#bird cape and broom were all i wanted this year

[humming-fly]

every year for my birthday I do something self-indulgent and THIS year it's me finally organizing all the doodles and lore for my kirby oc Fayre that I have yet to put on tumblr into one place!

because i love you all putting the vast majority of this under a readmore but yeah if you want a collection of doodles and vaguely coherent scraps of info about my little guy please read on and if you want to ask questions about 'em go for it i love talking about these idiots

gonna also be mentioning a few other OC's here so for the record Strix belongs to @alagaesia-overlord and Stell belongs to @aseuki, because everyone knows it's more fun being insane about something if you have company~

real quick gonna just link to the past main posts on fayre for posterity lol

Fayre Details/Backstory:

So as has already been established in prior posts fayre is a very fae-aligned little critter that pretty exclusively hangs out in the woods with their 1-way mirror mask behaving for all intents of the word like some sort of weird cryptid. In terms of defining characteristics they have a set of very odd wings that constantly emit a stunning aura that causes confusion/distress when observed at close quarters, as well as a permanent 0.0 expression that they can't change (so no blinking, smiling, etc.) which is a byproduct of their creation as a mirror clone.

How all that worked out is their 'original', Prism, landed right next to a mirror portal as a newborn and more or less immediately wandered into it - my general headcanon about how the mirror doubles work is that they're made up of Every reflection someone has made up to the point they look into the amazing mirror, but since prism only just existed her first and only reflection was the 0.0 expression of a child looking through the mirror before passing through it, so fayre is locked and loaded with that expression but nothin' else. This is also why fayre's wings are way different than prism's bird-of-paradise setup, as technically prism's back was never reflected by the mirror either so it got the randomizer setting instead.

Despite being 'born' more or less at the same time the two never formally met until many years later, as prism wandered right into the mirror world and fayre wandered right out into the primary world and neither ever looked back. Differences aside, when prism did eventually track fayre down they immediately hit it off and now consider each other to be twin siblings. (Prior to meeting Prism Fayre didn't know they were a mirror clone, but largely took learning that detail in stride, as they do with most things)

In terms of early life fayre was actually found and raised by a small village of broom hatters, who came upon this child in a little crater they'd made after falling off the cloud holding up the mirror

The broom hatters assumed that fall was what had paralyzed their face, but fortunately as the broom hatters are a race of faceless creatures themselves the lack of expressions wasn't ever a problem. Not being able to move or open their mouth means fayre can't talk with it, but instead uses the general telepathic way of speaking used by most species lacking that particular facial feature. The main benefit of that skill is being able to throw their voice and also talk in hieroglyphics if desired

Fayre stayed with the broom hatters until reaching early adolescence, after which they left to go explore the natural world - though now living on their own they do still come back to say Hi every year or so during the Sweeping Seasons.

Fayre got their wings sometime while off living by themselves in the woods, and after some trial and error did figure out a way to more or less 'replace' their wings with a funky cape (the trial and error being a learning curve whereupon getting near people with their wings would cause people to get dizzy/sick, so for a while they were wandering around in a little cape they found until they could puzzle out a way to properly tuck them away) - while the cape is replacing the wings they're more or less 'in stasis', so damaging the cape doesn't damage the wings and vice versa, and is more of a strange pocket dimensional swap than anything. Thus the cape can't actually be removed from fayre, trying to rip it off them won't hurt or anything but will probably just yank them around a bit (maybe they're somehow trading their wings with an equivalent in the yarn dimension? who knows, they certainly don't)

The wings themselves are pretty odd as they look sort of like dragonfly wings but are actually made up of individual feathers of varying traits - general consensus is they are indeed very pretty, but other than gliding fayre can't actually fly that well with them. The stunning aura on them Does keep bugs and wildlife away though making them ideal for forest exploration, and fayre will wrap themselves up in them every night when going to bed as the wings work to deter any predators from going after them, and it's Comfy

~Plot Stuff Begins~

Meeting Strix:

For quite a while Prism was the only consistent point of contact Fayre had with anyone else, and even then the two only visited one another infrequently, both happy to largely keep to the homes and lives they've carved out for themselves.

The first major change to fayre's day to day life was the introduction of another puffball named Strix, who happened upon them while looking for their wayward coworker

After conversing a bit it was discovered that Strix is actually employed as a Reaper, of the paper-pushing variety, and only tends to poke their head out of purgatory when hunting down their work-shirking coworker.

Said work-shirking coworker is also the reason strix is the only person fayre has met that isn't affected by their wing's wonky aura - spending a few centuries in close quarters with someone who puts out a very similar status effect tends to build up an immunity, which fayre tries their best to take full advantage of

Fayre and Strix managed to hit it off early on, and occasionally meet up every month or so for an hour or two to get their required socializations in before wandering back off from whence they came. Strix will often share their work bereavements, or encourage fayre to actually learn some self-defense, which is largely met with playful ambivalence, though despite fayre's general disinterest in combat some minor progress was made on strix's part

(To that end farther the line a more favorable and not at all ominous deal was struck between the two so time will tell how that pans out)

During one of these chats strix also shared some of their Tragic Backstory:tm:, which fayre empathized with in the only way they know how

These friendly meetings continued with regularity for some odd years, up until fayre accidentally rode-along on one of strix's business calls~

Meeting Stell (aka The 'Among-Us' Arc):

Unfortunately for Fayre, Strix had been called to investigate what was reported to be an erroneous wish caused by a faulty comet, one without its proper safety regulations in place. Fayre tumbled on through strix's portal and into the sidelines of an ongoing fight between strix and some new armored fighter apparently affiliated with said comet.

Hoping to avoid whatever anime-ass conflict was going on over there, fayre started drifting towards the only other point in space of any note, the giant cat-like mechanical comet. Unfortunately for fayre, whoever had maintained that comet had rigged it up with a series of perimeter defenses, which fayre became intimately familiar with as they were shot down and forced to land on the comet itself to escape the bullet-hell firing at them.

Suffering some fun knicks and scrapes predominantly on their wings fayre pushed that on the back burner with their cape and started to look for an exit from this weird mechanical death trap. (Past this point Fayre has a quasi-permanent notch in their left feather).

Thus began fayre's fun-filled two-ish weeks of impromptu among us where they had a jolly time hiding in the vents and cutting wires to stall the maniac doing their level best to eject them with lethal force

Eventually contact was made with the assailant, whose name was apparently Stell, and an agreement was brokered just as Strix finally decided to stop by again to see how fixing that busted-ass comet was going.

after that misunderstanding was cleared up Fayre finally got off that shitty comet and after being dropped off in the woods by strix managed to trudge all the way to the mirror dimension to visit prism and get some bandaids (slash bullet holes patched up)

Mirror Arc & Beyond:

Some additional fun is had with the twins in the mirror dimension, namely the whole kitten kaboodle becoming corrupted for a time and fayre becoming a bit of an asshole because of it, which predominantly ended up aimed at strix who popped by to help sort all that out

post-corruption fayre found out apparently strix took the verbal abuse personally and fixed that all right up in their own way by visiting them at their workplace

tragically for fayre's happy-go-lucky attitude they've come to be attached to strix, which only became obvious once strix relayed a recent near-death experience to them and they got to experience their first ever Bummer Emotion

making that extra fun was learning said near-death experience was caused by their good friend Stell, which in turn lead to fayre's first ever Catching Hands Emotion

fayre's emotional roller coaster topped out after more or less jumping stell in a convenience store and trying to forcibly shove their own negative emotions down his throat after he brushed off the encounter he'd had with strix (partially due to running a high fever but that sure wasn't fayre's problem) - since then they've leveled back out and are back to being the most emotionally well-balanced of the three, which is a low bar to clear but hey first place is still first place~

[themand0lorian]

The Love You Deserve

Summary: The five times you and Marcus get burnt by love, and the one time you don’t.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: R (Swearing, slightly spicy situations, mentions of abusive behavior)

Words: ~7400 (Read on AO3)

Tags: 5+1 Fic, friends to lovers, rumors (use of the word slut by high school girls), Marcus' first wife kinda sucking, Teresa, bad magic tricks, a focus on cards/card tricks, Marcus is a big dork

Notes: The third part of this fic includes an abusive relationship toward the reader (not Marcus). If you or someone you know is going through something like this, please feel free to message me for resources, call 800.799.SAFE (7233) in the US, or visit thehotline.org for text messages and chat resources.

If you need to skip that part/this fic, I’m sorry, and I hope one day you get to heal like this reader does. ❤️

The Five of Hearts

On the first day of kindergarten, your mother watched you jump up from your sandcastle and very angrily stomp up to a group of your classmates, all three-foot-four-inches of you fuming. She watched you berate two little boys and one little girl, ranting at them for being nasty and threatening to tell the teacher, before grabbing the hand of a shy little boy in a black cape with tears streaked down his face and dragging him over to the sandbox, sitting him unapologetically with you, straightening his cape with a scrunch of your face, and get back to building, waiting for him to join you expectantly. When he placed a stick in just the right spot, you both smiled, gap-toothed and crooked, and you asked him if he was a superhero; the only profession you knew which sported black silken capes.

Your mother would later say that was the moment she knew you and Marcus Pike were meant to be best friends.

Years had passed since that moment; Mrs. Pike had four consecutive school portraits containing that ratty old cape to prove it. Marcus was obsessed with magic, the two of you thick as thieves as The Marvelous Marcus put on paltry shows for the neighborhood where his white-tipped wand sprouted flowers or he sawed you—“his lovely assistant,” as he had heard the magicians on tv say--in half. After that day in kindergarten, he fully embraced his magical side, not caring what the other kids whispered or when his books were smacked from his hands as he walked down the hallways, as long as you were there to give them a glare and help him pick them back up again.

Still, though, by now the two of you were in high school—his cape had been hung up in favor of a varsity jacket, and the threat of the two of you separating for college, despite being inseparable for 13 years, was looming. Your friendship was still as strong as ever, but you both began to branch out, neighborhood magic shows not filling the time anymore. Marcus had the swim team, you each had your own separate groups of friends, but no matter what, when you were with him, it always felt like no time had passed. Like you were still in his backyard trying to figure out the intricacies of pulling a rabbit out of a hat, or laughing until your sides hurt after the school talent show when the bird he made appear flew into the rafters and the janitor had to chase it down with a broom. He was the magician, you were the assistant, but without the other, you were both useless.

He tried not to react when he heard some of the girls talking at his lunch table. The cafeteria was always bustling; he usually sat with the swim team, but many of them had girlfriends in the school who joined them, and they would gossip like the women at Nana Pike’s nursing home. Marcus sometimes thought about inviting you to sit with them too, but you seemed happy with the yearbook club, and he didn’t want to hear another one of his teammates talk about your ass.

“I heard she pounced on him in the school parking lot. All Drew this, Drew that, oh Drew,” one girl coos maliciously. The mention of Drew makes Marcus’ ears perk; the guy you were dating, an artsy type who wore trench coats on sunny days and wrote weird poetry at coffeehouses, was named Drew. He didn’t want to say anything—you were gushing the day he asked you to one of his poetry slams—but Marcus didn’t love Drew.

“Ew, tried to hit it in the school parking lot? What a slut,” another comments, nose upturned. “No wonder he broke up with her.”

“Sorry, who are you guys talking about?” Marcus interjects, ignoring a few of his teammates nervous glances as the girls mention your name.

“I heard she tried to have sex with him in the backseat of her car, and that’s why he dumped her.”

“Well I heard she was ‘interrupting his creative process.’”

“When did this happen?” Marcus cuts in again, mind spinning.

“Third period English class. Apparently he broke up with her in a poem, and he read it out loud to the class. Like in 10 Things I Hate About You, but—opposite,” one jokes, and Marcus has already stood, walking to throw out his unfinished lunch and out of the cafeteria, ignoring the girls’ shrill laughs and his team’s hoots and hollers. He hated Drew. He hated that Drew did this. He hated that you didn’t come find him when it happened.

But he knew where to find you.

There was a little cubby behind your set of lockers; not quite hidden away, but quiet, unused space. Kids sometimes sat there to finish late homework or wait for the bus, or to make out in private. But you liked to sit there to just think. To come up with a new yearbook spread or craft the perfect essay or to daydream.

Or, today, to crumple in on yourself in defeat.

Marcus approaches quietly, and you don’t look up from where your head rests on your knees, your arms hugging them tightly with your back against the wall. He knows you’ve been crying, been thinking and overthinking and thinking some more. When he sits across from you, his back leaning on the other wall, lanky knees he was still growing into pulled to his chest, his feet intertwine with yours, and he knows you know its him.

“Are you okay?” He tries gently. “No,” you sniffle, not looking up.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Marcus nods as you toy with the zipper on your backpack next to you, though you’re still not looking at him. He knows what those girls said wasn’t true; the stuff about the parking lot, anyway. The stuff about English class—that he believed.

“Do—do you wanna see a trick?” You peek up from your arms to see him pulling a deck of cards from his pocket. You watch suspiciously as he shuffles them, then fans them out to you. “Pick a card, any card,” he smirks, and you do, barely unfolding. “Look at it and put it back anywhere in the deck. You glance quickly; the five of hearts. After you place it back in the deck, he shuffles the cards again dramatically, and you roll your eyes, the start of a smile poking at your lips.

“Is this”--he flourishes a card into your face—“your card?”

It’s the ten of spades.

“No,” you offer sheepishly. Marcus quickly retreats the deck, looking through it, muttering to himself, and he finally hears it; a small chuckle out of you. “You’ve gotten bad at this.” He huffs.

“Well, I distracted you, didn’t I?” You nod, shrugging, though your head has still barely left your knees. You watch with wide eyes as Marcus reaches toward you, cupping your face to bring it out of hiding, and he blinds you with his grin.

“There she is,” he whispers, but before pulling his hand from your face, he flicks his wrist, and produces a card from behind your ear. “And there is your card.”

Jack of Clubs.

You shake your head, finally releasing a real laugh as he smacks the cards on his palm, as if they’re the issue. The two of you sit quietly, Marcus shuffling and reshuffling the deck the only noise in the space.

“I—I didn’t do anything in the parking lot, you know,” you offer quietly.

“I know.”

“He broke up with me in a poem.” Marcus snorts.

“I know. He sucks.” You glare at him, making eye contact, but after a moment, break, and the two of you begin to laugh.

“God, he does suck. Why was I even with him.” Marcus shrugs.

“Dunno. He didn’t deserve you.”

“Who does?” You roll your eyes sarcastically. Drew used to always say you were “too much;” surely anyone who deserved you would be a glutton for punishment. He thinks a moment before responding.

“Not sure. But one day, you’ll have the love you deserve. And you’ll think about this and laugh.” You both sit quietly, his words fully sinking in; the wisdom of a sage in a 18-year-old. The bell ringing, signaling next period, startles you both, and you let Marcus pull you to your feet. “C’mon. Mr. Hansen hates when you’re late.” You shake your head, walking with Marcus to Mr. Hansen’s class (right on time) before he continues to his class.

When you open your geometry notebook, the five of hearts sits tucked between the pages.

The Four of Hearts

You both tried to keep in touch when you went off to school. Marcus went to UT, a full swimming scholarship in hand and with a plan to major in art history. You, on the other hand, were ready to get out of your tiny Texas town; Marcus celebrated with you when you got accepted to American University all the way in Washington, DC, watching as you drove off in your dad’s packed station wagon, waving down the street until you turned the corner.

It started with the best intentions. Plans to chat on the payphone at the end of the hall weekly turned into monthly, turned into semesterly, racing to fill each other in before you ran out of quarters. You told Marcus about your crazy roommate and how hard your classes were; he told you all about Rachel.

Rachel was in his first art history class. Rachel made him laugh with a pun about Picasso. Rachel agreed to go on a date with him. Rachel wanted him to call her on the dorm phone, and he was almost out of quarters. Rachel was perfect.

You knew it was only a matter of time before Marcus and Rachel became an item. 1500 miles away, there wasn’t much you could do to stop it. Besides, you were happy for Marcus. He never dated in high school, still stuck with his nerdy, magician label even when his beard grew in patchy and he sprouted six inches overnight. Girls weren’t exactly falling over themselves for him, and he didn’t seem to really mind, content to just live his life.

But now, his life was Rachel.

She came home for Thanksgiving. He went to her family for winter break. She convinced him to switch to a more “sensible” major, criminal justice. He bought a ring.

She said yes.

The two were fresh out of college, buying a house and shopping for a white dress, playing grown-ups. Marcus, of course, was all in. You remember when he called to tell you—you were at work, staying late to meet a big deadline. He called you three times that week; the first two, you had blown off, desperate to finish this project and hopefully move from intern to full time. When you picked up the third, your stomach dropped, all work for the day done; you didn’t end up meeting your deadline.

You tried to tell yourself it was because you were worried about him. They were too young, Rachel was too controlling. She didn’t seem to really like Marcus for who he was; just who she thought he should be. It seemed like every call you made to catch up, she was in the background, urging him to hang up and be with her. It was obvious to you that she was trying to lay her claim; establish herself as more important than you despite your history together, and Marcus let her. But you missed your Marcus. To you, his rose-colored glasses never seemed to dull.

He had his reservations; he tried to tell you. But you had your project and the ring was burning a hole in his pocket and he just—did it. And Rachel said yes. And, after his mom, you were the first person he wanted to tell. Wedding planning did not go as he expected. It was stressful, sure—but Rachel seemed to turn into a different person. Marcus didn’t care about cream versus ivory napkins, or whether the DJ had a disco ball or laser light show. But Rachel did, and he dutifully followed her lead, letting her craft her perfect day.

Things came to a head when they had to decide on the wedding party. You had moved back home for a bit, not getting hired after your internship due to your missed deadline. Marcus wanted you in the party—you were his best friend. Surely some room could be made in the bridesmaids, beyond sisters and cousins and friends he barely knew.

But Rachel fought back on it. She didn’t want someone with her who she “barely knew,” despite knowing it was what Marcus wanted. If it were up to her, your invite would be mysteriously “lost in the mail,” though she never admitted that. But Marcus pushed back; the first real fight of their relationship, in which Marcus fell victorious. Instead of a Best Man, he would be having a Best Person—you.

Some part of you knew this was because of her. Why you wore a black jumpsuit to match the groomsmen and not a bridesmaid’s dress, why you had a boutonniere instead of a bouquet. But you were happy that Marcus was happy. Elated, joyous, sentimental. Everything someone should be on their wedding day. He cried when she walked down the aisle, read her personalized vows, kissed her with a passion you could only dream about. The wedding went off without a hitch, and soon enough it was time for your duty as Best Person—the wedding speech.

You took a deep breath as the DJ handed you a microphone, looking to Marcus and Rachel at their head table. Marcus had his eyes on you, grinning; Rachel was focused on her champagne.

“As some of you know, I’m Marcus’ ‘Best Person’ this evening. A bit unconventional, but hey—this is the same guy who wore a cape to school for five solid years.” That got you a few laughs. “So, Marcus and Rachel, I wish you both all the happiness in the world. You are so lucky to have found each other, and I hope you both always receive the love you deserve.” You gulp, seeing Marcus with misty eyes making you slightly choke up, but continue, knowing you’ll get him laughing again.

“Now, some of you may not know this, but as a child, Marcus and I—we used to put on a little magic show, The Marvelous Marcus. Mrs. Pike has enough pictures to prove it.” Marcus shakes his head sheepishly while Rachel gives him a questioning glare. “So, I thought it was only appropriate to finish this off with one of his classic tricks. Marcus—” you produce a deck of cards from your bag “—please pick a card and show it to your beautiful bride, and then the audience.” You make a show of looking away as the crowd giggles. You swear you hear Rachel scoff, but continue anyway. “Now please put it back in the deck.” You shuffle the cards dramatically before presenting them again. “Now—if this is your card, then we know you two are meant to be.” Rachel widens her eyes, clearly nervous, and you ask her to pick the top card of the deck and show it. The look of shock on her face tells you that you were successful, and she flips it out, the crowd gasping and clapping. Marcus looks awestruck; you had picked out his card.

“Ah, yes—the four of hearts! Marcus and Rachel—may your marriage always be magical, marvelous, and everything in between. Cheers!” You sip your champagne, Marcus raising his glass to you as he sips, Rachel dragging him by the bicep back to her. You quickly pocket the cards again; you don’t need anyone to figure out your little secret. You thought maybe, the two needed a bit of help to achieve marvelous and magical, and were willing to push the odds for Marcus’ sake.

Every card in the deck was a four of hearts.

The Three of Hearts

You and Marcus grew apart as he settled with Rachel, and you settled back into your hometown. You knew he was busy—a new bride at his side, a fixer upper that needed too much work, a job as a page at the FBI building downtown until he could train to be an agent. But you wondered about him. Wondered if that job really made him happy; if he still wanted to major in art history deep in his heart. If he chose between green or blue for the kitchen walls, if the reason for your separation was more intentional than you realized. After the wedding, you rarely heard from Rachel, if at all, and heard from Marcus at holidays or birthdays, but not much else. A Christmas card photo of them at a tree farm, fake smiles plastered across their faces, made its way directly into the trash.

Losing Marcus felt like a gaping hole in your life; one you needed to fill. And Joe seemed to fill that space perfectly.

You met Joe through work; a friend of a friend who you ran into at happy hour, he was charismatic and handsome and made you laugh. He walked you to your door after your first date, leaving with a peck on the cheek. He sent flowers during a particularly busy work week. He was perfect; he filled all the gaps Marcus left. Caring, doting. Protective.

Sometime before you moved in with him, Marcus called you to let you know he and Rachel were getting divorced. It had been less than three years since the wedding; part of you wanted to rush over there, comfort him, be the friend you always were. But the other half of you, a little hurt at the way he tossed you aside in favor of the woman who would break him, couldn’t do it. You offered platitudes, condolences. Let him know to call if he needed anything, but you were on your way out the door now, a date with Joe looming, and hung up amicably.

