You thought the journey would be easy right?  You thought that in a couple of months you’d have a head of kinks and coils right?  Well think again.  it’s called a journey, not a short cut.

You’re broke, right?  You’ve spent more money on hair products than you have on food, right?  You thought natural hair would be a wise money saving decision but you’re seeing more transactions on your bank statement to “that hair shop in the shopping centre, but you can never remember the name till you see it” taking the majority of your wages.  

You knew where you stood with relaxers. One box of the pungent chemical and your hair was sorted for a couple of months.  You knew what you were doing with relaxers......

Do you even remember why you started this journey sister?

1. The Hair Typing Cycle Of Doom (HTCOD)

Are you surprised this is number 1?  A little bit perplexed even?

It’s an easy number 1.

After the first month you feel the first beginnings of your curls and you start imagining your hair being pretty and bouncy and curly, like those girls in the ads.  

You first start researching how to care for hair, then you stumble across that ONE blog that references the Andre Walker BS and that’s it.  The hair typing asteroid field leading to the black hole begins.

You first start attempting to type your hair in month 2, but there’s not enough new growth to be sure, so you leave it for a little while.  During this resting time, you start looking at different hair textures and refining your google search criteria.  By month 6 you think you’re ready to type your hair again, but this time you have a bit more hair to play with and look at.  There’s that confusing moment in the bathroom when you stretch one of your transitioning strands but you can’t make out if you have coils, or curls or kinks.  You put this little mini project to the side and decide to keep caring for your hair as per the instructions from some vloggers and a few websites that live in your favourites.

By month 8 you know you have enough hair to make an accurate guess theory  discovery of what your hair type actually is.  So let’s go!  let’s follow those instructions, let’s see what section your hair belongs to.  Yay!  Success!  You’ve typed successfully now what?

Are you seriously going to go to every person you meet going “Hi, I’m 4C!” Of course not.  Are you going to learn anything interesting or vaguely important now that you’ve been categorised into an alphanumeric system?  A definite no!

But you’ve seen pictures/videos of other people with your hair type and they don’t look anything like yours, better take that test again, just to be sure...

Hm.  One more time because you’re not convinced.......

No, sweetheart stop wasting your time and learn your hair.

Aaaand you made it to the end.

So which lesson was the hardest for you to learn during your natural hair journey?  Anything you want to add, let me know.

Peace out all!