That night, you felt guilty; distracted. Joe seemed to notice, pulling you to him a little too tight, searching your phone when you went to the bathroom for any indication. It was out of love, he told you when you caught him. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

You and Joe moved in later that year. Like Marcus with Rachel, you had drawn back a bit; you met up with him occasionally, spoke on the phone if he called first, but other than that, you hadn’t seen much of him.

Or much of anyone. Joe didn’t really like your friends; even the one who introduced you, he had problems with, and they slowly fell away. He didn’t like how long your phone calls with your mom were, calling you childish for chatting with her every night even though you barely saw her once your parents retired to Florida. He didn’t like what you wore to go out with the girls, the argument ending with you staying in for the night. Every time, he told you, it was because he loved you so much. He just wanted to be with you. He didn’t want anyone else looking at you. He didn’t want you to reconnect with Marcus; he had hurt you before and he would do it again.

But you insisted. It was Marcus’ birthday, the first one since the divorce, and he invited you to a small get together. You and Joe. Which brought up another screaming match, another broken glass chucked carelessly off the kitchen counter until it shattered. You walked out; determined to make it to the party, Joe or not. You blotted your tears in the rearview mirror and drove to that old fixer upper, plastering on a fake smile as you ignored the hundreds of texts blowing up your phone.

Marcus notices everything, though. The hollow look behind your eyes, the fact that you won’t drink a glass of wine, insisting Joe doesn’t like it when you do. He sees your phone light up with notification after notification; hears your mutual friends claim they haven’t seen you in ages. Marcus notices. But it isn’t until the end of the party, when everyone’s left and you’re helping him clean up, that he brings it up.

“Where was Joe tonight?”

“Oh, you know—” you brush off. “Work.” Marcus says your name very seriously, and you look up from the dishes you gathered for him.

“I’m worried about you.”

“What? Why?” You ask, eyes wide.

“Uh—Joe. He—I don’t know. He’s keeping you from your friends, and your mom told my mom that you never call her anymore. He’s isolating you.”

“I’m here, Marcus, aren’t I?” you accuse, angrily.

“Yeah but—were you? He was texting you all night. And I know you were crying earlier. I just—” “Marcus, stop,” you insist firmly. “If you’re trying to accuse him of something, then say it.” “You don’t seem like yourself. And I think—I think he’s showing abusive behavior.” That finally gets a rise out of you.

“How would you know?! Rachel did the same things to you, you know—you never saw your friends when you were with her! Never called me! You don’t get to say I’m not myself, Marcus—you don’t know who I am. Not anymore.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What? That I’m right? That I came to your stupid birthday party just so you could shit on my life? I’m happy, Marcus! I’m sorry your relationship didn’t work, but mine does!” “Are you happy?!” He yells angrily, crowding you, though you don’t back down. His next words are soft; those same puppy dog eyes he gave you in grade school for half of your brownie at lunch looking sincerely at you. “Are you?” You falter, then drop what you were doing.

“Goodbye, Marcus. Happy Birthday.” With that, you storm out, ready to face whatever fallout was waiting at home for a night that certainly wasn’t worth it.

----

Joe said it was your fault that Marcus acted like that. That you shouldn’t have gone, that you didn’t deserve friends who you could have fun with anyway. That he was all you needed; he was the only person who cared about you. The screaming match that night was one for the ages, and though you both slept in the same bed that night, the wall between you was placed.

Looking back, you could see it escalate from there. Joe wanted you to quit your job; he could support you both. So you did. He wanted you to change your hair, your clothes, so you did. He wanted you to take care of the house, so you did.

But it was never enough. He would scream at you, throw things, rant and rave then follow up with sweet apologies like a switch had been flipped. He would criticize you, then claim you were the most beautiful girl in the world. Always a dichotomy.

Soon, even that stopped. He took what he wanted, when he wanted. You didn’t even care enough to stop him; if it meant avoiding an argument, it was fine. He was tracking your phone, texting and calling and even showing up when you weren’t where you said you’d be, just to drag you back to the house. So you stopped going out. Nothing ever seemed right.

Joe had always been rough. You knew he didn’t mean it; he was bigger than you, stronger, harsh around the edges. So a finger shaped bruise here, a shove into the counter there; it was nothing. It was an accident, to be explained away with a tearful apology. Marcus’ words—the last ones you’ve spoken in over a year—sometimes echoed in your mind. But it wasn’t like he was hitting you. It couldn’t be abuse.

But then he did. A square punch, right in the face, over a missed dish in the sink. He had broken after; sobbed with you, held you, apologized, tried to kiss it right. You were in shock; you didn’t know what to do. You waited for him to fall asleep on the couch that night, heading to the bathroom to examine your pounding face. Swollen, beaten, it looked awful. So you did what you should have done a long time ago.

You left.

You had nothing; no phone, no keys, no wallet. You needed to leave as quickly and as quietly as possible, and you hadn’t had a chance to look up a shelter or somewhere to go. You just left.

Your feet seemed to carry you to Marcus’ house. A light was on; it was late, but a light was on. You could hear it now. I told you so. You deserve this. Your brain wanted to turn and run, but already on the doorstep, something compelled you to knock.

I told you so. I told you so.

I told you so. A disheveled Marcus opens the door; sweatpants strung low on his hips, glasses pushed into his hair. He takes you in for a moment, surprised to see you, and you brace for impact.

I told you so.

“I’ll fucking kill him.” You blink at him, under his dim porch light. You watch as he makes his way further into the house, following him in when he leaves the door open and standing in the foyer. Over the entry table hangs a set of artist prints of playing cards, set neatly in rows, though the three of hearts sits slightly askew. You watch him gather a coat and some shoes, clip something to his pants, grab something from a safe that you don’t want to know the contents of, muttering to himself.

“M—Marcus?” You whisper smally, and he finally stops, looking at you again. “C—could you just stay? With me?” He drops everything he’s holding onto the kitchen counter, walking over tentatively. “I—I need you.” Finally, tears begin to fall, and almost immediately, he has you wrapped in his embrace, tighter than you thought possible.

And you sob.

And he holds you there. Cradling your head to his shoulder, he holds you as you mumble into him.

“I don’t know what I did wrong—” “You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“I—I don’t know why I deserved this—" He pulls you back to look at him, eyes full of tears, too.

“Listen to me--You didn’t deserve any of this. This—this isn’t love.” You nod. “You deserve to be happy, and healthy, and cared for—”

“—I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Marcus. After Rachel—” you interject with a sob, but he shushes you.

“You were right. She—she didn’t love me like I thought she did, like you thought he did. But one day—one day we’ll both get the love we deserve. A love where everything seems to just fall into place. And even through that—we’ll be together. I promise.”

The Two of Hearts

It took time for you to get back on your feet again. Marcus stayed with you through it all; he held you that night, not letting you go until exhaustion set into your bones. Even then, he guided you to his bed, laying you softly between the sheets before taking residence on the couch.

He didn’t force you to file a police report, even if he wanted you to—you didn’t want to. You wanted the nightmare over and done with, and he wanted to do that for you. So he got a few of his coworkers, decked out in their FBI coats, and went to your place, claiming to be in search of you. They asked him to come down to headquarters to see if he could answer some of their questions; in that time, you went to your old apartment, gathering your things with Marcus as quickly as possible.

Joe acted distraught; he sobbed, he pleaded, he claimed he had no idea where you could have gone. When you were done getting what you needed, Marcus went to check on the interrogation; he stood at the two-way mirror, brow set, practically growling, hoping Joe would incriminate himself, but he was too smart to do that. Eventually, they couldn���t reasonably hold him any longer, and he was allowed to leave. Marcus followed closely behind, waiting until he turned the corner from the building before roughly shoving him against a wall.

“Hey—” “Listen, you piece of shit—” Marcus snarled and Joe looked at him confusedly. “I know what you did to her. If you ever—and I mean ever—even so much as contact her again, I know how to make your death look accidental. Do you hear me?” Joe’s eyes look crazed, fear coursing through him as Marcus threatens him, so he shoves him again. “Do you hear me?!”

“Y—Yes,” he stutters, running off like a child after Marcus let him go. Marcus thinks it’s appropriate; no man would ever treat a woman like that.

So you stayed with Marcus for a bit; helped him around the house, choosing between green or blue for the kitchen walls. You were searching for another job, but with such a big, unexplainable gap in your resume, you were mostly coming up empty. Marcus didn’t mind though.

When he bought this house, this was what he pictured; fixing it up with someone. Rubbing paint on noses, maybe someday choosing the color of a baby’s room. With Rachel gone, he had fallen into a slump; none of his dreams seemed achievable anymore. The house felt more run down than fixed up, the paint cans gathered dust. Having you back in his life now, as an adult, felt different.

You were still the same best friends; he had no doubt you would allow him to saw you in half at a moment’s notice. But you were grown up now; he could see you as more than that little girl in the sandbox, or the teenager tucked behind the lockers. You were a woman—an attractive woman. Living in his house, snuggling on his couch, cooking his dinner when he got home from work. It all felt so domestic; like pieces were falling into place.

Then the agency you did your internship at all those years ago called. You got the job.

You were ecstatic; Marcus tried to be, too. But the job was back in Washington, DC. Another chance at his domestic life slipping through his fingertips, just as he was starting to identify the feelings he had growing for you. It was more than friendship; more than desire, though that was there, too. It was love.

He loved making the coffee in the morning and watching your nose lead you out of bed. He loved when you worked on replacing the bathroom sink, face scrunched in concentration. He loved when you ate dinner at his little round table, when you fell asleep on the couch under a blanket Nana Pike made him, when you looked at him with those eyes that seemed to say everything and nothing all at once. When he wished you were retreating to his bed instead of the guest room.

He loved all of you. As a friend, yes—but as more than that. And it was about to fly 1500 miles away again.

He supposes he could have done something. Expressed his feelings, asked you to stay. But he helped you pack up. Looked at apartments with you. Listened to you talk about a fresh start; one where you didn’t have to look over your shoulder anymore. And he knew; he loves you, but he wants what’s best for you. And that’s in DC.

So he drives you to the airport. He gives you a dramatic hug before security, telling you to call or text him as soon as you miss him, hoping you actually do. He watches you walk off with your bag until you’re out of sight.

He’s not even back on the highway when he gets a text, your name across the screen.

I miss you. :(

----

Life for you in DC seems to be thriving, if the weekly phone calls you and Marcus set up are anything to go by. You’re climbing the career ladder, making friends—you told him you were done dating for a while, and he could respect that. You had a nice little apartment and a grocery store where they knew your name and a standing appointment with Marcus on Saturday afternoons to watch a movie on Netflix together.

Despite every attempt, though, Marcus missed you. He ached with it. He could talk to you for hours, hear all about Diane in HR or tell you about his mom’s Facebook mishaps, but nothing compared to having you there. It was like a piece of him was missing. He even applied for a transfer to DC, hoping, praying to close the distance and make himself whole again.

And then the office was being remodeled, and he was working with Teresa, and it had been such a long time since Rachel—and she was pretty. Smart. Caring.

Not you.

But she was there.

And Marcus did what he always does; he jumped in, too fast, too strong—she returned his feelings, something he didn’t think possible. She spoke with him on the phone during the undercover mission; it didn’t feel the same as when he talked to you, but he was at work. That had to be it.

He remembers when he told you about her over the phone; you acted excited for him, encouraging in a way only you seem to know how to be.

“That’s great, Marcus!”

“So—what do you think? You think I should go for it?”

“Y—yeah. You need to get back out there. You’re charming, handsome—what could go wrong?” You offer. You’re happy you didn’t choose to do FaceTime for this movie, or he’d see the tears rising to your lashes.

“What about you? When will you ‘get back out there?’” He can hear you swallow harshly.

“Uh—well this guy from work asked me to drinks a few days ago. I told him I’d think about it.” Marcus blinked absently; he had just told you about another woman, but the idea of you on a date with someone else felt like pins in his chest--he's not sure why he even asked.

“You should tell him ‘yes.’” “Really?” You ask incredulously.

“Yeah,” Marcus clears his throat. “Why not?” You sit silently for a moment.

“O—okay. I’ll tell him Monday.”

So that was how Marcus began dating Teresa, and you began dating Keith.

Keith was fine. He made decent money, he could hold up a conversation as long as it was about spreadsheets and numbers, he pulled your chair out for you. But you felt like you were coasting with him; a placeholder for what you really wanted, a milquetoast version of something you weren’t sure about.

Then Marcus got the transfer to DC; he proposed to Teresa; he was moving to your city again, this time with fiancée #2 in tow. It all came in one phone call, like shots one after the other; Keith didn’t even notice your conflicted demeanor, focused on his current video game. You told Marcus you’d pick them up at the airport—it’s what a friend would do—and left it at that.

You were running late the day their plane came in; rushing through the parking lot and front entrance of the airport to meet up with them. You were excited to see Marcus—sometimes FaceTime just wasn’t enough. Plus, you were interested to meet Teresa—she was about to be a big part of your life, too. Hopefully she wasn't like Rachel.

Standing with various chauffeurs and family members, you realized almost everyone had a sign with the person’s name on it; a typical cliché, but a little funny, and you hadn’t prepared. You quickly dig through your bag for something—anything—that you could make into a sign, landing on a deck of cards you played solitaire with during your lunch breaks. You grab the first one from the deck—the two of hearts—quickly scribing “PIKE” with a black Sharpie, and hold it out, matching everyone else’s posture.

You know something’s wrong almost immediately. Marcus is smiling, walking out of baggage claim, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks forlorn, more rundown than a two-hour flight would provide. And he’s alone.

Still, he brightens when he spots you, laughing at the comically small sign you hold before taking it from you and embracing you in the tightest, warmest hug. You rock slowly with him, both happy to be reunited, but the elephant in the room needs to be spoken.

“Uh—are we waiting for—for anyone else?” You ask delicately.

“No,” he sighs. “No—just me.” He looks down to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly before giving you a melancholic smile. You only nod, lips in a tight line, before intertwining your arm with his and leading him out to your car.

The Ace

He eventually told you about Teresa. About how he kept bending—bending, bending, bending—waiting for her to love him the way he loved her. About Jane, about all the red flags that hid behind his rose-colored glasses. About her breaking off the engagement over voicemail while he was 30,000 feet in the air.

You spent a lot of time with Marcus in his first few months in DC; arguably, more time than you spent with Keith. You helped get him on his feet in the new city, showed him diners and pubs and the best bodega in town, made sure he got off on the right foot at work. More and more, the two of you fell into a routine, not unlike the one before you moved. Safe, comfortable. Loving.

You hadn’t realized how detached from Keith you felt until you were surrounded by Marcus. Marcus felt like everything to you; like a warm fireplace during winter, like a sweet popsicle under summer sun. You knew him more than you knew yourself; he felt like home.

You couldn’t quite place the emotions you felt; caught up balancing your job and relationship and friendship. But Marcus would give you these looks—these painful, yearning looks that made you swallow harshly and look away. When Marcus loved, he loved completely. You knew that; you’ve known that since the day on the playground. So, it was seemingly obvious that his second broken heart would elicit that response; so why did it hurt you, too?

Why did it hurt when he talked about marrying Teresa? Why did you wish he had never met Rachel to begin with? Why did it feel like the love you deserved could only come from him?

You pushed down the feelings, continuing to go through the motions with Keith. But one day, you were rummaging around under the sink for drain cleaner, and you spotted it—a little velveteen box. Dumbstruck, you pulled it into the light, opening it to reveal an—objectively pretty, though not your style—engagement ring.

You fell back from your knees, sitting on the cold tile floor, ring in hand. Keith was going to propose? And he already had the ring? You tried to picture your life; twenty years from now, sitting around the kitchen table, talking spreadsheets. Thirty years, dropping your kids off at college—did he even want kids? Your head was spinning—you quickly tucked the box back where you found it, rushing to your bag. You needed some air; a walk could do, maybe the fresh air would clear your head. You needed a sign; you shouldn’t feel like this with an engagement evident.

In your haste, your bag flipped as your grabbed it, spilling the contents; still included was the deck of cards from the airport, now missing the two of hearts. Looking at them, you settled on the floor and shuffled them quickly, fanning them out on the floor in front of you before whispering to yourself.

“Black card���I’ll say yes. Red card—I’ll say no.” Delicately, you pull one card from the deck, hesitant to flip it until the last second.

The King of Hearts, the Queen of Hearts

Marcus is somewhat surprised to see you run up to his door, clearly out of breath and panting as he lets you in.

“Is something wrong? I thought you were with Keith tonight—” “I broke up with Keith,” you breathe out.

“Oh—I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be,” you reply, catching your breath, but Marcus looks confused. You pull something out of your jacket pocket, holding it up to him. It’s the ace of hearts. “Look—look. It was red.”

“Uh…okay,” he laughs, and you widen your eyes like he should get it before continuing to ramble.

“Marcus—I found a ring. Under Keith’s sink. And I panicked, and I was—I didn’t know what to do. I wanted a sign, so I set out the cards, and if it was black, I’d say yes, and if it was red, I’d say no.”

“Ok—so you said no?” “He didn’t even propose yet. I broke up with him.” It feels like the first time you and Marcus are not on the same page, but you continue, exasperated. “I—I thought maybe it was wrong. So I pulled another one. It was the Queen of Hearts.” You pull it out to show him. “And I sat there on the floor looking at the cards and I didn’t—I didn’t know why, but I was so relieved. I decided to pull one more—I wanted it to tell me why I was so happy for the red.”

“Okay…” he trails off, and you pull another card out to show him. It’s the King of Hearts. “So you didn’t want to marry him because…he’s not a king?” You roll your eyes.

“No! He—he was fine. I just—I was sitting there, and I realized, someone—someone else is the king of my heart.” You look at him sincerely, watching him swallow harshly. “And—Marcus, I know it’s so soon after Teresa, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see this—but I love you. I love you as my best friend, but I’m also—I’m in love with you. I—I think I have been this whole time, and we just—we’ve never synced up and now it might be too late—or maybe you don’t feel the same. And that’s fine, we can just be friends, but I—” Your rambling is cut short as he crosses the room to you in three short strides, taking your face in his hands and kissing you like there’s no tomorrow.

Marcus didn’t do magic anymore; a childhood hobby left behind as he got older. Sure, he could pull a quarter from a kid’s ear or make a form in the office disappear, but for the most part, he had lost his spark in it; the wonder it required beaten out of him by life. But now—your lips on his, your arms pulling him as close to you as they can—he feels it again. He feels the spark, the wonder—it feels like he just performed for millions of people, some trick that’s never been seen before.

But it’s not a trick.

It’s you.

When he pulls back, your eyes are blown wide, both of you breathing heavily into the space between you.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.” You chuckle smally, searching his face. “Baby—I’ve been in love with you since the day you invited me to the sandbox.” You smile broadly, pressing your lips to his again and again until you’re breathless with it.

Finally—you can feel it. Both of you, together; you’ve both found the love you deserve.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​

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[im-totally-not-an-alien]

Final Fantasy prompts #48

1. Jenova moms Cloud, but he doesn't realize it's Jenova.

Everyone else recognizes her in all her purple tentacly glory, but say nothing because Cloud hasn't looked this happy in years. Maybe its OK to let him live a lie, if only for a little while...

Also, they're kinda afraid of her

2. "Why do you live all the way out in the sticks?" Cid growled, munching on an unlit cigarette.

"Cause I can do this." He said, before whistling and promptly falling onto his back.

"What the hell are you even doing-" Cid began before they were both swarmed by dogs.

Big dogs, medium dogs, fluffy dogs, dogs with small tails so many dogs. Many of whom where licking the blonds face where he lay.

Aka Cloud owns a cabin in the woods for the sole purpose of getting swarmed by wild dogs and letting them lick his depression away.

3. Time traveler Cloud, but not quite.

Its a 12 year old escaped expirement created by fusing Clouds and Sephiroths DNA. S2, as he was labeled, kidnapped Cadet Cloud and kept the struggling blond with him as he traveled to the northern crater.

He keeps referring to Cloud as Mother and Sephiroth as Father, something that freaks Cloud out and made Sephiroth highly curious.

Upon closer inspection, the silverette saw peices of himself in the boy, in his eye shape, in his fighting style, and especially in his personality.

S2 dotes on his Mother, giving him everything he desires, everything but his freedom.

Cloud just has to get used to his life of semi-luxury...and being brodal carried by S2 and every gods damned SOLDIER he meets apparently.

4. RM Cloud wacking Sephiroth in the face with a broom. The silverette just stares at his puppet and says, "Really?"

5. Cloud finding Sephiroth in a moment of weakness and deciding a bit of revenge was in order.

6. Slightly unhinged time traveler Sephiroth x Slightly unhinged time traveler Cloud

7. Yuffie stalking different members of AVALANCHE out of boredom, only to wind up saving one of thier lives

8. Reeves Cait Sith dolls go rouge and declare war on the remaining SOLDIERS, believing that the living J cells in thier bodies were harming the planet.

Reeve doesn't want to hurt his sons. But Cloud has become something of a baby brother to him, and he would never forgive himself if something were to happen to the stubborn blond

9. Time traver Cloud coming to Aerith for advice after he lands, but she immediately sensed the Calamity from the Stars in him and started screaming bloody murder.

He had to fight Reno and Rude and easily defeated them, but by the time he was done, Aerith had escaped, leaving a confused and distraught blond.

He gives Reno an alias to protect his younger self and then promptly decides to GTFO.

Aerith winds up running into Tseng and Angeal, and she spills the beans about the Cetra and her heritage, as well as the Calamity and her child.

Angeal tries not to vibrate with excitement, after all, it looks like his lifelong dream of saving the world might be coming true. It seemed further reinforced by the fact the blond broke into the tower and freed several expiraments and killed many of the scientists. He was seen running off with a red lion-wolf creature before they lost track of him.

He, Aerith, Genesis, and Sephiroth wind up joining a party together to stop him. They essentially blackmailed the company to keep them off thier backs while they saved the world.

Cloud however, joined up with Nanaki and Vincent, but was also being targeted by the AVALANCHE of this time as well as thier own mad scientist, Fuhito, who's almost giddy that three of the esteemed professor Hojo's powerful expirements have escaped and are "Up for grabs"

Cloud may or may not also have a deal going with Jenova, who is offering him guidance with his new abilities as well as love. He knows she's manipulating him, but he feels so lost and vulnerable. He let her in and he wasn't even sure if he regrets it.

Also Jenova manipulating Sephiroth and his group by convincing them that she's "The Goddess Jenova" and revealed that she's Sephiroths mom. She convices them that the blond is evil and must be stopped. No one questions why she only speaks to them when Aerith is away.

Yeah, Clouds not having a good time. Kinda based off of another prompt of mine and I felt the need to expand on it. So, yeah.

10. The president, his son and the directors are killed off by Reeve, who has finally taken a stand and did a hostile takeover of the company.

11. Time traveler Reeve?

Better, Cait Sith gains sentience and time travels

12. Sephiroth revives again after the events of DeepGround and grabs up Cloud, embracing him like a lover as he flies into the air with him.

He basically tells Cloud that he's defeated him three times in a row, he's fascinated by him, and that Clouds going to be his bride.

Cloud is not okay with this

As it turns out, neither is Tifa, Clouds girlfriend.

The ensueing catfight is glorious

13. Cloud gets catcalled more often than anyone in thier little group. Apparently, he's a living creeper magnet, he couldn't tell you how many times people have just disregarded his personal space, bought him crap expecting a 'favor' in return, randomly touched his hair, bugged him for his number or a date, strait up tried to follow him home, ect.

The sheer entitlement both men and women seem to think they have over him is astounding. It's gotten to the point everyone has noticed and became protective of him. The blond himself? He's not afraid to make someone swallow thier teeth, regardless of gender.

14. Angeal loves photography, everyone knows that.

What people don't know is that he takes pictures of anything he deems beautuful. Birds, trees, flowers, clouds...406 pictures of the moon and even more of the stars. That was fine.

The problem arose when Genesis snooped through Angeals computer/apartment and found his secret photo collection. He swiped it and brought it to Sephiroths office to go through it with him.

Everything was normal, until they found a gorgeous picture of Genesis igniting his surroundings in flame.

Then they found some pics of Sephiroth standing in the moonlight with Masamune drawn. They were both extremely flattered by how lovely these were...until it got wierder. There were pictures of monsters, Cadets, Angeal's pup, Zack, several a few pictures of a blond trooper, an anthropomorphic cat with a cape and crown and...Turks?!

The worst part, however, was when they noticed that not a single person, not even themselves, where looking at the camera.

The fact they didn't remember having thier picture taken chilled them further.

Aka Angeal might have an addiction. Or an obsession.

15. Cloud has had a crush on Zack for a long time, but when Zack starts play flirting with him he thinks he has a chance and makes his move...and is promptly rejected.

Cloud plays it off as a joke and Zack buys it. The heartbroken blond finds a place to hide and quietly sob his eyes out.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, for him, he gets found and comforted by the Lord of Loveless himself, Genesis Rhapsodos.

Genesis had followed the subtle sounds of sorrow with the intention of either taunting the individual or reciting Loveless to them, as he adored a literal captive audience...but this...this was different.

He found himself rocking the pretty lovesick fool in his arms and mentally kicked himself for winding up in this situation.

On the other hand, he managed to score a date.

Bonus: Time traveler Sephiroth causing a scene by hard core flirting with CC Cloud and destroying a building and a man with a single swipe of Masamune, thus getting the attention of the entire Shinra army.

Fortunately the battle between the Sephiroths was cut short when Time traveler Cloud intervened with a spray bottle full of Aeriths holy water and essentially held him at gunpoint (spray bottle point?) as he retreated.

He fled before anyone could do much of anything, thus leaving everyone involved with so many unanswered questions.

[moonysfrexckles]

All The Gold In Between (OR The Marauders: Fifth Year)

July 1976

The roar of euphoria was deafening, spilling from grinning lips and erupting from horns and clappers that crackled every time someone ragged them above their heads. Students decked out in red and gold made their way up the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, feeling the familiar buzz of triumph settle in their veins and thanking their lucky stars that, whilst Slytherin might have caught the snitch, James Potter existed to grasp victory in the firm hold of his Chaser's gloves, reigniting their reign every time he potted the Quaffle through the hoops.

"Potter! We're going to crack open McKinnon's Firewhisky stash- you coming?" Davey Gudgeon yelled, hanging back and beaming like a lunatic.

James ran a hand through his hair. It was windswept, made cold from the rush of air that had breathed life into it just moments before. The grin sparking at his lips was legendary.

"No, I'm not drinking tonight," he said, adjusting his grip on his broom and jogging backwards to the changing rooms. He twirled around, cape kissing his ankles, and called, as an afterthought, "But save me some! I might change my mind."

He couldn't hear the reply over the din of his House, still cheering and chanting and singing songs about lions and snakes. His heart was thudding dangerously quick in his chest, beating so hard against his ribcage he was half-scared it would squeeze through the bone and pop out of his body completely. It would be easy enough to find it, James thought. If it wasn’t lounging in his Common Room with his brothers, it would be underneath the stars, spread out on the pitch he was leaving now. Or sidling up to a certain redhead, with absolutely no qualms about being rejected for the third time this year.

He winced at that, unstrapping the dragon hide gloves from his hands once he shouldered open the door into the changing room. It was empty. Sirius must’ve already buggered off to meet the others. James huffed an affronted laugh at the thought.

His ears were still ringing, and he shook his head to try and regain some sense of reality. Life always seemed to stop when he was flying; the wind would continue, patting his back as it raced on by, cheering his name and planting cold, sobering kisses on his skin. The ground would shrink below him, and the sky would beckon invitingly, stretched out like a wide, blue promise. He never knew what exactly it was promising, but he vowed to find out. One day, James would take to the skies and he’d never return.

“Honestly, Prongs, you’d think you were moisturising with how long it takes you to get fucking dressed!” exclaimed Sirius Black from the doorway.

James whirled round to grin at him.

Sirius had already shrugged out of his Quidditch robes, though he remained in the cream leggings and Gryffindor striped jumper; his boots were laced up to his knee, hair still somehow impeccably in place (a feat James never seemed to manage, even when he tried) and arms folded across his broad chest.

“Perhaps if some bloody prat hadn’t left me, I’d be ready sooner,” James replied indignantly.

Sirius pushed himself off the doorframe. “We both know that’s a lie,” he said. “You’d purposely take longer to punish me for not redirecting the Bludger Pucey aimed at you.”

James scowled at that, reaching up absently to stroke the whisper of a bruise left on his arm. “That fucking hurt,” he murmured.

“I don’t doubt it,” responded Sirius, eyes glinting with amusement as they surveyed his friend. “That’s kind of the point of them, is it not?”

“Then what’s your job?” James inquired. “To fly there and look pretty?”

Sirius brushed his hair from his eyes, lavishly extending his arms. “Well, if you must know-”

“Shut up, Black.”

The two boys shared a secret grin, eyes meeting in an incendiary collision of euphoric momentum. They were both burning.

"A certain redhead looked awfully pleased when you winked at her today," commented Sirius, idly picking at something under his fingernail.

James tried to keep his voice neutral, though his ears perked up regardless. "Oh?"

"Yes. And a certain greasy haired bat couldn't look more disdainful if he tried. He set Peter's robes on fire again you know. Just before the match started."

"Oh."

James felt a frown pull at his face.

"Don't worry, Remus managed to put him out before the fire could spread," assured Sirius. "But still... it's more the fact this is the eighth time he's gotten in our way just this month. Really, Snivellus needs to be put down."

"He gets as good as he gives," James reminded him softly.

Sirius spluttered in outrage. "We retaliate. It's called defending your honour, James. Something that the Snake clearly doesn't have-!"

"Still," James sighed, running his fingers through his hair again. Sirius' eyes followed the action. He often pondered on whether his friend's hair was just naturally as stubborn and stuck up as it was, or whether years of worrying it like that had caused it to remain fixed in position from pure habit.

"Don't tell me you're starting to feel sorry for Snape," he said finally, tearing his eyes away.

James shot him a look that obviously implied he was barmy. "Of course not." He started pulling off his helmet and chest gear. "He chose his path. We chose ours. I don't want to be affiliated any more than I have to with someone who dabbles in the Dark Arts for fun."

Sirius was quiet for a moment, and all that could be heard was James' occasional scuffle and huffed swearing as he struggled to disrobe.

"Leaves no question about whether he's going to join that Anti-Muggle group on the rise, does it?" Sirius asked finally. His tone was flat and it seemed he wasn't really asking at all, more stating it as fact.

James paused. "I just don't get what Lily sees in him," was all he said, before dropping the subject entirely.

It didn’t take him long to shove his broom and gear into a locker, planning to return for them later, and he and Sirius left the changing room, hearts still fluttering with the excitement of flying and the thrill of victory. James slung an arm around his friend, dragging him close. Though Sirius was tall, he could still fit snugly under James’ chin and the latter seemed to enjoy hauling him into his side and laying his cheek against the top of Sirius’ head. Sirius would allow himself to melt for just a second, eyes closing in the embrace, before he would wrench away, indignantly spluttering that he was a man! Goddamnit! A tall, six foot man who would not be namby-pambied! But- no, James don’t leave-

They made their way across the grounds, separating from the few stragglers still meandering up to the castle from the pitch, and bee-lined to their tree by the Black Lake. It was tucked away, not necessarily secret as the tree was visible from almost any window you bothered to look out of. Even so, the Marauders had claimed it as their own, occupying the small grassy mound, where the lake lapped the flowers and the sun soaked into the naked branches of the spindle tree. It seemed to have been charmed, for it was the only tree, in the whole of Hogwarts, that shivered in summer and bloomed bright, beautiful flowers in winter.

Sure enough, they could see the other two of their group lounging in the shade of it, and sped up their pace to meet them.

“Did you get waylaid in the changing room or were you just that drunk on victory that you lost your senses?” questioned Remus Lupin, not even bothering to open his eyes when their shadows blocked out the sun. He was laying on his back, hands cushioning the crown of his head.

Peter offered them a wave from where he was stood at the water’s edge, skimming stones across the shimmering black surface of the lake, trousers rolled up to his knees.

“Both, since you asked,” replied Sirius. “James attacked me as soon as I walked through the door. It was passionate and steamy. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Lovely,” Remus cracked an eye open at that, regarding him distastefully. “That was just the image I needed to pervade my mind on this fine day.”

Sirius grinned at him. “What can I say? It’s a service.”

James shook his head, throwing himself down beside Remus. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a rather rumpled looking Snitch. It fluttered its crushed wings, stretching them languidly, and he let it go, watching with keen eyes as it sped around his head, before his hand shot out and he caught it again. Remus’ eyes followed the action, before he turned his head away and scoffed.

“School property, James,” he reminded. “I could report you for this.”

He tapped the glowing Prefect badge pinned to his robes.

“But you won’t. I’m making the most of my resources. As a Prefect, would you dare get in the way of education?”

"I'm not sure how that works."

James merely sent him a dazzling grin, before making a grand show of releasing the snitch again. Remus rolled his eyes.

Sirius sat down beside the pair of them, stretching his legs out and tipping his head back. The sun beamed down on him, warming his face with ephemeral bliss. He felt his joints ache and clench from the match, and his heart beat steadily against his chest. He could hear a bird singing nearby and the gentle skip of the stones Pete sent flying across the lake, tripping over the dark water. Sirius could feel all of life's intricacies as though they were a part of him; the water trickled through his veins, the sun blushed his cheeks, each of Peter's stones dropping down his gullet and thudding against his ribcage, in tune to the beating of his heart.

He opened his eyes, and looked around. James was leaning against the tree, head back as his eyes followed the little snitch as it buzzed around him. Occasionally, his hand would dart out to catch it, but he mainly sat still and watched it fly, a pensive expression softening his angular face.

Sirius' eyes fell on Remus then. His friend was looking worse for wear, more tired than usual, with purple crescents weighing down his eyes and white skin. Something snagged in Sirius' throat and he swallowed thickly to clear it.

He knew what night it was. They all knew. Though the topic barely left their lips, it haunted each of them and had done since third year. Sirius didn't know his class timetable, but he knew every moon cycle.

"You're staring at me," Remus murmured suddenly.

Sirius jumped and looked jerkily away. Remus' eyes peeked open. His lips quirked upward, but there was a minuscule strain that made his smirk resemble more of a grimace.

“I don’t mind,” he added and in a dry voice said, “I have been told I am a wonder to look upon.”

Sirius snorted. "You sound like me," he noted in amusement.

Remus only looked mildly offended before his face split into a grin. There was no hint of pain this time. "You've rubbed off on me."

"Please, you rubbed off on me more like!" Sirius exclaimed. "I thought for sure your angelic, innocent act was legitimate. And then not two days later, you'd blown up Nott's cauldron for calling Evans a Mudblood!"

"Don't mistake angelic for just, Padfoot. The two are very different."

They stared at one another for a moment, a slight crease between Sirius' eyebrows as he regarded his friend.

"Hey, Prongs!" yelled Peter abruptly, and Remus tore his eyes away.

James caught the snitch easily and looked at their fourth friend. "Yeah, Pete?"

Peter grinned. His bulbous cheeks, red from the heat of summer, lit up in pride and he waved the stone in his hand up in the air and said, "Watch this."

Screwing his face up in concentration, he flicked his wrists a few times before stopping and shifting his grip on the slim stone in his hand. Then, he swung his arm back and it went flying across the water.

One.

Two.

Three.

James sat up straighter.

Four.

Five.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

Six.

Seven.

Sirius' mouth dropped open.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten and the stone sunk.

Peter spun around, eyes alight with obvious glee. He held his short arms out and said, "What was that? ‘Oh, Peter, you’re so talented and exceptional at throwing stones. I’m so lucky to be your friend!’?”

Remus let out a small laugh and commented, “Because throwing stones really wins you the ladies, Peter. You should show your impressive skills off to Mary someday.”

“You mean, when he finally manages to speak to her,” said James, raising his eyebrows. Peter blushed, arms dropping back to his side.

"What about you and Evans?" he demanded, but there was no real heat to it, more of a stammer.

James frowned, and he released the snitch, lulling it into a false sense of security; four eyes tracked it then-

His hand closed around it tightly, and the feathers shivered from between his fingers.

There was a moment of silence and then James held it up cockily for them all to see, and said, "She's warming to me. You just wait. I'm going to marry Evans if it's the last thing I do."

"Judging by her contempt for you, marrying her would be the last thing you'd ever do," rationed Remus, pushing himself up. He winced, and Sirius fought the urge to reach out and stabilise him.

"Yeah, she'd murder you on your honeymoon," added Peter, once he stepped out of the water and started making his way towards them. Sirius slid his wand from his pocket and cast a drying charm on his legs, earning a grateful grin from him as he tumbled to the floor with them and began rolling his trousers back up.

The four boys sat there, basking in the summer sun, wishing this was a carelessness they could afford to drown themselves in. Alas, it was not.

“Are you ready for tonight?” asked James delicately. His eyes remained adamant on the snitch, but the worry creasing them was obvious.

Remus didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to stare up at the branch-fractured sky, face blank as a slate, before he said, “I don’t think I will ever be ready for it.”

And the conversation was left at that.

It was only hours later, when the sky began getting streaked with oranges and pinks that they clambered to their feet and trudged their way up to the castle; James made a quick detour to drop the snitch off and collect his Quidditch gear. Dinner was well underway, and they heard the din of chatter through the slit in the heavy oak doors but passed straight by and headed instead to the kitchens. So caught up in their newfound determination for the oncoming night, and the anxious coil of their stomachs, they did not see the black eyes that followed them, nor catch the malicious sneer tainting his face.

They didn’t waste much time in the kitchens, only ate what the House Elves had saved them, before they were hurrying back through the castle to the Common Room. They only reached the Entrance Hall when they were stopped.

“Sneaking off again, are you Lupin?” a voice drawled from the shadows.

Remus’ body seized up. James slipped his wand into his hand, twirling it through his fingers as Severus Snape stepped into the light.

“Oh, Snivellus,” delighted Sirius, though the snarl was biting and sharp. “Shouldn’t you be playing with your chemistry set?”

Snape’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “Shouldn’t you be running off to get ready for whatever you wander off for once a month?”

Remus swallowed thickly, eyeing the Slytherin. His face was waxy and pallid. “What do you want, Snape?” he asked tiredly.

“Nothing you, nor your equally dim-witted lackeys, could give me, I assure you, Lupin.”

“Then, please, have some courtesy. You go back to your dormitory. We’ll go back to ours.”

It seemed this had gotten through to him, for he didn’t reply and the Marauders turned on their heel to leave, just as Snape called out, “It’s a full moon tonight. Are you aware, Lupin?”

Sirius whirled on his heel and he was upon Snape in an instant, shoving him roughly into the brick wall. He relished in the way the other boy winced, no doubt as the stone dug into his back, and a trickle of fear lighted his dark eyes when Sirius’ wand pressed into the hollow of his throat.

Then, Snape began to smirk.

Sirius ragged him forwards by the scruff of his shirt and rammed him into the wall again.

“I don’t know what games you’re playing at, Snivellus,” he spat, bringing his face close to Snape’s and speaking in a deadly, low voice so that no one else could hear, “but you need to learn when to keep that abnormally, large nose of yours out of other people’s business.”

“What happens in the Whomping Willow, Black?” Snape asked silkily.

Sirius smiled at him, and it was twisted and ugly. His murmur was barely distinguishable but Snape heard it nonetheless. “Poke the knot at the bottom and find out.”

“Sirius,” James warned, for what seemed like the seventh time. As he was about to drag his friend off the other boy, Sirius stepped backward, dropping Snape and he tumbled against the wall roughly. “That’s enough.”

Sirius’ eyes didn’t waver from Snape’s until James hauled him around, and the Slytherin watched darkly as the Marauders continued down the corridor, before disappearing around the corner. Snape reached up and touched the delicate spot at his neck. He was burning.

He climbed to his feet, ignoring the stinging of his skin, and set off in the opposite direction, cloak swishing behind him.

oOo

The grounds were silent, tucked up in a blanket of obdurate darkness, where nothing stirred nor dared to whisper in the moonlight. There was something tempting about the night, however, as though it were simply holding its breath with anticipation. Trepidation lay heavy and thick on the air.

And then, movement. The door to the castle breaking open- there was a pool of light that flooded onto the grass, before it was swallowed once more in shadow. A figure, swathed in black, made its way across the pathway, descending the small hill, before stopping just out of range of the dozing tree.

The tree did not seem sinister. It shook off dead leaves, every now and then, but other than that, remained peaceful. The figure cast an immobilising spell on its branches just in case.

When he was sure it was frozen, he edged closer to its trunk, kneeling down and fumbling for the knot in the roots. His hand found it and he pressed down, silently cursing when nothing happened. But surely enough, the tree’s branches seized up and a small opening presented itself at the very base of the trunk. Though he knew he didn’t have much time, his fingers grazed the scratch marks engrained deep in the wood, and a nasty sneer twisted his lips.

He crawled inside.

The tunnel was so obviously fashioned by magic, for the walls were smooth and held up by no visible force. His knees tripped over protruding rocks, and he could feel the dirt stick to his hands, but he made himself continue on, only stopping when the hole he had climbed in through was a mere pinprick of satin midnight, and he reached a trapdoor above his head. He pushed it open and pulled himself up.

This was not what he had expected.

He was somehow sitting in a house, of some sort, however dilapidated it might be. The floor was filthy and scuffed, the walls were wooden panels that were falling apart and every window had been barred, once or twice over. There were no lights, and Snape cast a quick ‘Lumos’ so that he could see. He got to his feet.

The more of the house he saw, the clearer it was that no one had stepped foot in here in years, decades even. Every room he peeked into was barren and neglected. It seemed as though the house had been dead for a long time, with no flicker of life to taint it.

That was when he heard it. A low whining. Coming from somewhere ahead.

Snape continued his perusal, wand held in front of him, cloak clipping his ankles. With each step, the whining grew louder and more desperate. There was a panicked scratch at the door just ahead of him. The whining stretched on, increasing in volume and vigour.

His hand reached for the handle-

Someone wrenched him back, fist tangled tightly in the material of his robes, ragging him about. Snape grappled for the doorknob but whoever was holding onto him had a secure grip and was not letting go. He tried to kick behind him.

“What are you doing here?”

He stopped. He recognised that voice.

“Potter?”

Sure enough, when he managed to get free, and could turn around to face his assailant, he saw James Potter standing in front of him. Though perhaps ‘standing’ was the operative term, for the taller boy was leaning against the wall as if for support, clutching his side and wincing every time he breathed. His hair was a mess, more so than usual, sticking to his forehead from sweat, and there was dirt clinging to his cheeks and hands.

“What are you doing here, Snape?” he asked once more. Though visibly shattered, his eyes remained clear behind his glasses.

Snape sneered at him. “Black invited me.”

James’ face went white. He shook his head, and muttered, more to himself, “Sirius wouldn’t do that.”

“Really? Then how would I know to press the knot at the base of the-”

James blinked, seemingly remembered he was there and said, “Sirius would never tell you.”

Snape scoffed condescendingly. “Then how am I here, Potter?”

But James couldn’t reply. There was a bang, a crash from further down the hallway, before a howl cut through the silence. Both boys shot to look in the direction it came from. The sound echoed through the night.

James didn’t waste a second. He leapt forward, grabbing hold of Snape and shoving him in front of him, pushing them both back to the trapdoor.

“Whatever it is you’re hiding here, Potter, you won’t get away with it. You, or your merry band of imbeciles,” Snape snarled over his shoulder, though he found his feet more than willing to comply with James’ ushering.

James glanced behind him. He was deadly serious. “You can’t comprehend anything past your vicious prejudices and sick fancies, Snape. You have no idea-”

When they got to the trapdoor, Snape hauled himself away, holding his wand against James’ throat. James eyed it cautiously, lip darting out to wet his dry lips.

“No idea about what?” he demanded.

As if on cue, a howl cut through the house again, only this time it was followed by a splintering thud, louder and heavier than the last. Both boys watched the ceiling shake, sawdust raining down.

A rat scuttled along the bannister and past their feet. James’ eyes followed it.

He looked quickly back at Snape and said, “Go back to the castle. Climb into bed and pretend this never happened.”

Snape let out a derisive laugh. “And let you get away with whatever you’re doing here? No. This will get you expelled Potter. I’m sure of it.”

But instead of flustering, James just shook his head, almost sadly, and said, “Snape… I’m going to ask you one more time. Please. Leave.”

Snape smirked. He raised his wand, and pointed it right between James’ eyes, a curse brewing at his lips.

The opportunity was ripped away from him as there was another bang. James’ eyes widened, and his chest heaved. He jumped down into the trapdoor, wrapped his fingers around Snape’s ankle and lugged him down with him. Snape kicked to relinquish his hold, swearing and hissing, trying to twist so he could use his wand and curse the bastard-

Then, from around the corner, something appeared. It was huge, scrawny but tall, spanning the doorway above them. Its eyes gleamed yellow, narrowed to slits, and it was panting and drooling. Snape could only stare at the beast, feeling his heart stop in his chest.

James tugged the door down, hastily sliding his wand out and locking it tight.

“Werewolf,” Snape murmured. The trapdoor above their heads shook violently and he jumped. James just stared at the ground unflinchingly. “It makes sense.”

“Are you happy now?”

Snape looked up to stare at James’ blank expression.

“You nearly killed yourself. If I hadn’t been there-”

Snape scoffed. “Oh, spare me, Potter. You saved yourself.”

James’ face changed then, and he shook his head. “Yeah. Because I was scare I would get the blame for this when there’s nothing at all to incriminate me. Some things are more important than reputation, or a petty feud.”

“Like the full moon?”

Snape’s face contorted into a smug and sickening sneer. James simply said, “Tell anyone and I will make whatever fate could have made of you up there look merciful. I will make you regret the day you walked into my compartment on the train. Do you understand me, Snape?”

Snape’s lip just curled, and he began to crawl back along the tunnel, ignoring the way the trapdoor still shuddered and jerked from the other end every few minutes, and the rumbling growling. Just before he clambered out into the cool night breeze, he heard James’ voice float back to him, dejected and tired:

“Oh, Sirius. What have you done?”

oOo

“What were you thinking?”

The words were hushed and stolen, spoken to the silence and Remus knew, blearily, that he was not supposed to be able to hear them.

“James.” That was Peter, quiet, timid. “Keep your voice down. Remus is sleeping.”

There was a shuffle from beside him, the scraping of a chair against the stone floor. It made his head ache, and he wanted nothing more than to burrow deeper into his pillow, but he kept still. Though his body ached all over, and there was something stinging, and he knew he should rest, he needed to listen to this conversation.

He heard James swallow. “You know how he gets in that house! He goes stir-crazy!”

“I didn’t mean-”

Sirius.

“You didn’t mean what?” James demanded in a whisper. His voice was strained, almost agonised. “You knew what would happen! There was only one possible outcome to that… Are you stupid? Are you actually stupid, Sirius?”

There was no reply. Then, there was a long, strenuous sigh.

“Why did you do it?”

Nothing.

Then-

“I wasn’t thinking.” The excuse was small, intangible. Then, it grew in desperate vigour. “I was just so fed up with him looking at us like he knew us, acting like he could set Peter on fire whenever the fuck he wanted, like he knew about Remus and could treat him however the fuck he wanted- you heard him, he mentioned the Full Moon-”

“He was grasping for straws, Sirius,” said James tiredly. “He was monitoring you for a reaction.”

“Then why-”

“You didn’t see his face. You didn’t see Snape’s face when he saw it.”

James’ voice was so low, Remus almost didn’t catch the words. Almost. They sent a ripple of panic through him, hurting more than any scratch or bruise or broken bone could, feeling as though someone had winded him. His eyes grew hot. He wanted nothing more than to be alone.

It.

He’d been called that before. More than once. The first was by his father, in another conversation Remus shouldn’t have been listening to. His father had been arguing with his mother, claiming that this wasn’t natural in the Wizarding World, this… infliction. Remus had heard the shouting from his room and had crept out of bed and sat at the top of the stairs to listen, fighting the urge to run and hug his mother when he heard her start crying. His father had broken down and told her he couldn’t do it, that whatever was sleeping in his son’s bed, it wasn’t their son.

That had broken Remus’ heart.

“You’re just much more extraordinary than you realise.”

This felt like setting it on fire.

Sirius

The burning spread across his heart quickly, devouring it in agony, soaking it in a betrayal so profound and cutting he could only ask why.

Why did you do it?

When his friends had first shown him their animagus forms, he had cried, sobbed. The thought that someone, never mind his three brothers, loved him enough to do that had rattled him to his core. He had never thought anyone could love a monster. Remus had never thought anyone could ever love him.

And yet, his friends had disproved that. They’d kept his secret, bandaged his wounds, brought him hot chocolate when he was feeling low and handed in their homework under his name if he was feeling stressed about the Full Moon. They had loved him with so much vigour and passion, Remus was sure he had felt it resonate inside of his soul and perch there like a butterfly.

That butterfly fell limp now, landing in his gut with a dull thud.

Snape knew.

Oh God. It was over. Word would be out tomorrow, and the owls would come flooding in. Parents wouldn’t want their children gallivanting around with a werewolf. The mere notion was taboo. Dumbledore would have no other choice. He would never see his friends again.

Remus started crying, and when his friends realised he was awake, he moaned in pain and pretended it was the agony of his joints forcing tears from his eyes. He couldn’t even look at Sirius, as Madam Pomfrey was alerted and she bustled over to force a few more nasty tasting potions down his throat, but he caught James’ eye. He’d always found James the unwavering candle in the darkness, like some sort of pillar to lean against and look for in times of need, but even his eyes were poison. They held pity and, worst of all, they held fear.

Pure, undulated fear.

oOo

There were no owls.

Though Remus had held his breath and closed his eyes each time the mail came soaring in through the open window, there had been no gasps of horror, no frightened looks shot his way. He sometimes felt Snape’s eyes on him, though he ignored them. Things almost went back to normal.

There was that word again. Almost.

He had not spoken to Sirius properly since that night, nearly two weeks ago. It wasn’t that he refused to, simply that he had convinced himself he had buried the pain, and it was easier to leave it in the ground than to drag it all up and face again. Remus pretended that the image of his betrayal festering in his bone marrow did not keep him up at night, alongside images of his werewolf self mauling Snape before being carted off to Azkaban.

They had been sitting under their tree again, sunshine drying up any conversation they might’ve had. Lunch was nearly over, however, and it was with heavy legs that they’d decided to head back up the grounds to the school.

“Snivellus!”

Remus felt his breath catch in his throat. His heart dropped.

James had his wand out first, eyes deceptively clear of the disdain that marred his face. Remus didn’t know why he was doing it; he could see the reluctance coiled tight in the set of James’ broad shoulders, and how his knuckles were turning white.

Snape eyed the four of them with open distaste.

“Potter,” he spat.

Without warning, he was hoisted into the air, held at the ankle by an invisible rope. His books fell from his arms, bag slipping over his shoulder. He spluttered furiously.

James kept his wand trained on him. “I learnt that from you. You wrote it in the margin of your Potions book, remember? I’ve been curious to know what it does for a while now, and honestly, I was expecting something darker.”

He swallowed, moving closer, pulling Snape down so he could murmur, “Remember our deal.”

Snape spat at his shoes. “What deal? I don’t recall making one with you-.”

James’ lips tightened into a line. He jabbed his wand sharply, and Snape went hurtling to the ground, stopping short when his head was a few centimetres away from colliding with the dirt. A crowd had assembled at some point, and there was a ripple of gasps across them.

“Don’t tell anyone, or this will only get worse.”

The two stared at one another, as colour rapidly rushed to Snape’s head. Finally, he relented and snarled viciously, “I’m not going to cross my heart, Potter. Lift me back up!”

James did so, realising this was the best he was going to get to an unspoken promise. The counter-curse was about to touch his tongue, when his attention was snagged by a certain redhead barging her way through the throng of people watching.

“Potter! Let him down!”

Lily Evans stopped directly ahead of him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with fury. They flicked up at Snape, and she faltered ever so slightly before her glare hardened and she refocused on James.

“Evans, this has nothing to do with you,” Sirius told her disinterestedly.

Remus had to check himself to hold back the laugh that had nearly forced its way out of him. If Sirius thought he could use that tone with Lily Evans and escape unscathed, he clearly hadn’t learnt anything in the past five years. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Don’t you dare, Black! This has everything to do with me!” she fumed. “I am a Prefect! If you think your tyranny of this school will continue next year, then you are sadly mistaken-"

Sirius lowered his wand a little. "Did she just call us tyrants?" he asked, amused.

Lily wasted no time. She took full advantage of his distraction and disarmed him in a heartbeat, catching his wand in her free hand. Remus rolled his eyes. They made it far too easy for her.

"Now, put him down."

James just stared at her. There was a small crease between his eyebrows, as though some sort of battle was being waged within his eyes, something that was causing him stress. It disappeared too quickly for Remus to place what it was, and his cocky facade slipped back on in no time.

"I will if you go out with me, Evans," he grinned.

Lily regarded him in disgust. "Not even if it was a choice between you and the Giant Squid!"

"Hey now!" Sirius called, pointing a finger at her. "That's not fair! One's a handsy, hideous face-sucker and other is a ridiculously large squid. That's no fair comparison. It's the squid every time."

James shot him a look.

Lily chewed on her lip, glancing up at Snape again, who had stopped wriggling and was turning purple.

"I mean it, Potter! Just put him down! This stupid war has gone on for long enough-!"

"Stop it!" Snape spat out. The blood rushing to his head made his words gargled. "Just stop it! I don't need help from a filthy, little Mudblood!"

James, who had been in the process of lifting his wand to utter the counter-spell, stopped. His face grew murderous; there was no flicker of doubt across it.

"How fucking dare you," he said quietly, then roared, "She is twice the witch you will ever be a wizard!"

He started forward, fuelled on his rage, eyes livid and set on his target, hand wrapped tight around his wand. Lily ran in front of him.

"No!" she screamed. She pointed her wand at his chest.

Her face was red, almost as red as her hair, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. James deflated, arm dropping to his side.

"Lily, I-"

"No! Potter, I don't need your help! You are nothing more than an arrogant, bullying toerag!" declared Lily vehemently, throwing herself away. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes.

"Lily-" Snape began, and his voice was low and desperate.

She straightened, hand still clutching her wand. Her eyes slid to him. "Do you still intend to join the Death Eaters?"

Snape opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. The two best friends stared sullenly at one another.

At his prolonged silence, Lily's eyes widened fractionally, as if she hadn't truly believed it. Her face grew cold soon after and she said, "Have fun, Snivellus. Let's see how you get out of this one without your 'filthy Mudblood.'"

With that, she turned on her heel and started back towards the castle. Remus could hear her small whimpers, and shook his head, wishing his hearing wasn't so in tune to the suffering of the world. James' eyes followed her the whole way.

"You fucking idiot," he said, looking at Snape with thinly veiled disgust. "Did you not listen to what I said to you?”

Snape could only stare at him, hatred bubbling in his black eyes. James raised his wand, let it linger between those same eyes, and Remus sucked in a breath. There was a stolen second of silence where the world dropped away, and Remus was sure it was just Snape staring at James and James staring at Snape; two boys on different sides of a brewing war, two ideals boiled down to the basic symphony of school rivalry.

Then, James’ arm dropped to his side, and he started walking away, calling over his shoulder, “Hang in there, Snape,” though his usual vehemence was absent. Sirius followed after him, directing a quick spell and Snape’s pants flew down to his ankles. He struggled violently.

Remus started forwards. “James,” he began. The other boy didn’t even slow his pace. Peter patted his shoulder as he passed, giving him a small, hopeless look.

He continued after his friends, head down, feeling his head spin and his stomach grow cold. As he passed, he paused, eyes sliding over Snape’s discarded wand. Remus clenched his jaw before he swooped down and picked it up, holding it out for Snape to take.

The Slytherin eyed him for a moment of disdain.

Remus sighed. “Are you really going to let pride stop you from taking it? You’re hanging upside down with your underwear on show.”

Snape snatched his wand and Remus nodded tiredly, not staying to see him mutter the counter-curse and fall to the ground, as he set off up the hill to the school.

oOo

August 1976

It was a stormy night. Ravaging winds and eviscerating rain had swept in from the West, following a summer of nothing but eternal sunshine and hot spells. The skies were dark and swirling, and the road shone slick with water.

The old manor house stood largely unaffected, solid and unwavering in the face of such an onslaught. The trees groaned, shifting with the weight of the wind ploughing into their trunks, and there was a little broom shed that’s foundations looked as though they would be pulled from the earth and the wooden panels of the walls would go splintering. Other than that, there was nothing.

Until a figure appeared out of nowhere.

It was largely unremarkable, for the wind made one’s eyes hard to trust, but one minute there was solitude and silence, and with the next bout of storm, a boy stood in its place.

He was relatively tall, though his body was racked, and he was shivering violently. He ran with fear lacing his strides, clutching tightly at the thick cloak wrapped around him and lugging after his heels an old leather trunk.

The boy stopped only when he got to the house, collapsing against the doorway, gasping sharply for air. He knocked desperately.

There was no answer. Nobody even stirred.

But then, a light flickered on above him. And another. It was like a game of dominos, each light lit quicker than the last, until the door was flung open and a yellow warmth devoured him.

“Sirius?”

James Potter stood in the house, glasses shoved onto his nose, tired eyes slowly widening. His hair was stuck up in all possible directions.

Sirius tried to smile, but he could taste blood and knew it was more of a grimace.

“Dear Merlin,” James whispered.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Sirius offered quietly.

It was only then that James noticed the trunk behind him. He didn’t waste another second, throwing the door wider and ushering his friend inside, taking the trunk from his cold and clammy hands and hauling it into the entryway. The door slammed shut behind them.

James had seen many things in the five years he’d spent being friends with Sirius Black. He had seen him thrash around in the dead of night, pleading to an invisible man to stop, flinching and crying out when they didn’t. He had seen him determined and loving ferociously, stopping at nothing to make sure that Remus Lupin was not alone when the rest of society seemed to believe he should be. He had seen him cold, when the hatred burned through him, black as his namesake and eyes. He had seen him euphoric and free, laughing like nothing in the world could touch him and at one time, James had believed that to be true.

He had never seen him like this.

Sirius’ eye was swollen, purple and bulging, protruding from his ashen face like a stone from water. His lip was bust, still oozing blood, and there was a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, ugly and grey and pink. James knew that if he lifted Sirius’ shirt, even a fraction, he’d see identical bruises, like a meadow spreading up his skin.

He was shaking, trembling so vigorously, James was sure he would burst. He was convinced that Sirius would explode and everything he’d ever felt, everything he’d held inside of him, would come ricocheting out, all the red and gold and black traversing through his veins.

“I tried calling you,” he murmured. “On the mirror. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know where else to go-”

“Sirius,” whispered James, and he felt his throat close up. Without saying another word (he wasn’t sure he could), he pulled the smaller boy into his arms, hugging him so closely, so tightly, as if this embrace would make all of Sirius’ broken parts fit back together. But then James wondered if he wasn’t whole to begin with.

The two boys stood there, clutching onto one another so firmly they left marks. Sirius sobbed into James’ shoulder, fingers clenched around the material of his pyjamas and James didn’t mind that he was now as drenched and cold as the storm outside. His brother was safe in here, in his arms, and if it meant he had to hold him for an eternity, James would do so in a heartbeat.

“James, darling, what-?”

Euphemia Potter stopped at the foot of the stairs. She breathed in sharply, and her words were lost.

“Sirius, love, is that you? What’s happened? What’s-? Oh my.”

She didn’t wait any longer, rushing over and she bundled both boys into her arms, hugging them to her body as though they were till children in need of a mother’s embrace, and she felt Sirius cling to her, melt into her warmth.

Euphemia realised he had probably never felt the love of a mother’s embrace before. She made sure to hug him tighter.

She patted his back to let her go, pulling away and wiping at her eyes, sniffing resolutely. She cast a drying and warming charm on him, smiling softly, holding his face tenderly in her hands. “Love, we need to get you out of these clothes. You’ll freeze to death if not. James, run and get him some of your pyjamas.”

James seemed hesitant to leave his friend, but his mother’s eyes urged him and he set off at a sprint, returning mere seconds later with a pair of clean Quidditch nightclothes, emblazoned with snitches and Puddlemere United. Sirius hardly had the effort to jab at James’ shocking allegiances.

“Can you walk, dear?” Euphemia asked him, brushing away some hair by his eyes. Though her face didn’t show it, she wanted to flinch at the sight of him. A child. And yet, here he was, beaten and bloody, almost a pulp. She tried to lead him upstairs, but he collapsed in her arms. “No, it’s okay. We’ll get you on the settee for tonight and move you upstairs to your room tomorrow.”

With James’ help, they gently led Sirius over to the settee, and Euphemia procured blankets and pillows to wrap him up with. She flicked her wand and a fire leapt in the hearth, bathing the room immediately in heat.

“I’ll just go and get some balm for his eye, and see if we have any potions for his bruises. I-”

“Mum,” James cut her off.

She fell quiet and the two looked at the broken boy on their settee. He had settled into the cushions, burrowing into their warmth, with the blanket tucked right up to his chin. In the firelight, the purple of his face made him look haunted, nearly dead. James’ throat clenched up at the thought and he cast it away instantly, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

Euphemia felt her heart melt. A sad smile formed at her lips. “I’ll be right back.”

Luckily, because they had a son as danger prone as James, their medical cupboard was well-stocked, and she was returning in no time with the necessary balms and potions and a warm cloth to wipe away any blood, but as she stepped back into their living room, she stopped in her tracks.

James had climbed under the covers beside Sirius, and was snoring peacefully, the smaller boy tucked against his chest. He had his arm draped over her son’s waist, and every now and then, his hand would seize into a fist and he’d clutch the material of James’ shirt. James absently stroked Sirius’ hair.

Euphemia faltered.

She and Fleamont had always had trouble having children. They had thought, as old as they were, that they might be condemned to live in a big, empty house, happy and in love, though missing something, missing the echoing of laughter and the high-pitched glee that followed it, spiralling out of control, and yelling after ghosts that sprinted down the hallways and slammed doors and made messes in the kitchen, and trailed mud into the house after a day spent dancing in the rain-

The day she found out she was pregnant with James was the happiest of her life, and though he was her blessing and her joy, it had come at a cost, and she was warned that another childbirth would kill her. And so, the dreams of a big family with several children had bubbled down to one child, whom she loved with all her heart.

Now, however, she thought that wasn’t true.

She laid the tray of medicines down on the coffee table, before quietly moving over to her boys. She pressed a lingering kiss to each of their foreheads, and pulled the blanket further up, making sure it covered their feet.

Euphemia stopped in the doorway, looking back once more at her sons.

No, she didn’t have one child. She had two.

[sailorportia]

Daily Drabble, 10th of January

“A character shows off their pet“ Prompt from @writingprompts365

also available on Ao3

[previous drabble] [next drabble]

approx. 650 words

Little Witch Academia, Croix Meridies x Ursula Callistis

"I can't believe we're together again after so long," Ursula said cheerily. "It's like a dream come true."

"Not to put a damper on your happy mood, but I wasn't even in prison for a year," Croix said. She couldn't not point out the mathematical truth.

"Not even your nitpicking can ruin my mood today."

"Can I get that in writing?"

The already cramped room atop the astronomy tower was filled with boxes. Croix was moving in with Ursula and along with her came all of her stuff. She was hardly a materialist, but she couldn't bear to be parted from her mechanical doodads.

Naturally Ursula was the one carrying most of the weight. Croix hadn't exactly gotten a lot of exercise in the slammer, and as she kept telling her lover, Ursula had astonishingly well-developed muscles.

"This is the last one,"  Ursula said, hefting a medium-sized box. "Honestly, Croix. How many boxes of nuts and bolts do you need?"

Croix recognized the box. She snatched it from Ursula's hands and hastily opened it, dropping the box on the floor as soon as she retrieved its contents: one of her old "evolved" flying brooms.

"I thought you were supposed to get rid of those," Ursula said, eyeing the object with suspicion. "Why do you still have one of those old roombas?"

Croix hugged the roomba to her chest protectively. "They're called sorcery units, and his name is Rutherford."

"Why is it a boy?" Ursula asked. "It's a machine."

"He is a boy is because he's named after the father of nuclear physics," Croix replied. "Rutherford would be a terrible name for a girl."

Ursula crossed her arms. "You haven't explained why you still have it." Understandably, both the magical and non-magical worlds had mixed feelings about the technology which had caused so much chaos, some of it unintentionally.

"Because he's my baby and I love him!" Croix spoke with absolute sincerity, cuddling the roomba. "He's the only boy I've ever loved!" she exclaimed. "He's also the only boy who's ever seen me naked."

Ursula couldn't help but laugh. "I've never seen you get this worked up." She was almost jealous of the little vacuum. "You realize you're talking about a machine, right?"

"Come on, it's totally normal!" Croix said. As if a woman who once taught at a school while wearing a cape could ever be trusted on what was normal. "Tons of people bond with their roombas, and this one flies!"

The corner of Ursula's mouth twitched. "So you agree it's a roomba?"

Croix hand waved her slip-up. "There's nothing wrong with having a non-human companion. You have your stupid bird—"

Alcor squawked in protest.

"—and I have Rutherford. C'mon, Chariot. He doesn't make a mess. He actually cleans up my messes! And he's super cute while he does it!"

Ursula didn't want to tell her girlfriend no, but she suspected the rest of the faculty wouldn't be so hesitant. "You know why you can't keep it, right?"

Croix's face fell. "How could you turn this sweet, precious boy out onto the street?" She turned the roomba around and showed Ursula a small screen on its side: an emoticon face was displayed on it. "He has a face, Chariot! A face!"

"It... he has a face." Ursula knew it was just lights in a screen. Not a real face. And yet... it was cute. And surely one little mechanized vacuum couldn't cause too much trouble, right?

"Can we keep him?" Croix asked, her bottom lip wobbling like a child's.

"I suppose," Ursula conceded. "But if I see so much as a mean look from him, he's out of here."

Croix cheered. "Did you hear that, Rutherford? You can stay!"

Rutherford beeped in response. Croix patted the top of the machine and set him down on the floor, where he started sucking up dust.

"I can't believe you're so attached to something you step on and ride around on all the time," Ursula said.

Croix smirked. "Does that mean you don't love me?"

Ursula spluttered.

[thelanternlight]

Thoughts on Hocus Pocus 2

When I was about 9 I saw Hocus Pocus for the first time and fell in love with it. It has been my favorite movie of all time ever since. I wore out two VHS copies from playing it so frequently. My mother secretly confiscated the first one from me to keep me from playing it so often, lol. And I vividly remember trying to enlist my younger cousin to help write letters to Disney to make a sequel. And wwweeellllllllllllllllll before HP became the “cult classic” it is today, even before it was a blip on anyone’s radar after the Disney Channel began airing it every October for years, I was riding my bike with a cape on singing Come Little Children like the queer little weirdo I’ve always been. Therefore, please understand that I -emphatically- mean this when I say that I am extremely excited and worried and thrilled and anxious about what the sequel will be like, and that it’s even happening at all.

Edit (October 1st, 2022): I ADORED IT! Spoilers and my thoughts on the film below the break...

 I thought it was SO amazing and well-done! I loved that the opening was a ride through the sky, I loved the tie-in’s, I loved that the witches were completely themselves, I loved the details, the updated costumes, brooms, the new characters, the easter eggs, the upgraded special effects, ALL OF IT!!!

I loved the Witch Mother and I want to know who she is, where she came from, and where she’s been all this time since meeting the girls in the woods. Also where did -she- get Book and what was her relationship with it that she could give it away to this child she just met? And I would need to look back at the film to verify this but isn’t the eye on her costume the same as the one on the beaded curtain in the cottage/magic shop? Is there a special meaning to that? And is she literally their mother whom the ladies revere so much or is she just a mother figure? Why can she transform into a bird and why a bird?

Is Cobweb the cat a human that’s been transformed? What is the significance of him and what is greater role?

I have to admit that I was so DISMAYED when Book floated away from Winnie implying that it (he?) was abandoning/betraying her. That struck a very deep nerve with me, but then I realized that he was just trying to protect her from herself and using the Magicae Maxima spell.

I loved that Sarah and  Mary said their goodbyes just before disappearing the same way they did in the first film (and indeed all the little phrases that go by so quickly and sometimes so subtly you might not catch them).

I LOVED the musical numbers. I did not at all expect them to come out singing and yet there they were singing Elton John of all songs lollll LOVED it! And also completely LOVED the Blondie cover and how they owned the whole stage. From the interviews and other articles I expected the drag queens to feature more prominently and I’m so glad they didn’t because honestly it isn’t their show (though we were all happy to see them as a nod to the LGBT community who loves and supported Hocus Pocus as well as the three leading ladies in general). And I thought they sounded and looked GREAT! Absolutely terrific job.

Why were the three girls living alone in Salem? Where were either of their parents and where did they get the house? Who raised them?

I literally gasped when Sarah first send out a purple bolt of magic lightning and again when Mary did it! Oh my goooodddddddd it was so wonderful to see them come into more power even if only briefly (and true to their characters they didn’t really use them responsibly which is 100% hilarious and on-brand).

Did Mayor Trask have a crush on Sandy the candy-apple maker? Might that have been a side story that maybe fell by the wayside?

I loved that Mike was a delightful himbo who really didn’t mean any harm. It’s likely some leftover 90s cynicism, but there seemed to be an assumption that he would be a bully and I really appreciated that he wasn’t. Not just because it endeared him to us but because it meant Cassie is wise enough to be with a good guy, not a douche.

I loved how respectful of real witches the film was as well. Becca and Izzy are practitioners and while they certainly hear about how “weird” it is from Mike, the story implies that this is normal and completely acceptable and even good. It’s a bonding experience for the new girls as well, not just an element of “let’s have them do magic stuff” which is important.

And it was so FUNNY! It would have been all too easy to fall into the trap of doing slapstick and gimmicks and reusing old jokes (which was done but in such a cleverly handled way that it respected the old humor while also adding to it - I mean for goodness sakes, the “roombies” were not just a silly gag but also a somewhat major plot point as it helped them escape!). The actresses were hilarious in each their own ways and giving them this opportunity to shine more was so wonderful. And not just the humor but also their personalities in general. When Sarah held her head up and said “I AM NOT A FOOL!” there was a catharsis and a thrill of empowerment. I was scared that it was the beginning of some showdown between the sisters, especially when Winnie got zapped, but I was VERY relieved when the story didn’t take that route. But again I really loved that Sarah stood up for herself if only for a moment. It shows that she’s got so much more going on in her mind and that she does have feelings and they can be hurt. That was meaningful and beautiful.

I think the only thing I might have wanted that wasn’t there was a new ballad/lullaby from Sarah, but first of all how is anyone ever going to top Come Little Children and second, by reusing Come Little Children and doubling down on it being Sarah’s theme as well as a general witch spell (because the Witch Mother uses it) lends more credibility its use in the plot as a very potent incantation. Sort of the “go-to spell for luring children” rather than “I can sing anything and lure children” although that also was touched on when Mary and Sarah are attempting to harmonize in the circle of salt.

Most of all, and I really REALLY RREAALLLLLLLLLLYYY mean this with the whole of my heart... I LOVE that the sister’s bond and love for each other was what won out in the end. I know they were murderous child-killers and deliciously evil but they also loved each other. Even ramping up their power, and even Winnie becoming the most powerful witch of all time was not worth losing her sisters. It would have been so easy to make them fight each other and have that be their undoing but ultimately they were sisters first and witches second. Winnie turned down all that power and indeed life itself in order to be with Sarah and Mary. It was emotional and beautiful and absolutely worthy of being the big finale.

It truly was an absolutely magical delight. I don’t know if I should hope for a third because as Kathy Najimy said in an interview, it wrapped up so beautifully and felt like a very good place to end. That said, I can’t enough of them and would fully embrace a third movie. There are so many paths it could take and so many possibilities and storylines that could be explored. But all things considered I’m immensely overjoyed with Hocus Pocus 2 and I think everyone in the film did a magnificent job. There’s so much heart in this movie and it shows in every scene. Nothing was half-baked or phoned in and there’s a quality to it that’s just magic. Loved it. Love love LOVED it so much!!!

[crimsonslytherin]

I’ll Be Your Reason - Chapter 6

(First) - (Previous)  

Words: 3101

A/N: A/N: So in the book they go through 4 “trials” before getting to the stone (not including the troll really) so I included the fourth, Snape’s challenge. I didn’t do word for word from the book but just know that it’s obviously not my idea. Just like last time, I swapped out Hermione with Fiona and changed up the lines some though.

“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry until you’ll talk to me?” Draco hissed as quietly as he could as he faced Fiona in potions before class started. She ignored him and continued to make sure she had everything for their final. “Would you at least look at me?” he asked. “You can’t blame me for being scared!” he hissed making sure to be quiet enough so only she heard him. “I-I didn’t mean to leave you with that thing… Gaunt….” Draco let out a sigh, seeing she wasn’t going to acknowledge him any time soon. He turned in his seat and leaned on his books, sulking. Snape, who had been sitting at his desk watching, frowned. Draco gave him a slightly forced smile before he went back to looking miserable.

…

The next afternoon, after their last final the four Gryffindors were walking in the outdoor courtyard.

“I've always heard Hogwarts' end of the year exams were frightful, but I found that rather enjoyable,” Hermione said.

“Speak for yourself. All right there, Harry?” Ron asked.

“My scar. It keeps burning,” Harry said.

“It's happened before,” Hermione said.

“Not like this,” Harry said.

“Perhaps you should see the nurse,” Ron suggested.

“I think it's a warning. It means dangers coming. Uhh!” He rubbed the scar and then saw Hagrid across the field, at his hut. “Oh. Of course!” He started heading that way.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“Wait up,” Fiona said as the three followed him.

“Don't you think it's a bit odd that what Hagrid wants more than anything is a dragon, and a stranger shows up and just happens to have one?” They approach Hagrid, who was playing his flute. “I mean, how many people wander around with dragon eggs in their pockets? Why didn't I see it before? Hagrid, who gave you the dragon egg?” Hagrid stopped playing. “What did he look like?”

“I don't know. I never saw his face. He kept his hood up.”

“The stranger, though, you and he must have talked.”

“Well, he wanted to know what sort of creatures I looked after. I told him. I said, ‘After Fluffy, a dragon's gonna be no problem.’”

“And did he seem interested in Fluffy?”

“Well, of course he was interested in Fluffy! How often do you come across a three headed dog, even if you're in the trade? But I told him. I said, ‘The trick with any beast is to know how to calm him. Take Fluffy, for example, just play him a bit of music and he falls straight to sleep.’” The four gaped at each other. “I shouldn't have told you that,” Hagrid said. The four took off running. “Where you going?! Wait!”

…

The four ran into McGonagall's classroom and up to her desk where she sat. She looked surprised as they reached her desk, out of breath.

“We have to see Professor Dumbledore, immediately!” Harry exclaimed.

“I'm afraid Professor Dumbledore is not here. He received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and left immediately for London,” she informed them.

“He's gone?! Now? But this is important! It's about the Philosopher's Stone,” Harry said. McGonagall looked shocked.

“How do you know about-?”

“Someone's going to try and steal it,” Harry insisted.

“I don't know how you four found out about the stone, but I can assure you it is perfectly well-protected. Now would you go back to your dormitories? Quietly,” she said. The four left and walked down a hallway.

“That was no stranger Hagrid met in the village. It was Snape, which means he knows how to get past Fluffy,” Harry said.

“And with Dumbledore gone,” Hermione said. Snape suddenly appeared behind them.

“Good afternoon.” The four turned to him. “Now, what would four young Gryffindors such as yourselves be doing inside on a day like this?”

“Uh...we were just,” Hermione started.

“You want to be careful. People will think you're…” he noticed Harry glaring up at him, and looked surprised. “up to something,” he finished before leaving.

“Now what do we do?” Hermione asked.

“We go down the trapdoor. Tonight,” Harry said.

  _________________________

That night the four went down the stairs and headed across the common room. They stopped when they heard a croaking.

“Trevor,” Harry said.

“Trevor shh! Go, you shouldn't be here!” Ron whispered harshly to the toad.

“Neither should you,” Neville said as he appeared from behind a chair. “You're sneaking out again, aren’t you?”

“Now, Neville, listen. We were-“ Harry started.

“No! I won't let you!” Neville stood. “You'll get Gryffindor in trouble again! I-I'll fight you.” He held up his fists.

“Neville, I'm really, really sorry about this,” Hermione said as she took out her wand. “Petrificus Totalus.” Neville was frozen and Fiona caught him as he fell backwards. She lowered him to the ground gently as Hermione put her wand back. Ron gulped.

“You're a little scary sometimes...you know that? Brilliant, but scary,” Ron said.

“Let's go,” Harry said. “Sorry,” he said down to Neville as he passed.

“Sorry,” Hermione said.

“It's for your own good, you know,” Ron said before he walked passed. Fiona grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it under Neville’s head.

“Sorry, Neville,” she said before following after the others.  

…

The four were huddled under the Invisibility cloak as they snuck along the corridor.

“Ow! You stood on my foot!” Hermione hissed.

“Sorry,” Ron said. A flame lit nearby. Hermione drew out her wand and pointed it at the door.

“Alohomora.” The door opened and they went in.

“Wait a minute...he's....” With a blow of air the cape fluttered off them. “sleeping,” Ron finished.

“Snape's already been here. He's put a spell on the harp,” Hermione noticed. They approached the sleeping dog.

“Uh. It's got horrible breath!” Ron groaned.

“We have to move its paw,” Harry said.

“What?!”

“Shh!” Fiona gave Ron a look.

“Come on!” Harry grabbed its paw, which was blocking the door. “Okay. Push!” They strained and move it. They opened the door and crouched by it. “I'll go first. Don't follow until I give you a sign,” Harry told them. None of them noticed the music had stop or that Fluffy's eyes had started to open. “If something bad happens, get yourselves out...” Harry stopped. “Does it seem a bit...quiet?” Harry asked.

“The harp. It stopped playing,” Hermione said. Drool from one head came down on Ron's shoulder.

“Ew! Yuck! Ugh.” All four kids looked up and saw Fluffy standing there. Fluffy barked and growled, thrashing.

“Jump! Go!” Harry shouted before they all jumped through the trapdoor, the dog trying to fit a head down into the trapdoor but failing.

“Ahh!” Ron screamed.  He gasped as he landed on some mushy black ropelike vines. “Whoa. Lucky this plant-thing is here, really.”

“Whoa!” Harry landed a few feet from him. The plant began to move towards them. “Oh. Ahh!” The plant tied them up, wrapping around them.

“Hermione, what is this?!” Fiona squeaked as she struggled.

“Stop moving, all of you,” Hermione instructed. “This is Devil's Snare. You have to relax. If you don't, it will only kill you faster.”

“Kill us faster?! Oh, now I can relax!” Ron shouted. Hermione managed a smile as she was sucked down below.

“Hermione!” The two boys shouted.

“That’s not reassuring!” Fiona shouted but then relaxed the best she could, letting out a slow breath.

“Fiona!” The boys shouted as she too was sucked down below. Fiona landed on the ground below and Hermione helped her up. They could hear the two above them.

“Now what are we gonna do?!” Ron asked as he struggled.

“Just relax!” Hermione shouted up to them.

“Hermione! Where are you?!” Harry asked.

“Do what I say. Trust me,” she insisted.

“You’ll be okay!” Fiona shouted. Harry relaxed and was sucked through. Fiona helped him up after he hit the ground hard.

“Ahh! Harry!” Ron shouted.  “Harry!”

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked Harry.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he said.

“Help!” Ron screamed.

“He's not relaxing, is he?” Hermione asked.

“Apparently not,” Harry said as he shook his head.

“Help! Help me!”

“Ron!” Fiona shouted but he didn’t hear her over his own screaming.

“We've got to do something!”

“What?” Harry asked as he looked around.

“Uh! I remember reading something in Herbology,” Hermione said. “Um Devil's Snare, Devil's Scare, deadly fun...but will sulk in the sun! That's it! Devil's Snare hates sunlight!” She took out her wand and pointed it upwards. “Lumus Solem!” A beam of light shot out. The Snare shrieked and recoiled. Ron fell below with a scream.

“Ron, are you okay?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay,” Harry said as he helped him stand.

“Whew. Lucky we didn't panic!” Ron said. Fiona face palmed.

“Lucky Hermione pays attention in Herbology,” Harry pointed out. There was a fluttering sound coming from the next room.

“What is that?” Hermione asked.

“I don't know. Sounds like wings,” Harry said. They entered into a room filled with golden things flying around.

“Curious. I've never seen birds like these,” Hermione whispered.

“They're not birds, they're keys. And I'll bet one of them fits that door,” Harry said.

“And there’s a broom,” Fiona pointed out as they came upon a broomstick, suspended in the air. “Looks like this one’s up to you then,” she said looking at Harry.

“What's this all about?” Hermione asked.

“I don't know. Strange,” Harry mused. Ron crept over to the door and took out his wand. He rattled the lock.

“Alohomora!” he tried and when nothing happened he shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“Ugh! What're we going to do? There must be 1000 keys up there!” Hermione exclaimed.

“We're looking for a big old fashioned one. Probably rusty like the handle,” Ron figured.

“You’re our seeker, Harry,” Fiona said. “If anyone can find it…” Harry scanned the keys.

“There! I see it!” He pointed to it. “The one with the broken wing!” He looked down at the broom.

“What's wrong, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“It's too simple.”

“Oh, go on, Harry! If Snape can catch it on that old broomstick, you can! You're the youngest seeker in a century!” Ron exclaimed. Harry nodded and grabbed the broom. All the keys suddenly went one direction, right at Harry. He climbed on, swatting at them. “This complicates things a bit!” Harry pushed off into the air. He flew off, after the key. It didn’t take long for him to grab the key.

“Catch the key!” Harry shouted. He zoomed by and threw the key to Hermione, who caught it and headed for the lock while Harry distracted the other keys by continuing to fly around. Hermione put it in the lock.

“Hurry up!” Ron shouted. The door opened, and Hermione, Fiona and Ron rushed through, followed by Harry on the broom. They shut the door just as the keys slammed up against it. They entered a dark room, with large broken pieces of what looked to be ceramic all around it.

“I don't like this. I don't like this at all,” Hermione said.

“Where are we? A graveyard,” Harry guessed.

“This is no graveyard,” Ron said with a sigh. “It's a chessboard.” He walked out onto the marble board and flames lit, illuminating the board and the giant pieces. The others came up with him.

“There's the door,” Harry said. They started to walk across the board, towards the door. Suddenly, as they reached a line of pawns, the pawns brought up their swords to block them. The four jumped and backed up.

“Now what do we do?” Hermione asked.

“It's obvious, isn't it? We've got to play our way across the room,” Ron said.

“Play?” Fiona asked. “I’m lousy at chess,” she said shaking her head.

“Ron will get us through this one,” Harry said giving Ron a nod. Ron nodded back.

“All right. There are only two empty spots… Harry, you take the empty Bishop's square. Hermione, Fiona, together you'll be the Queen's side castle. As for me, I'll be a knight.” The two girls took hands and everyone moved to their places. Ron climbed up onto a knight.

“What happens now?” Hermione asked.

“Well, white moves first, and then...we play.” A pawn on the other side moved forward. Ron studied the game.

“Ron, you don't suppose this is going to be like...real wizard's chess, do you?” Hermione asked. Fiona looked at her.

“What’s real wizard’s chest?” she asked as her eyes widened slightly.

“You there! D-5!” Ron called. A black pawn moved forward, diagonal to the white pawn. The white pawn raised its swords and smashed the black one. The four jumped. “Yes, Hermione. I think this is gonna be exactly like wizard's chess.”

Ron directed the game. Each side lost pieces until there weren’t many left. Both Harry and Ron studied the board.  

“Wait a minute,” Harry said.

“You understand right, Harry? Once I make my move, the Queen will take me...then you'll be free to check the King,” Ron said.

“No, Ron! No!”

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“He's going to sacrifice himself!”

“Are you mad?!” Fiona exclaimed.

“No, Ron, you can't!” Hermione shouted. Ron closed his eyes. “There must be another way!”

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?” Ron asked as he looked at her. “Harry, it's you that has to go on. I know it. Not me, not Fiona, not Hermione, you.” Harry nodded. Ron took a breath. “Knight...to H-3.” Ron's horse moved forward, slid to the side and stopped. He gulped.  “Check.”  The Queen turned and advanced. Ron breathed faster, clutching the steel reins. The Queen stopped before smashing the knight. Ron went flying off the horse with a scream and landed on the floor, unconscious.

“RON!” Harry shouted.  Hermione started walking to him but Fiona pulled her back as Harry shouted. “NO! Don't move! Don’t forget, we're still playing.” Hermione reluctantly nodded. Harry walked the diagonal in front of the King. “Checkmate!” The King’s sword fell onto the ground. Harry breathed out and then the three ran to Ron. They bent beside him. “Take care of Ron. Then, go to the owlery. Send a message to Dumbledore. Ron's right...I have to go on.”

“You'll be okay, Harry. You're a great wizard, you really are,” Hermione said.

“Not as good as you,” Harry said. She smiled, chuckling slightly.

“Me? Books and cleverness? There are more important things. Friendship, and bravery. And Harry, just be careful.” He nodded and stood. Fiona stood as well.

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“No, Fiona-“ Harry shook his head.

“We’ve gone through three things already, there’s going to be a fourth, one for each house; you might need me.”

“Fiona’s right, Harry,” Hermione said. “We've had Sprout's, that was the Devil's Snare; Flitwick must've put charms on the keys; McGonagall transfigured the chess pieces; that leaves Snape's,” she said. “We all know out of the four of us Fiona’s best at potions.” Harry frowned but nodded.

“Alright,” he said. The two headed to the door and pulled it open to see just a table with seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a line. "Snape's," Harry said. "What do we have to do?" They closed the door behind them and as soon as they were far enough away from it a purple fire sprang up behind them.  At the same time, black flames shot up in the other doorway on the other side of the room. Fiona approached the table and picked up a paper. “What is it?”

“It’s… a riddle.”

“Didn’t think Snape would be one for riddles,” Harry muttered. Fiona read from the paper, aloud.

“’Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;

Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.’” She finished. “Of course it’s not magic, it’s logic.”

“Logic?”

“Yeah. Snape doesn’t like magic in his class, why would he have it be part of this?” she said. “A lot of the greatest witches and wizards haven't got an ounce of logic in them, they'd be stuck in here forever."

“But not us, right?” Harry asked. “Can you figure it out?”

“Maybe not as fast as Hermione could but everything we need to know to figure it out is on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison; two are wine; one will get us safely through the black fire, and one will get us back through the purple.”

“But how do we know which to drink?”

“Give me a minute,” Fiona said. She looked at each of the bottles before looking at the paper. Harry watched her look between the two a few more times. “Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire -- toward the Stone.” Harry looked at the tiny bottle.

“There's only enough there for one of us," he said. "That's hardly one swallow.”

“Well, I don’t need to take that one.”

“Which one will get you back through the purple flames then?” Harry asked Fiona pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

“You drink that,” Harry said. “Go back, find Hermione and Ron. Make sure you’re all safe.” Fiona nodded. Suddenly she hugged him. “I got lucky once, didn’t I?” He put his arms around her. “I should be fine,” he said. Fiona pulled back.

“You better be,” she said making him smile.

“You drink first,” Harry said. "You’re sure which is which, right?"

“Positive,” she said. She took a long drink from the round bottle at the end and shuddered.

“It's not poison?” Harry asked anxiously. Fiona shook her head.

“No, but it's like ice.”

“Quick, go, before it wears off,” he said.

“Good luck, Harry,” Fiona said walking backwards towards the purple fire. He nodded and watched as she turned and went safely through the flames.

_____________________________

(Next Chapter)

A/N: Just a reminder that Snape’s riddle is from the book, it’s not mine.

[operation-firecobraclaw]

Ahhhhhh! Thanks for always being such an awesome blog! Can I ask for HP! Au? I personally picture Shiro as Gryffindor and Keith as Hufflepuff, but up to you.

Ahhh, thank you for following!!  As a Hooflepoof myself, I was happy to write Keith as one, haha. :)  I hope you like it!

The last thing Keith could clearly remember was reaching for the snitch, his fingertips mere inches away from the darting, golden ball.  After a sudden, brutal blow of pain to his shoulder, his memory was broken up into hazy, flashing images of his rapid descent, his yellow cape whipping around him as he hurdled toward the ground.

Then nothing.

Keith was roused awake by the sound of hushed voices.

“I can’t believe Shirogane left the goalposts.”

“It’s a good thing he did.  Keith might be in worse shape if he hadn’t.”

“Look, he’s waking up.”

Keith wearily turned his head as his eyes fluttered open, and it wasn’t until then that he realized his entire body ached.  When his vision cleared, he glanced around the hospital wing; beside Hunk and Matt who stood beside his bed, the room was vacant.  “Did someone take a bat to my shoulder or what?” he groaned.  He tried to sit up, but he felt a hand gently press down against his chest.

“Sorry, Keith,” Hunk said with a sympathetic smile.  “Madame Pomphrey’s keeping you overnight and wants you to take it easy.  That bludger really did a number on you.”

“Great,” he sighed, his head sinking back into the pillow.  He grimaced, recalling how close he had been to catching the snitch.  “I almost had it.  That would have been a hundred-and-fifty points for Hufflepuff, and I blew it.  Why didn’t I see that bludger coming?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.  It happens to even the best players,” Matt reassured as he set a few books down on the nightstand beside the bed.  “Brought some study material.  Still got that exam on counter-jinxes tomorrow.”

Keith muttered out a quiet “thanks.”  He paused, furrowing his brow when he remembered something Matt had mentioned.  “Hey… Did you say Shirogane left the goalposts?”  He suddenly felt embarrassed at the thought of Shirogane seeing him fail so badly.  Why did his first quidditch match have to be against Gryffindor?  Why did Takashi Shirogane have to be their captain?

More importantly, why did Keith have to be so damn smitten with him?

He watched his two friends exchanged bemused looks.  “What?”

“You.. don’t remember?” Hunk quirked an eyebrow.

“No…?”

“Well,” Matt started, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “Shirogane kind of… snatched you out of the air when you fell off your broom.  Saved you from a pretty bad fall.”

Keith gave a series of rapid blinks, feeling the disbelief strike across his face.  “He.. what?”

Hunk nodded.  “He was actually here earlier.  Wanted to make sure you were okay.  He looked pretty worried.”

“I.. um..” It was sinking in slow, and Keith didn’t know what to think.  Shiro interrupted a quidditch match for him?  What did that even mean?  Keith wasn’t so sure he could chalk it up to he’s just being nice this time.  That same annoying flutter he felt in his chest whenever he spoke to Shiro was all too lively at the moment.

“Get some rest, will you?” Matt chided as he folded his arms across his chest.  There was a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he knew more than he was letting on.  “C’mon, Hunk.”

“Wait, Matt, does he… do that often?”  It was a stupid question, and the hope Keith could hear in his own voice made him feel stupid too.

“What – completely abandon his quidditch post in the middle of the first game of the season to rescue the opposing team’s seeker from plowing to the ground?”

Keith rolled his eyes, glancing away from them as he felt a flush of heat fill his cheeks.

Matt shrugged a nonchalant shoulder before turning to leave.  “Only for the ones he really likes.”

The grand hall was buzzing with chatter, and today’s hot topic was Gryffindor’s quidditch captain and his heroic rescue of Hufflepuff’s seeker – much to Shiro’s dismay.  

“Your boyfriend just left the hospital wing.”

Shiro didn’t look up from his book when Allura sat beside him, her voice chiming in a little too happily this morning.  “Not my boyfriend,” he muttered, turning the page despite no longer absorbing the text.  He would never give Allura the satisfaction of knowing she’d successfully distracted him with just the mere mention of Keith.  

“For the time being,” she countered, nudging him with her elbow.  “He’s in the courtyard right now, if you want to say hi.”

He gave her a sideways glance before shutting his book and getting up from the table.  As soon as Allura opened her mouth, he lifted a finger to stop her.  “Ah, ah!  No.  I’m going to class.”

Of course, he had to walk through the courtyard to get to class and therefore inevitably run into Keith.  He turned to leave but not before catching the knowing grin that spread across Allura’s lips.

Sure enough, he saw Keith at the east end of the courtyard, sitting in the grass with a book in his lap and his back against a tree. Curiously, six or seven canary birds flitted around him, seeming to gravitate around his person without straying too far from his reach.  Shiro stopped a few feet from him, his eyes widening as they flickered from bird to bird.  

“The Avis charm?” he asked in disbelief.

Keith seemed to jump at his voice, recovering a moment later to greet him.  “Oh!  Hey, Shiro.  Yeah, been working on it for awhile.  I think I finally got it down.”

“I’ll say.” He chuckled as one of the canaries landed on his outstretched hand.  It picked at the feathers under its wing before taking flight again.  “These are really good, Keith,” he commended, not making any attempts to hide in his voice how impressed he was.  In his fifth year, Keith mastered a spell that was taught only to sixth-years.  “I can barely conjure one, maybe two on a good day.”

Keith sat up a little, as if he wasn’t expected the compliment, and he gave him a small yet appreciative smile.  “Thanks, Shiro.”

“Hey, so…” Shiro started, taking another step forward.  “I just wanted to make sure you were feeling alright.  Tough break with the bludger.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he replied with a shrug.  He looked up then to meet Shiro in the eyes, his countenance as sober as ever.  “I did want to thank you for the save.  I could still be in the hospital wing right now if it wasn’t for you.”

Shiro’s voice was caught in his throat for a brief moment as he was caught off guard – and not for the first time – by Keith’s unusual yet stunning amethyst-grey eyes and the sincerity that they held.  The words finally came to him, a soft smile forming on his lips. “You’re welcome.  I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Keith returned his smile with a warm one of his own.  “Thanks… again.”

A small moment of silence stretched between them, and Shiro decided that he was just going to do it.  He was going to ask him out.  Easy.  So easy that the thought alone made his chest feel tight and his cheeks burn hot.  He blurted out, “Hey so I was wondering–”

He was cut off by the clock tower bell, its deep ring resounding over the school grounds.  Shit, I’m late.  Of course.  Shiro scratched the back of his head, a nervous laugh escaping him.  “Ahh, forget it.  I’ll see you later, okay?”

Keith’s head tilted to the side, curiosity showing clear on his face, but he didn’t press the matter. “Sure thing.  See you later, Shiro.”

As Shiro made his way to class, now out of Keith’s view, he tilted his head back and breathed out an audible sigh.  

Now to just… build up the courage to try that again next time… Great.

[Prompts n’ thangs!]

[networkingdefinition]

Chimneys Quotes

Official Website: Chimneys Quotes

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• A cold blast hit him and he laughed at the sting as he stepped outside, surveyed the night sky, and drank deeply. Such a good liar he was. Such a good one. Everyone thought he was fine because he’d camo’d his little problems. He wore a Sox hat to hide the eye twitch. Set his wristwatch to go off every half hour to beat back the dream. Ate though he wasn’t angry. Laughed though he found nothing funny. And he’d always smoked like a chimney. – J.R. Ward • A factory can be closed down, its chimneys smokeless, waiting for the worker to come back to his job, and all will be peaceful. But the moment workers are imported, and the striker sees his own place usurped, there is bound to be trouble. – Charles M. Schwab • A legal broom’s a moral chimney-sweeper, And that’s the reason he himself’s so dirty – Lord Byron • A Mocking Bird regularly resorts to the south angle of a chimney top and salutes us with sweetest notes from the rising of the moon until about midnight. – John James Audubon • A picture without sky has no glory. This present, unless we see gleaming beyond it the eternal calm of the heavens, above the tossing tree tops with withering leaves, and the smoky chimneys, is a poor thing for our eyes to gaze at, or our hearts to love, or our hands to toil on. – Alexander MacLaren • Accurately recalling an entire day of fishing is like trying to push smoke back down a chimney, so you settle on these specific moments. – John Gierach • And further, I tell you that the Jew is right, when he acts as he does – because we are too timid to be as German as the Jew is Jewish! … It happened at the time of the [Bavarian] Soviet Republic: When the unleashed subhumans rambled murdering through the streets, the deputies hid behind a chimney in the Bavarian parliament. – Julius Streicher • And so there would always be more to remember that could no longer be seen…our history is always returning to a little patch of weeds and saplings with an old chimney sticking up by itself…and here I look ahead to the resting of my case: I love the house that belonged to the chimney, holding it bright in memory, and love the saplings and the weeds. – Wendell Berry • And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is now only a ruined chimney rising our of a grassy and weed-grown cellar? They offer their fruit to every wayfarer–apples that are bitter-sweet with the moral of times vicissitude. – Nathaniel Hawthorne • Anyone who is not an anarchist agrees with having a policeman at the corner of the street; but the danger at present is that of finding the policeman half-way down the chimney or even under the bed. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • As artists and traders in medieval cities began to form organizations, they instituted tough initiation ceremonies. Journeymen in Bergen, Norway, were shoved down a chimney, thrown three times into the sea, and soundly whipped. Such rites made belonging to the guild or corporation more precious to those who were accepted, and survived. – Isaac Asimov • As for me, I rarely write a song. But when I do write a song, like “Ain’t No Chimneys in the Projects,” which came to me at three a.m. one morning, on a whim – I get a percentage. • At present I am using a good sized bedroom in the 2 bedroom house here as a studio, and it is large enough to step back from my canvases, and has a good north light. It should serve very well until I can afford to have the storeroom half of the back building lined and insulated and a chimney put in. That may be in about two years. – E. J. Hughes

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Chimney', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_chimney').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_chimney img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Back up shall we? When my brother, the crazy chicken warrior, turned into a falcon and went up the pyramid’s chimney with his new friend, the fruit bat, he left me playing nurse to two very wounded people—which I didn’t appreciate, and which I wasn’t particularly good at. – Rick Riordan • Been having a fight with your blankets, Septimus?” A familiar voice echoed down the chimney. “Looks like you lost,” the voice continued with a chuckle. “Not wise to take on a pair of blankets, lad. One, maybe, but two blankets always gang up on you. Vicious things, blankets. – Angie Sage • Brands were a by-product of having great products and communicating them well to people. Power stations that generate a lot of electricity probably have a lot of steam coming out of the chimneys. That doesn’t mean to say that the engineers stand around working out how to make more steam. – Hans Snook

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling] • Christmas Pie Lo! now is come our joyfull’st feast! Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, And every post with holly. Now all our neighbours’ chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with bakemeats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if for cold it hap to die, We’ll bury it in a Christmas pie, And ever more be merry. – George Wither • Even the pictures I was doing at college – a little narrative based on a butterfly catcher, or a chimney sweep – the images were always telling stories. They were all scenarios and moods which I storyboarded and worked through – it’s exactly what I do now. – Tim Walker • Every head turned to see two more security guards appear, each holding a Bagshaw by the back of the neck (which might have been considerably less conspicuous had the Bagshaws not been dressed as chimney sweeps). Kat turned back to Hale. ‘The Mary Poppins?’ ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. – Ally Carter • Every year, dads will dress up as Santa and try to surprise their kids by coming down the chimney, and every year, a dad gets stuck and dies. -Kyle Dunnigan • Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun Nor the furious winters’ rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. – William Shakespeare • From whence it happens, that they which trust to books, do as they that cast up many little sums into a greater, without considering whether those little sums were rightly cast up or not; and at last finding the error visible, and not mistrusting their first grounds, know not which way to clear themselves; but spend time in fluttering over their books, as birds that entering by the chimney, and finding themselves enclosed in a chamber, flutter at the false light of a glass window, for want of wit to consider which way they came in. – Thomas Hobbes • Gain may be temporary and uncertain; but ever while you live, expense is constant and certain: and it is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel. – Benjamin Franklin • Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust. – William Shakespeare • Halfway down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. The street is Pyncheon Street; the house is the old Pyncheon House; and an elm-tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon Elm. – Nathaniel Hawthorne • Have you noticed how nobody ever looks up? Nobody looks at chimneys, or trees against the sky, or the tops of buildings. Everybody just looks down at the pavement or their shoes. The whole world could pass them by and most people wouldn’t notice. – Julie Andrews • He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. – Charles Dickens • I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt; I am lean with seeing others eat – O that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone; then thou should’st see how fat I would be! But must thou sit and I stand? Come down, with a vengeance! – Christopher Marlowe • I got a flue shot and now my chimney works perfectly. – Steve Martin • I have discovered the secret of happiness – it is work, either with the hands or the head. The moment I have something to do, the draughts are open and my chimney draws, and I am happy. – John Burroughs • I have never felt like I was creating anything. For me, writing is like walking through a desert and all at once, poking up through the hardpan, I see the top of a chimney. I know there’s a house under there, and I’m pretty sure that I can dig it up if I want. That’s how I feel. It’s like the stories are already there. What they pay me for is the leap of faith that says: ‘If I sit down and do this, everything will come out okay.’ – Stephen King • I reveled in the smallness, the coziness of an upstairs bedroom in a traditional American Cape Cod house the half-floor that forces you to duck, to feel small and naive again, ready for anything, dying for love, your body a chimney filled with odd, black smoke. These square, squat, awkward rooms are like a fifty-square-foot paean to teenage-hood, to ripeness, to the first and last taste of youth. – Gary Shteyngart • I wander thro’ each charter’d street, Near where the charter’d Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg’d manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry Every black’ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier’s sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro’ midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot’s curse Blasts the new born Infant’s tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. – William Blake • I was lookin’ high an’ low for them Reds everywhere, I was lookin’ in the sink an’ underneath the chair. I looked way up my chimney hole, I even looked deep inside my toilet bowl. – Bob Dylan • I wish we could grow up about it, I’m sure we are contributing to global warming, and we must do all we can to reduce that, but our climate has always changed. The Romans had vineyards in Yorkshire. We’re all on this bandwagon of ‘Ban the 4×4 in Fulham’. Why didn’t we have global warming during the Industrial Revolution? In those days you couldn’t have seen across the street for all the carbon emissions and the crap coming out of the chimneys. – Alan Titchmarsh • I’d like to start with the chimney jokes – I’ve got a stack of them. The first one is on the house. – Tim Vine • If a man will kick a fact out of the window, when he comes back he finds it again in the chimney corner. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • If SANTA CLAUS came down the chimney in a f**king jogging suit, you wouldn’t even know it was him. – Wayne Coyne • If you cannot avoid a quarrel with a blackguard, let your lawyer manage it, rather than yourself. No man sweeps his own chimney, but employs a chimney-sweeper, who has no objection to dirty work, because it is his trade. – Charles Caleb Colton • If you really think there’s a Santa, why don’t you sit on the front steps all night in the freezing cold and see if he climbs down any chimneys tonight. Good luck. And since we’re a family that isn’t lucky enough to have a chimney, how would Santa get into our house? Does he bring a locksmith with him? And it probably would have to be a Jewish locksmith, because a Christian locksmith is going to want to be home with his family. And how many Jewish locksmiths are there? None. – Lewis Black • I’m not an author, I’m a writer, that’s all I am. Authors want their names down in history; I want to keep the smoke coming out of the chimney. – Mickey Spillane • In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are halfconcealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends…. We enjoy now, not an Oriental, but a Boreal leisure, around warm stoves and fireplaces, and watch the shadow of motes in the sunbeams. – Henry David Thoreau • Infectious disease is one of the few genuine adventures left in the world. The dragons are all dead and the lance grows rusty in the chimney corner. … About the only sporting proposition that remains unimpaired by the relentless domestication of a once free-living human species is the war against those ferocious little fellow creatures, which lurk in dark corners and stalk us in the bodies of rats, mice and all kinds of domestic animals; which fly and crawl with the insects, and waylay us in our food and drink and even in our love – Hans Zinsser • Is Adrian here?” “Who?” “Adrian. Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes.” She frowned. “Do you mean Jet?” “I … I’m not sure. Does he smoke like a chimney?” The girl nodded sagely. “Yup. You must mean Jet. – Richelle Mead • It is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel. – Benjamin Franklin • It is far more probable that our senses should deceive us, than that an old woman should be carried up a chimney on a broom stick; and that it is far less astonishing that witnesses should lie, than that witches should perform the acts that were alleged. – Michel de Montaigne • It is this refrain that we hear repeated by everyone: you are not at home, this is not a sanatorium, the only exit is by way of the Chimney. (What did it mean? Soon we were all to learn what it meant.) – Primo Levi • Its tall chimneys throw up black smoke, impregnating everything with soot, and the miners’ faces as they traveled the streets were also imbued with that ancient melancholy of smoke, unifying everything with its grayish monotones, a perfect coupling with the gray mountain days. – Che Guevara • It’s understandable that people are keeping one eye on the pot and another up the chimney. – Kevin Keegan • Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o’erflow with wine… The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. – Thomas Campion • Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o’erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. – Thomas Campion • Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and ’twill out at the key-hole; stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. – William Shakespeare • Maybe that whole love thing is just a grown-up version of Santa Claus; just a myth we’ve been fed since childhood. So, we keep buying magazines, joining clubs, and doing therapy and watching movies with hit pop songs played over love montages all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney. – Meg Ryan • Morality has in the past made progress when we broadened the category of things we weren’t permitted to harm (animals, ‘infidels’); saw through some delusions and rationalisations about what harms are good for people themselves (prison punishment, hysterectomies for unhappy 1950s wives); and readjusted our for-the-good of others criteria so as to demand only reasonable sacrifices (ceasing to use children as handy chimney sweeps). – Catherine Wilson • Most religion-mongers have bated their paradises with a bit of toasted cheese. They have tempted the body with large promises of possessions in their transmortal El Dorado. Sancho Panza will not quit his chimney-corner, but under promise of imaginary islands to govern. – James Russell Lowell • My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie. – Diane Setterfield • My neighbor’s not even listening to me. He’s all excited about some garden hose he bought at Brookstone. He’s convinced it was designed by NASA. “Actually, it’s got two nozzles, one for the hot and one for the…” Really? Is it long enough to go around both our necks and the chimney so we can tandem jump off of this? That’s all I really care about you and your little garden hose. – Bill Burr • My once-keen analytical mind has become so dulled by endless hours of baking in the hot sun, thrashing about in tight chimneys, pulling at impossibly heavy loads, freezing my ass off…. so that now my mental state is comparable to that of a Peruvian Indian, well stoked on coca leaves. – Warren G. Harding • Nick, fetch my car, fetch my clothes, sweep the chimney, make my bed, watch my psychopath, fetch my slippers.’ Yeah, I’ll fetch those slippers and stick them someplace real uncomfortable. I swear, my mother should have named me Fido. (Nick) – Sherrilyn Kenyon • Nick, fetch my car, fetch my clothes, sweep the chimney, make my bed, watch my psychopath, fetch my slippers. – Sherrilyn Kenyon • No amount of rationalisation, reform, or Freudian analysis can quite annul the thrill of the chimney-corner whisper or the lonely wood. – H. P. Lovecraft • No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing. The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful? – Bertrand Russell • Non- Euclidean calculus and quantum physics are enough to stretch any brain; and when one mixes them with folklore, and tries to trace a strange background of multi-dimensional reality behind the ghoulish hints of Gothic tales and the wild whispers of the chimney-corner, one can hardly expect to be wholly free from mental tension. (Dreams In The Witch-House) – H. P. Lovecraft • Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a billingsgate fishwoman blush! – Agatha Christie • Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fire-place in the room into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burnt wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy. – Charles Dickens • One day the wind blew through the town, and oh, how merry it was! It whistled down the chimneys, and scampered round the corners, and sang in the tree tops. “Come and dance, come and dance, come and dance with me,” that is what it seemed to say. – Maud Lindsay • One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way. – Vincent Van Gogh • One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent. – Wallace Stevens • Our secret thoughts – do they ever show up? The small flame of our soul can be burning hot, but no one comes to its warmth. Passersby see only a small whiff going through the chimney. Don’t we need to take care of that flame, cherish it and patiently wait until someone will come and sit at it, do we? – Irving Stone • P.S. If it’s not a secret, will you tell me how you got my dollhouse inside our living room last Christmas? I know its too big to fit down the chimney. I measured. – Joanne Fluke • Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney’s shadow. – Denise Levertov • She finds tales everywhere, in grains of sand she picks up from the garden, in puffs of smoke that drift out from the chimneys of the village, in fragments of smooth timber or glass in the jetsam. She will ask them, “Where did you come from? How did you get here?” And they will answer her in voices very like her own, but with new lilts and squeaks and splashes in them that show they are their own. – David Almond • She grew more and more silent about what really mattered. She curled inside herself like one of those black chimney brushes, the little shellfish you see on the beach, and you touch them, and then go inside and don’t come out. – Janet Frame • She’d become a governess. It was one of the few jobs a known lady could do. And she’d taken to it well. She’d sworn that if she did indeed ever find herself dancing on rooftops with chimney sweeps she’d beat herself to death with her own umbrella. – Terry Pratchett • Silkes and Satins put out the fire in the chimney. – George Herbert • Sitting by the chimney corner as we grow old, the commonest things around us take on live meanings and hint at the difference between these driving times and the calm, slow moving days when we were young. – Rebecca Harding Davis • Smell and taste are in fact but a single composite sense, whose laboratory is the mouth and its chimney the nose. – Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin • Smoke like a chimney, work like a horse, eat without thinking, go for a walk only in really pleasant company. – Albert Einstein • Snowstorms may yet whiten fields and gardens, high winds may howl about the trees and chimneys, but the little blue heralds persistently proclaim from the orchard and the garden that the spring procession has begun to move. – Neltje Blanchan • Soldiers in peace are like chimneys in summer. – William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley • Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare. – William Butler Yeats • Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow • Someday I’ll wish upon a star And wake up where the clouds Are far behind me Where troubles melt like lemon drops Away above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me – Eva Cassidy • Sometimes, looking up at Sophiatown… I have felt I was looking at an Italian village somewhere in Umbria. For you do ‘look up’ at Sophiatown, and in the evening light, across the blue-grey haze of smoke from braziers and chimneys, against a saffron sky, you see close-packed, red-roofed little houses. …And above it all you see the Church of Christ the King, its tower visible north, south, east, and west. – Trevor Huddleston • Souldiers in peace are like chimneys in summer. – George Herbert • Such Roots as are soft, your best way is to dry in the Sun, or else hang them up in the Chimney corner upon a string; as for such as are hard you may dry them any where. – Nicholas Culpeper • The American Petroleum Institute filed suit against the EPA [and] charged that the agency was suppressing a scientific study for fear it might be misinterpreted… The suppressed study reveals that 80 percent of air pollution comes not from chimneys and auto exhaust pipes, but from plants and trees. – Ronald Reagan • The best way that a man could test his readiness to encounter the common variety of mankind would be to climb down a chimney into any house at random, and get on as well as possible with the people inside. And that is essentially what each one of us did on the day that he was born. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • The chimney is to some extent an independent structure, standing on the ground, and rising through the house to the heavens; evenafter the house is burned it still stands sometimes, and its importance and independence are apparent. – Henry David Thoreau • The city itself swung slowly toward us silent as a dream. No sign of life but puffs of steam from skyscraper chimneys, the motion of the traffic. The mighty towers stood like tombstones in a graveyard, leaning against the sky and waiting for — for what? Someday we’ll know. – Edward Abbey • The city was asleep on its right side and shaking with violent nightmares. Long puffs of snoring came out of the chimneys. Its feet were sticking out because the clouds did not cover it altogether. There was a hole in them and the white feathers were falling out. The city had untied all its bridges like so many buttons to feel at ease. Wherever there was a lamplight the city scratched itself until it went out. – Anais Nin • The clouds were flying fast, the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighboring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weathercocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, “Let them rest! Let them rest! – Charles Dickens • The experienced illustrator subscribes to the principle of the application of the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. Should inspiration whisk down your chimney, be at your table. The first ten thousand drawings are the hardest. Put another way, you have ten thousand bad drawings within and should expel them as quickly as possible. – Wallace Tripp • The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.But on the inside there is nothing-only the bare gingerbread walls.It is not a real house-not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.That’s when the stories can move in.They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite. – Vera Nazarian • The image by Barry Blitt of Barack Obama and Michelle in the White House with him dressed as a terrorist, her dressed as an Angela Davis character, a flag burning in the chimney, a portrait of Bin Laden on the wall is an image I’m extremely proud of. – Francoise Mouly • The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. Only after death, only in solitude, does a man’s true nature emerge. In death, as on the chimney sweep’s Saturday night, the soot gets washed from his body. • The rain and hail pattered against the glass; the chimneys quaked and rocked; the crazy casement rattled with the wind, as though an impatient hand inside were striving to burst it open. But no hand was there, and it opened no more. – Charles Dickens • The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful? – Annie Dillard • The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. – Charles Dickens • The south-wind strengthens to a gale, / Across the moon the clouds fly fast, / The house is smitten as with a flail, / The chimney shudders to the blast. – Robert Bridges • The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. – Clement Clarke Moore • The thing to remember about love affairs,” says Simone, “is that they are all like having raccoons in your chimney.” … We have raccoons sometimes in our chimney,” explains Simone. And once we tried to smoke them out. We lit a fire, knowing they were there, but we hoped the smoke would cause them to scurry out the top and never come back. Instead, they caught on fire and came crashing down into our living room, all charred and in flames and running madly around until they dropped dead.” Simone swallows some wine. “Love affairs are like that,” she says. “They are all like that. – Lorrie Moore • The things I believed in dont exist any more. It’s foolish to pretend that they do. Western Civilization finally went up in smoke in the chimneys at Dachau but I was too infatuated to see it. I see it now. – Cormac McCarthy • The wind outside nested in each tree, prowled the sidewalks in invisible treads like unseen cats. Tom Skelton shivered. Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows’ Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet. Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked. – Ray Bradbury • The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps. – T. S. Eliot • The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep – T. S. Eliot • Their bodies will be raised from the dead as vessels for the soul-vessels of wrath. The soul will breathe hell-fire, and smoke and coal will seem to hang upon its burning lips, yea the face, eyes, and ears will seem to be chimneys and vents for the flame, and the smoke of the burning , which God, by His breath, hath kindled therein, and upon, them, which will be held one in another, to the great torment and distress of each other. – John Bunyan • Their houses are all built in the shape of tents, with very high chimneys. – Christopher Columbus • There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney corner, fretting on account of his weak legs, world weary, will weary, and one day he suffocated through his excessive pity. – Friedrich Nietzsche • There is in every American, I think, something of the old Daniel Boone – who, when he could see the smoke from another chimney, felt himself too crowded and moved further out into the wilderness. – Hubert H. Humphrey • There’s no way the new chimney will fall down, Lu. Not with you in charge. It wouldn’t dare. – Angie Sage • This is a valley of ashes–a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. – F. Scott Fitzgerald • Tis easier to build two chimneys, then to maintaine one. – George Herbert • To thousands of elder women in the late sixties and early seventies [the private women’s club movement] came like a new gospel ofactivity and service. They had reared their children and seen them take flight; moreover, they had fought through the war, their hearts in the field, their fingers plying needle and thread. They had been active in committees and commissions, the country over; had learned to work with and beside men, finding joy and companionship and inspiration in such work. How could they go back to the chimney-corner life of the fifties? – Laura E. Richards • Too much! Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the valley! See the cloud of a hundred chimneys that overshadows it! I tell you that the cloud of murder hangs thicker and lower than that over the heads of the people. It is the Valley of Fear, the Valley of Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people from the dusk to the dawn. Wait, young man, and you will learn for yourself. – Arthur Conan Doyle • Two bones fell down my chimney and into the bedroom this morning. Hysterical thing to happen to a thriller writer. Murderous ravens perhaps? – Tobsha Learner • Walking the streets on winter nights kept him warm, despite the cold nocturnal passions of uprising winds. His footsteps led between trade-marked houses, two up and two down, with digital chimneys like pigs’ tits on the rooftops sending up heat and smoke into the cold trough of a windy sky. Stars hid like snipers, taking aim now and again when clouds gave them a loophole. Winter was an easy time for him to hide his secrets, for each dark street patted his shoulder and became a friend, and the gaseous eye of each lamp glowed unwinking as he passed. – Alan Sillitoe • We all ought to understand we’re on our own. Believing in Santa Claus doesn’t do kids any harm for a few years but it isn’t smart for them to continue waiting all their lives for him to come down the chimney with something wonderful. Santa Claus and God are cousins. – Andy Rooney • We are constituted a good deal like chickens, which, taken from the hen, and put in a basket of cotton in the chimney-corner, willoften peep till they die, nevertheless; but if you put in a book, or anything heavy, which will press down the cotton, and feel like the hen, they go to sleep directly. – Henry David Thoreau • We came to the house, and it is an old house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too) lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. – Charles Dickens • We have not wondered enough at the delights God has given us to appreciate them, and be good stewards. We have overworked the land, poured pollutants into river and stream, fouled the air we breathe with gas fumes and chemical smoke spiraling up from industrial chimneys. We have sown the wind. We are reaping the whirlwind. – Madeleine L’Engle • We launch our souls from the cannons of art and discipline, and on any one night, hovering over the chimney tops of Europe, halfway to the stars, there are armies of brightly spinning spirits that have risen like fireworks, tethered to the souls of those men and women who, by reflection, mortification, and devotion, effortlessly outdazzle kings. – Mark Helprin • Westminster Abbey, the Tower, a steeple, one church, and then another, presented themselves to our view; and we could now plainly distinguish the high round chimneys on the tops of the houses, which yet seemed to us to form an innumerable number of smaller spires, or steeples. – Karl Philipp Moritz • What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? – Diane Setterfield • When an alluring woman comes in at the door,” warningly traced the austere Kien-fi on the margin of his well-known essay, “discretion may be found up the chimney”. It is incredible that beneath this ever-timely reminder an obscure disciple should have added the words: “The wiser the sage, the more profound the folly. – Ernest Bramah • When I walk across my living room from my chimney to my window, it takes me 10 seconds, but for a bird it takes one second, and for oxygen zero seconds! – Jean-Claude Van Damme • When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder. Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calendar that showed the wrong month. I could have cried over it. I did. Where the smoke from a chimney ended. How an overturned bottle rested at the edge of a table. I spent my life learning to feel less. Every day I felt less. Is that growing old? Or is it something worse? You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness. – Jonathan Safran Foer • When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. – William Blake • When we hold onto the negative in ourselves it comes with endless guilt. We hold onto a lifetime of floating visions and regrets about what we should have done or should have become. Conscience recognizes wrong and tries to atone. But guilt turns into resentment. Conscience brings us closer to each other; guilt drives us apart. Create a new feeling. Every time guilt settles in your stomach, write “I forgive” on a piece of paper. Send it up the chimney, tear it up and flush it, put it in the garbage. Don’t eat it. – Jennifer James • When we talk of architecture, people usually think of something static; this is wrong. What we are thinking of is an architecture similar to the dynamic and musical architecture achieved by the Futurist musician Pratella. Architecture is found in the movement of colours, of smoke from a chimney and in metallic structures, when they are expressed in states of mind which are violent and chaotic. – Carlo Carra • When you were sleeping on the sofa I put my ear to your ear and listened to the echo of your dreams. That is the ocean I want to dive in, merge with the bright fish, plankton and pirate ships. I walk up to people on the street that kind of look like you and ask them the questions I would ask you. Can we sit on a rooftop and watch stars dissolve into smoke rising from a chimney? Can I swing like Tarzan in the jungle of your breathing? I don’t wish I was in your arms, I just wish I was peddling a bicycle toward your arms. – Jeffrey McDaniel • Where you thinke there is bacon, there is no Chimney. – George Herbert • With a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you; with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner. – Philip Sidney • With gas cookers and chip pans in every kitchen, the chip-pan fire was by far the most popular method these Proddies had for burning their houses down. The second technique was the ever popular chimney fire and number three had to be the drunken cigarette drop on the carpet. Mind you, why they’d be cooking chips at this hour was anyone’s guess. – Adrian McKinty • Writing was a chimney for my blazing ambitions. – Storm Jameson • You can’t build a chimney from the top, you know. – Marian Anderson • You have these ‘hot towers’, tropical storm clouds acting like chimneys to carry heat to the upper atmosphere. – Peter May • Your goal is to achieve the best results by following their wishes. If they want you to build a house upside down standing on its chimney, it’s up to you to do it. – Richard Morris Hunt

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[equitiesstocks]

Chimneys Quotes

Official Website: Chimneys Quotes

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• A cold blast hit him and he laughed at the sting as he stepped outside, surveyed the night sky, and drank deeply. Such a good liar he was. Such a good one. Everyone thought he was fine because he’d camo’d his little problems. He wore a Sox hat to hide the eye twitch. Set his wristwatch to go off every half hour to beat back the dream. Ate though he wasn’t angry. Laughed though he found nothing funny. And he’d always smoked like a chimney. – J.R. Ward • A factory can be closed down, its chimneys smokeless, waiting for the worker to come back to his job, and all will be peaceful. But the moment workers are imported, and the striker sees his own place usurped, there is bound to be trouble. – Charles M. Schwab • A legal broom’s a moral chimney-sweeper, And that’s the reason he himself’s so dirty – Lord Byron • A Mocking Bird regularly resorts to the south angle of a chimney top and salutes us with sweetest notes from the rising of the moon until about midnight. – John James Audubon • A picture without sky has no glory. This present, unless we see gleaming beyond it the eternal calm of the heavens, above the tossing tree tops with withering leaves, and the smoky chimneys, is a poor thing for our eyes to gaze at, or our hearts to love, or our hands to toil on. – Alexander MacLaren • Accurately recalling an entire day of fishing is like trying to push smoke back down a chimney, so you settle on these specific moments. – John Gierach • And further, I tell you that the Jew is right, when he acts as he does – because we are too timid to be as German as the Jew is Jewish! … It happened at the time of the [Bavarian] Soviet Republic: When the unleashed subhumans rambled murdering through the streets, the deputies hid behind a chimney in the Bavarian parliament. – Julius Streicher • And so there would always be more to remember that could no longer be seen…our history is always returning to a little patch of weeds and saplings with an old chimney sticking up by itself…and here I look ahead to the resting of my case: I love the house that belonged to the chimney, holding it bright in memory, and love the saplings and the weeds. – Wendell Berry • And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is now only a ruined chimney rising our of a grassy and weed-grown cellar? They offer their fruit to every wayfarer–apples that are bitter-sweet with the moral of times vicissitude. – Nathaniel Hawthorne • Anyone who is not an anarchist agrees with having a policeman at the corner of the street; but the danger at present is that of finding the policeman half-way down the chimney or even under the bed. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • As artists and traders in medieval cities began to form organizations, they instituted tough initiation ceremonies. Journeymen in Bergen, Norway, were shoved down a chimney, thrown three times into the sea, and soundly whipped. Such rites made belonging to the guild or corporation more precious to those who were accepted, and survived. – Isaac Asimov • As for me, I rarely write a song. But when I do write a song, like “Ain’t No Chimneys in the Projects,” which came to me at three a.m. one morning, on a whim – I get a percentage. • At present I am using a good sized bedroom in the 2 bedroom house here as a studio, and it is large enough to step back from my canvases, and has a good north light. It should serve very well until I can afford to have the storeroom half of the back building lined and insulated and a chimney put in. That may be in about two years. – E. J. Hughes

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Chimney', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_chimney').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_chimney img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Back up shall we? When my brother, the crazy chicken warrior, turned into a falcon and went up the pyramid’s chimney with his new friend, the fruit bat, he left me playing nurse to two very wounded people—which I didn’t appreciate, and which I wasn’t particularly good at. – Rick Riordan • Been having a fight with your blankets, Septimus?” A familiar voice echoed down the chimney. “Looks like you lost,” the voice continued with a chuckle. “Not wise to take on a pair of blankets, lad. One, maybe, but two blankets always gang up on you. Vicious things, blankets. – Angie Sage • Brands were a by-product of having great products and communicating them well to people. Power stations that generate a lot of electricity probably have a lot of steam coming out of the chimneys. That doesn’t mean to say that the engineers stand around working out how to make more steam. – Hans Snook

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling] • Christmas Pie Lo! now is come our joyfull’st feast! Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, And every post with holly. Now all our neighbours’ chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with bakemeats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if for cold it hap to die, We’ll bury it in a Christmas pie, And ever more be merry. – George Wither • Even the pictures I was doing at college – a little narrative based on a butterfly catcher, or a chimney sweep – the images were always telling stories. They were all scenarios and moods which I storyboarded and worked through – it’s exactly what I do now. – Tim Walker • Every head turned to see two more security guards appear, each holding a Bagshaw by the back of the neck (which might have been considerably less conspicuous had the Bagshaws not been dressed as chimney sweeps). Kat turned back to Hale. ‘The Mary Poppins?’ ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. – Ally Carter • Every year, dads will dress up as Santa and try to surprise their kids by coming down the chimney, and every year, a dad gets stuck and dies. -Kyle Dunnigan • Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun Nor the furious winters’ rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. – William Shakespeare • From whence it happens, that they which trust to books, do as they that cast up many little sums into a greater, without considering whether those little sums were rightly cast up or not; and at last finding the error visible, and not mistrusting their first grounds, know not which way to clear themselves; but spend time in fluttering over their books, as birds that entering by the chimney, and finding themselves enclosed in a chamber, flutter at the false light of a glass window, for want of wit to consider which way they came in. – Thomas Hobbes • Gain may be temporary and uncertain; but ever while you live, expense is constant and certain: and it is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel. – Benjamin Franklin • Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust. – William Shakespeare • Halfway down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. The street is Pyncheon Street; the house is the old Pyncheon House; and an elm-tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon Elm. – Nathaniel Hawthorne • Have you noticed how nobody ever looks up? Nobody looks at chimneys, or trees against the sky, or the tops of buildings. Everybody just looks down at the pavement or their shoes. The whole world could pass them by and most people wouldn’t notice. – Julie Andrews • He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. – Charles Dickens • I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt; I am lean with seeing others eat – O that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone; then thou should’st see how fat I would be! But must thou sit and I stand? Come down, with a vengeance! – Christopher Marlowe • I got a flue shot and now my chimney works perfectly. – Steve Martin • I have discovered the secret of happiness – it is work, either with the hands or the head. The moment I have something to do, the draughts are open and my chimney draws, and I am happy. – John Burroughs • I have never felt like I was creating anything. For me, writing is like walking through a desert and all at once, poking up through the hardpan, I see the top of a chimney. I know there’s a house under there, and I’m pretty sure that I can dig it up if I want. That’s how I feel. It’s like the stories are already there. What they pay me for is the leap of faith that says: ‘If I sit down and do this, everything will come out okay.’ – Stephen King • I reveled in the smallness, the coziness of an upstairs bedroom in a traditional American Cape Cod house the half-floor that forces you to duck, to feel small and naive again, ready for anything, dying for love, your body a chimney filled with odd, black smoke. These square, squat, awkward rooms are like a fifty-square-foot paean to teenage-hood, to ripeness, to the first and last taste of youth. – Gary Shteyngart • I wander thro’ each charter’d street, Near where the charter’d Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg’d manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry Every black’ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier’s sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro’ midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot’s curse Blasts the new born Infant’s tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. – William Blake • I was lookin’ high an’ low for them Reds everywhere, I was lookin’ in the sink an’ underneath the chair. I looked way up my chimney hole, I even looked deep inside my toilet bowl. – Bob Dylan • I wish we could grow up about it, I’m sure we are contributing to global warming, and we must do all we can to reduce that, but our climate has always changed. The Romans had vineyards in Yorkshire. We’re all on this bandwagon of ‘Ban the 4×4 in Fulham’. Why didn’t we have global warming during the Industrial Revolution? In those days you couldn’t have seen across the street for all the carbon emissions and the crap coming out of the chimneys. – Alan Titchmarsh • I’d like to start with the chimney jokes – I’ve got a stack of them. The first one is on the house. – Tim Vine • If a man will kick a fact out of the window, when he comes back he finds it again in the chimney corner. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • If SANTA CLAUS came down the chimney in a f**king jogging suit, you wouldn’t even know it was him. – Wayne Coyne • If you cannot avoid a quarrel with a blackguard, let your lawyer manage it, rather than yourself. No man sweeps his own chimney, but employs a chimney-sweeper, who has no objection to dirty work, because it is his trade. – Charles Caleb Colton • If you really think there’s a Santa, why don’t you sit on the front steps all night in the freezing cold and see if he climbs down any chimneys tonight. Good luck. And since we’re a family that isn’t lucky enough to have a chimney, how would Santa get into our house? Does he bring a locksmith with him? And it probably would have to be a Jewish locksmith, because a Christian locksmith is going to want to be home with his family. And how many Jewish locksmiths are there? None. – Lewis Black • I’m not an author, I’m a writer, that’s all I am. Authors want their names down in history; I want to keep the smoke coming out of the chimney. – Mickey Spillane • In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are halfconcealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends…. We enjoy now, not an Oriental, but a Boreal leisure, around warm stoves and fireplaces, and watch the shadow of motes in the sunbeams. – Henry David Thoreau • Infectious disease is one of the few genuine adventures left in the world. The dragons are all dead and the lance grows rusty in the chimney corner. … About the only sporting proposition that remains unimpaired by the relentless domestication of a once free-living human species is the war against those ferocious little fellow creatures, which lurk in dark corners and stalk us in the bodies of rats, mice and all kinds of domestic animals; which fly and crawl with the insects, and waylay us in our food and drink and even in our love – Hans Zinsser • Is Adrian here?” “Who?” “Adrian. Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes.” She frowned. “Do you mean Jet?” “I … I’m not sure. Does he smoke like a chimney?” The girl nodded sagely. “Yup. You must mean Jet. – Richelle Mead • It is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel. – Benjamin Franklin • It is far more probable that our senses should deceive us, than that an old woman should be carried up a chimney on a broom stick; and that it is far less astonishing that witnesses should lie, than that witches should perform the acts that were alleged. – Michel de Montaigne • It is this refrain that we hear repeated by everyone: you are not at home, this is not a sanatorium, the only exit is by way of the Chimney. (What did it mean? Soon we were all to learn what it meant.) – Primo Levi • Its tall chimneys throw up black smoke, impregnating everything with soot, and the miners’ faces as they traveled the streets were also imbued with that ancient melancholy of smoke, unifying everything with its grayish monotones, a perfect coupling with the gray mountain days. – Che Guevara • It’s understandable that people are keeping one eye on the pot and another up the chimney. – Kevin Keegan • Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o’erflow with wine… The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. – Thomas Campion • Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o’erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. – Thomas Campion • Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and ’twill out at the key-hole; stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. – William Shakespeare • Maybe that whole love thing is just a grown-up version of Santa Claus; just a myth we’ve been fed since childhood. So, we keep buying magazines, joining clubs, and doing therapy and watching movies with hit pop songs played over love montages all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney. – Meg Ryan • Morality has in the past made progress when we broadened the category of things we weren’t permitted to harm (animals, ‘infidels’); saw through some delusions and rationalisations about what harms are good for people themselves (prison punishment, hysterectomies for unhappy 1950s wives); and readjusted our for-the-good of others criteria so as to demand only reasonable sacrifices (ceasing to use children as handy chimney sweeps). – Catherine Wilson • Most religion-mongers have bated their paradises with a bit of toasted cheese. They have tempted the body with large promises of possessions in their transmortal El Dorado. Sancho Panza will not quit his chimney-corner, but under promise of imaginary islands to govern. – James Russell Lowell • My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie. – Diane Setterfield • My neighbor’s not even listening to me. He’s all excited about some garden hose he bought at Brookstone. He’s convinced it was designed by NASA. “Actually, it’s got two nozzles, one for the hot and one for the…” Really? Is it long enough to go around both our necks and the chimney so we can tandem jump off of this? That’s all I really care about you and your little garden hose. – Bill Burr • My once-keen analytical mind has become so dulled by endless hours of baking in the hot sun, thrashing about in tight chimneys, pulling at impossibly heavy loads, freezing my ass off…. so that now my mental state is comparable to that of a Peruvian Indian, well stoked on coca leaves. – Warren G. Harding • Nick, fetch my car, fetch my clothes, sweep the chimney, make my bed, watch my psychopath, fetch my slippers.’ Yeah, I’ll fetch those slippers and stick them someplace real uncomfortable. I swear, my mother should have named me Fido. (Nick) – Sherrilyn Kenyon • Nick, fetch my car, fetch my clothes, sweep the chimney, make my bed, watch my psychopath, fetch my slippers. – Sherrilyn Kenyon • No amount of rationalisation, reform, or Freudian analysis can quite annul the thrill of the chimney-corner whisper or the lonely wood. – H. P. Lovecraft • No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing. The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful? – Bertrand Russell • Non- Euclidean calculus and quantum physics are enough to stretch any brain; and when one mixes them with folklore, and tries to trace a strange background of multi-dimensional reality behind the ghoulish hints of Gothic tales and the wild whispers of the chimney-corner, one can hardly expect to be wholly free from mental tension. (Dreams In The Witch-House) – H. P. Lovecraft • Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a billingsgate fishwoman blush! – Agatha Christie • Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fire-place in the room into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burnt wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy. – Charles Dickens • One day the wind blew through the town, and oh, how merry it was! It whistled down the chimneys, and scampered round the corners, and sang in the tree tops. “Come and dance, come and dance, come and dance with me,” that is what it seemed to say. – Maud Lindsay • One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way. – Vincent Van Gogh • One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent. – Wallace Stevens • Our secret thoughts – do they ever show up? The small flame of our soul can be burning hot, but no one comes to its warmth. Passersby see only a small whiff going through the chimney. Don’t we need to take care of that flame, cherish it and patiently wait until someone will come and sit at it, do we? – Irving Stone • P.S. If it’s not a secret, will you tell me how you got my dollhouse inside our living room last Christmas? I know its too big to fit down the chimney. I measured. – Joanne Fluke • Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney’s shadow. – Denise Levertov • She finds tales everywhere, in grains of sand she picks up from the garden, in puffs of smoke that drift out from the chimneys of the village, in fragments of smooth timber or glass in the jetsam. She will ask them, “Where did you come from? How did you get here?” And they will answer her in voices very like her own, but with new lilts and squeaks and splashes in them that show they are their own. – David Almond • She grew more and more silent about what really mattered. She curled inside herself like one of those black chimney brushes, the little shellfish you see on the beach, and you touch them, and then go inside and don’t come out. – Janet Frame • She’d become a governess. It was one of the few jobs a known lady could do. And she’d taken to it well. She’d sworn that if she did indeed ever find herself dancing on rooftops with chimney sweeps she’d beat herself to death with her own umbrella. – Terry Pratchett • Silkes and Satins put out the fire in the chimney. – George Herbert • Sitting by the chimney corner as we grow old, the commonest things around us take on live meanings and hint at the difference between these driving times and the calm, slow moving days when we were young. – Rebecca Harding Davis • Smell and taste are in fact but a single composite sense, whose laboratory is the mouth and its chimney the nose. – Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin • Smoke like a chimney, work like a horse, eat without thinking, go for a walk only in really pleasant company. – Albert Einstein • Snowstorms may yet whiten fields and gardens, high winds may howl about the trees and chimneys, but the little blue heralds persistently proclaim from the orchard and the garden that the spring procession has begun to move. – Neltje Blanchan • Soldiers in peace are like chimneys in summer. – William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley • Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare. – William Butler Yeats • Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow • Someday I’ll wish upon a star And wake up where the clouds Are far behind me Where troubles melt like lemon drops Away above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me – Eva Cassidy • Sometimes, looking up at Sophiatown… I have felt I was looking at an Italian village somewhere in Umbria. For you do ‘look up’ at Sophiatown, and in the evening light, across the blue-grey haze of smoke from braziers and chimneys, against a saffron sky, you see close-packed, red-roofed little houses. …And above it all you see the Church of Christ the King, its tower visible north, south, east, and west. – Trevor Huddleston • Souldiers in peace are like chimneys in summer. – George Herbert • Such Roots as are soft, your best way is to dry in the Sun, or else hang them up in the Chimney corner upon a string; as for such as are hard you may dry them any where. – Nicholas Culpeper • The American Petroleum Institute filed suit against the EPA [and] charged that the agency was suppressing a scientific study for fear it might be misinterpreted… The suppressed study reveals that 80 percent of air pollution comes not from chimneys and auto exhaust pipes, but from plants and trees. – Ronald Reagan • The best way that a man could test his readiness to encounter the common variety of mankind would be to climb down a chimney into any house at random, and get on as well as possible with the people inside. And that is essentially what each one of us did on the day that he was born. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • The chimney is to some extent an independent structure, standing on the ground, and rising through the house to the heavens; evenafter the house is burned it still stands sometimes, and its importance and independence are apparent. – Henry David Thoreau • The city itself swung slowly toward us silent as a dream. No sign of life but puffs of steam from skyscraper chimneys, the motion of the traffic. The mighty towers stood like tombstones in a graveyard, leaning against the sky and waiting for — for what? Someday we’ll know. – Edward Abbey • The city was asleep on its right side and shaking with violent nightmares. Long puffs of snoring came out of the chimneys. Its feet were sticking out because the clouds did not cover it altogether. There was a hole in them and the white feathers were falling out. The city had untied all its bridges like so many buttons to feel at ease. Wherever there was a lamplight the city scratched itself until it went out. – Anais Nin • The clouds were flying fast, the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighboring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weathercocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, “Let them rest! Let them rest! – Charles Dickens • The experienced illustrator subscribes to the principle of the application of the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. Should inspiration whisk down your chimney, be at your table. The first ten thousand drawings are the hardest. Put another way, you have ten thousand bad drawings within and should expel them as quickly as possible. – Wallace Tripp • The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.But on the inside there is nothing-only the bare gingerbread walls.It is not a real house-not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.That’s when the stories can move in.They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite. – Vera Nazarian • The image by Barry Blitt of Barack Obama and Michelle in the White House with him dressed as a terrorist, her dressed as an Angela Davis character, a flag burning in the chimney, a portrait of Bin Laden on the wall is an image I’m extremely proud of. – Francoise Mouly • The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. Only after death, only in solitude, does a man’s true nature emerge. In death, as on the chimney sweep’s Saturday night, the soot gets washed from his body. • The rain and hail pattered against the glass; the chimneys quaked and rocked; the crazy casement rattled with the wind, as though an impatient hand inside were striving to burst it open. But no hand was there, and it opened no more. – Charles Dickens • The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful? – Annie Dillard • The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. – Charles Dickens • The south-wind strengthens to a gale, / Across the moon the clouds fly fast, / The house is smitten as with a flail, / The chimney shudders to the blast. – Robert Bridges • The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. – Clement Clarke Moore • The thing to remember about love affairs,” says Simone, “is that they are all like having raccoons in your chimney.” … We have raccoons sometimes in our chimney,” explains Simone. And once we tried to smoke them out. We lit a fire, knowing they were there, but we hoped the smoke would cause them to scurry out the top and never come back. Instead, they caught on fire and came crashing down into our living room, all charred and in flames and running madly around until they dropped dead.” Simone swallows some wine. “Love affairs are like that,” she says. “They are all like that. – Lorrie Moore • The things I believed in dont exist any more. It’s foolish to pretend that they do. Western Civilization finally went up in smoke in the chimneys at Dachau but I was too infatuated to see it. I see it now. – Cormac McCarthy • The wind outside nested in each tree, prowled the sidewalks in invisible treads like unseen cats. Tom Skelton shivered. Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows’ Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet. Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked. – Ray Bradbury • The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps. – T. S. Eliot • The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep – T. S. Eliot • Their bodies will be raised from the dead as vessels for the soul-vessels of wrath. The soul will breathe hell-fire, and smoke and coal will seem to hang upon its burning lips, yea the face, eyes, and ears will seem to be chimneys and vents for the flame, and the smoke of the burning , which God, by His breath, hath kindled therein, and upon, them, which will be held one in another, to the great torment and distress of each other. – John Bunyan • Their houses are all built in the shape of tents, with very high chimneys. – Christopher Columbus • There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney corner, fretting on account of his weak legs, world weary, will weary, and one day he suffocated through his excessive pity. – Friedrich Nietzsche • There is in every American, I think, something of the old Daniel Boone – who, when he could see the smoke from another chimney, felt himself too crowded and moved further out into the wilderness. – Hubert H. Humphrey • There’s no way the new chimney will fall down, Lu. Not with you in charge. It wouldn’t dare. – Angie Sage • This is a valley of ashes–a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. – F. Scott Fitzgerald • Tis easier to build two chimneys, then to maintaine one. – George Herbert • To thousands of elder women in the late sixties and early seventies [the private women’s club movement] came like a new gospel ofactivity and service. They had reared their children and seen them take flight; moreover, they had fought through the war, their hearts in the field, their fingers plying needle and thread. They had been active in committees and commissions, the country over; had learned to work with and beside men, finding joy and companionship and inspiration in such work. How could they go back to the chimney-corner life of the fifties? – Laura E. Richards • Too much! Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the valley! See the cloud of a hundred chimneys that overshadows it! I tell you that the cloud of murder hangs thicker and lower than that over the heads of the people. It is the Valley of Fear, the Valley of Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people from the dusk to the dawn. Wait, young man, and you will learn for yourself. – Arthur Conan Doyle • Two bones fell down my chimney and into the bedroom this morning. Hysterical thing to happen to a thriller writer. Murderous ravens perhaps? – Tobsha Learner • Walking the streets on winter nights kept him warm, despite the cold nocturnal passions of uprising winds. His footsteps led between trade-marked houses, two up and two down, with digital chimneys like pigs’ tits on the rooftops sending up heat and smoke into the cold trough of a windy sky. Stars hid like snipers, taking aim now and again when clouds gave them a loophole. Winter was an easy time for him to hide his secrets, for each dark street patted his shoulder and became a friend, and the gaseous eye of each lamp glowed unwinking as he passed. – Alan Sillitoe • We all ought to understand we’re on our own. Believing in Santa Claus doesn’t do kids any harm for a few years but it isn’t smart for them to continue waiting all their lives for him to come down the chimney with something wonderful. Santa Claus and God are cousins. – Andy Rooney • We are constituted a good deal like chickens, which, taken from the hen, and put in a basket of cotton in the chimney-corner, willoften peep till they die, nevertheless; but if you put in a book, or anything heavy, which will press down the cotton, and feel like the hen, they go to sleep directly. – Henry David Thoreau • We came to the house, and it is an old house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too) lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. – Charles Dickens • We have not wondered enough at the delights God has given us to appreciate them, and be good stewards. We have overworked the land, poured pollutants into river and stream, fouled the air we breathe with gas fumes and chemical smoke spiraling up from industrial chimneys. We have sown the wind. We are reaping the whirlwind. – Madeleine L’Engle • We launch our souls from the cannons of art and discipline, and on any one night, hovering over the chimney tops of Europe, halfway to the stars, there are armies of brightly spinning spirits that have risen like fireworks, tethered to the souls of those men and women who, by reflection, mortification, and devotion, effortlessly outdazzle kings. – Mark Helprin • Westminster Abbey, the Tower, a steeple, one church, and then another, presented themselves to our view; and we could now plainly distinguish the high round chimneys on the tops of the houses, which yet seemed to us to form an innumerable number of smaller spires, or steeples. – Karl Philipp Moritz • What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? – Diane Setterfield • When an alluring woman comes in at the door,” warningly traced the austere Kien-fi on the margin of his well-known essay, “discretion may be found up the chimney”. It is incredible that beneath this ever-timely reminder an obscure disciple should have added the words: “The wiser the sage, the more profound the folly. – Ernest Bramah • When I walk across my living room from my chimney to my window, it takes me 10 seconds, but for a bird it takes one second, and for oxygen zero seconds! – Jean-Claude Van Damme • When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder. Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calendar that showed the wrong month. I could have cried over it. I did. Where the smoke from a chimney ended. How an overturned bottle rested at the edge of a table. I spent my life learning to feel less. Every day I felt less. Is that growing old? Or is it something worse? You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness. – Jonathan Safran Foer • When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. – William Blake • When we hold onto the negative in ourselves it comes with endless guilt. We hold onto a lifetime of floating visions and regrets about what we should have done or should have become. Conscience recognizes wrong and tries to atone. But guilt turns into resentment. Conscience brings us closer to each other; guilt drives us apart. Create a new feeling. Every time guilt settles in your stomach, write “I forgive” on a piece of paper. Send it up the chimney, tear it up and flush it, put it in the garbage. Don’t eat it. – Jennifer James • When we talk of architecture, people usually think of something static; this is wrong. What we are thinking of is an architecture similar to the dynamic and musical architecture achieved by the Futurist musician Pratella. Architecture is found in the movement of colours, of smoke from a chimney and in metallic structures, when they are expressed in states of mind which are violent and chaotic. – Carlo Carra • When you were sleeping on the sofa I put my ear to your ear and listened to the echo of your dreams. That is the ocean I want to dive in, merge with the bright fish, plankton and pirate ships. I walk up to people on the street that kind of look like you and ask them the questions I would ask you. Can we sit on a rooftop and watch stars dissolve into smoke rising from a chimney? Can I swing like Tarzan in the jungle of your breathing? I don’t wish I was in your arms, I just wish I was peddling a bicycle toward your arms. – Jeffrey McDaniel • Where you thinke there is bacon, there is no Chimney. – George Herbert • With a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you; with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner. – Philip Sidney • With gas cookers and chip pans in every kitchen, the chip-pan fire was by far the most popular method these Proddies had for burning their houses down. The second technique was the ever popular chimney fire and number three had to be the drunken cigarette drop on the carpet. Mind you, why they’d be cooking chips at this hour was anyone’s guess. – Adrian McKinty • Writing was a chimney for my blazing ambitions. – Storm Jameson • You can’t build a chimney from the top, you know. – Marian Anderson • You have these ‘hot towers’, tropical storm clouds acting like chimneys to carry heat to the upper atmosphere. – Peter May • Your goal is to achieve the best results by following their wishes. If they want you to build a house upside down standing on its chimney, it’s up to you to do it. – Richard Morris Hunt

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[daee-archive]

Gerald’s Journal

Second short story assignment for class. It’s not great but ya know *shrug* Follows a different Dnd character from another campaign. Will probably expand upon it eventually.

There was only darkness as far as the eye could see. A journal in hand, written  with iridescent, almost glowing ink. They might have been a man once, or was it a woman - had they even been human? Either way they had a heart beat once; a pulse. They had a life, dreams and aspirations, maybe even a family. This belief was what kept them tethered to the world, a shadow. It was what kept them writing down their thoughts, if to at least have some sort of tracker for the time passed. Who were they? They couldn’t tell you. As they float in the darkness of the void, they search for answers to questions they might never find. Every once and awhile a voice will call them, a summoner most likely, and from the darkness they would rise.  When out of the comfort of the void they become something else; a night time horror. Most times their form is directed into a shape, a tall towering beast - a small fast animal. No matter the form the directive was the same. Kill the enemy. But whose enemy is it?

The air was tepid, the smell of moss and wood heavy in the air. The leaves crunched and twigs cracked as a hooded form stalked through the swamp. Their heavy woolen cape swayed in the air, brushing the ground and picking up moisture and mud. Leather and steel boots stepping with a grace found in those attuned to the woods. They continued on, making their way through the forest and into a clearing with a murky - almost vile looking lake. A moss covered bridge the only way to cross. They seemed to pause, deciding whether or not to continue, finally deciding on pushing forward. The shadows shuddered around them as they broke through the bridge gate. The dancing and swirling of darkness didn’t seem to alert the figure as they continued on. With every step a small rune activated behind them, glowing purple. The bridge shook as the rune sequence was completed and the shadows stopped dancing. In an instant it seemed as if the darkest parts of the night swirled into a form, much bigger than the average man.

The figure stopped as they witness this, feet squaring off into a defensive stance. The swirling mass of shadows thrummed with tendrils of inky blackness. Eyes glowing white and from dripping and slipping around - almost as if unsure what form to take. Its maw opened revealing a cavern of sharp teeth of all different sizes. A hollow sounding voice resonated around them. “You should not have come here…” it droned, “turn back, turn back, you do not belong here” It’s voice seemed to change and warble as it talked. Long spindly fingers spread out as the creature waved their arms around the clearing.

The figure shifted in place, lifting small hands up and to their hood. Slowly as if it might startle the creature, the figure removed their hood. Maroon colored hair fell in waves around a grey face. A purple diamond jewel glinting in the moonlight was placed in the middle of their forehead. Eyes as dark as the night around them stared back at the creature. A soft melodic voice shifted the air as the figure spoke. “My name is Firae, of the dark woods up north. I have been sent here to investigate the string of murders and necromantic activity in the area. Including one of a-” As she spoke, the creature lashed out, tendrils attacking her from all sides. She swept her robe to the side, pulling out a broom. Spinning the broom around once she vaulted into the air standing on the thin wood as it floated. The creature’s glowing eyes darted up to her, tendrils following soon thereafter. Orbs of fire flickered into life as she waved a hand in front of her. The fiery orbs, intercepted and destroyed the tendrils before they could even hope to get close to her. Bringing her hands together she whispered a chant, and more fiery orbs appeared rushing past her and directly at the creature. As the fire hit, the creature wailed out in pain. With a metal wand in her grip Firae gently started to waving archaic patterns in the air. “ -including one of a child, named Gerald.” purple and silver smoke started swirling around the wand as she aimed it at the creature. With a flick of her wrist, the smoke turned into bright and blinding ropes. “Gerald the son of a writer, the child who always carried a journal.” The ropes encircled the shadow creature, spinning round and round their form. Screeching the creature writhed on the ground, becoming smaller and smaller until they were just a small form huddled on the ground. Firae stepped forward, her wand still pointed at the creature. Eyes ablaze with putrid magic she stooped down. “And whose journal, lead me  here.” the creatures form gave one last shudder and it raise its head. A small face, on a small body. Big eyes crying ink tears marking the ashen skin of a small child. Firae brushed back their grey hair, before gripping their shoulder tight and striking out with her wand. The darkness whipped around them, swirling in turmoil as it collected upon the child's forehead. It was strange, she thought, for someone to control the dead as such. She brushed the child's hair comfortingly and reached into her satchel. From there a small, worn journal appeared. It was tightly bound with scribbles and small notes marking the cover.  She opened the journal turning to a later entry in the book. She pet the child's head as she  read the entry out loud.

“My name is Gerald.I am 8 years old. I like to write. I want to be a journalist when I get big!” The child in  her lap seemed to stir at that. “I don’t know how I got here, but father said  to always  write what happens to me. A mean lady made me  stay here. I want to  go home. It smells like the swamp.”  Firae held the child as a sob broke out. “ Gerald, the world works in many ways. For many once they die they pass on. For those like you who were chained here, they get one possession.”  Gerald sniffled sitting up “one possession?” Firae smiled, handing gerald the journal “yes, many don’t ever realize it, but  they do” she watched as realization dawned on the child.“this one and mine look the same!” Firae nodded, patiently. “yes, and because you continued to write I was able to track the magic that connected you and your journal.” another sob broke out as Gerald held the journal tighter. “I want to go home!” he cried “I want to go home!” Firae shushed the child's wailing patting them on the back, “I will send you home, your father has been waiting for you on the other side for a long time.” She touched her satchel, eyes wet as her hand brushed upon a larger journal - a memento of a man she knew, who died without ever knowing what happened to his child.

Standing up, Firae took several steps back and began to weave her magic once more. Lights shimmered and danced as a door appeared. She watched as Gerald timidly walked up to it, he looked back at her anxiously. “do I-?” she nodded gently and tried not to shield her eyes as they opened the door. A bright blinding light doused the surrounding area in color, flowers bloomed and birds chirped. Gerald's vision became almost Technicolor in comparison to the monochrome they were before. Soft browns for skin and hair, joyous green apple eyes. A smile creeped its way onto Firae's face. They looked the spitting image of their father. As the door closed and the light faded Firae was left standing in the darkness, the journal sitting neatly upon the mossy bridge. She stepped up to it, flipping to the last page where in childish handwriting was a simple “Thank you”.

Tucking the small journal into her satchel, Firae walked on, the darkness at her back seeming a little less dark.