#but the second the subject of 'britain' comes up

[mekanikaltrifle]

I legitimately think working class folks of english-speaking former imperial nations could all speak to each other and do some real good if we could stop being cunts and treating each other as 'valid targets'.

Like, it honestly feels like instead of unlearning nationalistic type social violence (my nation better than yours because x y or z reason haha sucks to be you foreigner, American exceptionalism type shit), many folks just switched to looking for a people that 'deserve it'. And of course for Americans that seems to be the various folks in the United Kingdom, along with to a lesser extent Canada and Australia. Have all these nations done bad things/colonised/been generally atrocious? yes. Are the white people who live in these countries beneficiaries of this colonisation whether they asked to be or not, and need to analyse their own privilege? yes.

But fuck me, finding a 'valid target' to unload your bitterness on is not a way forward, lads. the working class in the United Kingdom is fuckin starving over here, facing increasingly tightened anti-protest laws, and that's not to mention the struggling minorities and trans folks all across the board suffering under over a decade of conservative rulership which we didn't vote for, because the Tories have been repeatedly supplanting their failed leaders with other ones over and over in this sordid daisy chain of inept over-wealthy evil cunts. And if you're part of Wales, Scotland, Northen Ireland? Good fucking luck being heard. We're unable to get anything done because we're lashed to the prow of a boat helmed by indifferent English voters who couldn't give a fuck about anywhere they can't physically see.

Could have done without seeing that 72k notes post that's Americans making jokes about British people complaining about how mocking our dialects and food is classist. Especially since it's pretty disingenuous to act like this is somehow a valid reaction to the few arseholes who make jokes/ comments about school shootings.

That can be bad and terrible, and is, but you don't have to make British working class leftists (trying to tell you to stop adding fuel to the fire here in our country) out to be whiny little dicks.

I think working class British and American people have a lot more in common than we'd like to think, but this fucking sucks.

[k-s-morgan]

"many people insist he was in the Blitz ( I don't mean fics, I don't mind that, I mean in canon discussions) so my post was specifically for the Blitz. For the 40's bomb, that you brought up, not my post, Tom left soon after, 7 days after. And as for the '44 bombings- Tom has already killed 4 people by that time- FOUR. I think it's safe to say death and suffering of the people around him wasn't one of his concerns.

Tom's fear of death doesn't have to come from bombing. Plenty of people fear death that had never been bombed. It is stated that his fear of death is because he thinks himself above all humans, it's in relation to his power, he says this to Dumbledore at 11 BEFORE ww2 started. He already said 'mom can't have been a witch because she died'. But yes, this post was about Dumbledore not sending Tom into the Blitz, like many people say, as if Dumbledore personally delivered Tom to the Nazis."

What do you think about this argument? I've written fics of Tom witnessing the Blitz. I thought that it was canon but I have had people argue that it is not. What do you think?

Hi! That's a really interesting topic, but one I came to dislike because it feels like most people have very black-and-white takes on it. I actually got involved in one of such conversations just recently. Maybe even the one you quoted from? I don't recall at this point.

Since I prepared a lot of materials for ATLWETD before writing it, I can give you a full answer supported by the research and some news clippings. It's going to get long, though!

So, first - the Blitz. Indeed, Tom never had to face it. It lasted from September 7, 1940 to May 11, 1941, and Tom spent this period at Hogwarts. However, the Blitz was neither the start nor the end of London bombings - and bombings of the surrounding areas and UK in general.

Citing from Mark Clapson, "Air Raids in Britain, 1940–45":

"A common misconception of the Blitz in the United Kingdom is that London was the only city under attack from September 1940 until the Nazis also turned their fire on other cities and towns in mid-November. Yet even before the Blitz on London began, other urban areas in the UK had been attacked from the air.

As the Battle of Britain drew towards a defeat for Germany, the first significant raid on a major British city took place in Cardiff and Newport on 10 July when over seventy German planes attacked the South Wales docks. In July and August, Birmingham, Coventry, Hastings, Liverpool, Newcastle and Southampton were all subject to air raids, signifying that when the main Blitz on the provinces began, industrial and coastal towns and cities were going to be key targets for the Luftwaffe … As Tony Mason shows, the first raid on Coventry had been on 18 August 1940, when both industry and housing were bombed."

Most of these locations are within the 200-300 km of London. Hastings is less than a 2-hour drive away. People don't live in a bubble, so hearing and reading about the bombings getting closer had to be terrifying for a child-Tom.

Now, getting even closer to London. The timeline taken from this website:

"16 AUGUST 1940

A series of raids were leveled against Norfolk, Kent and the Greater London area with airfields as the main targets, including Manston.

London suburbs were bombed, including Wimbledon and Esher, where shops and houses were hit. Bombs on Maiden, Surrey, railway station killed staff and passengers and put both lines out of operation. To the north, Gravesend and Tilbury were attacked, and bombs fell on Harwell and Farnborough aerodromes."

Tom would have definitely experienced the impacts of these bombings at least in some ways because the sound of explosions travels miles ahead. People would be in an increased state of panic, not knowing if London was going to be the next target any other second now.

A photo of the news clipping from August 17, 1940, titled: Germans Bomb London Suburbs:

From this website:

"A still earlier, and better recorded, raid took place the night before, on 15 August. 30 bombers targeted RAF Croydon aerodrome, which was then considered part of Surrey rather than London. Several people were killed, with damage to the aerodrome and nearby housing."

The distance between Croydon aerodrome and London is just 10 miles. Again, this is something the impact of which Tom would have very likely heard personally - add to this the feeling of fear and uncertainty over when and where the next attack is coming, and you get a recipe for a serious psychological trauma. Tom was only 13 at this time.

From the same website:

"Many sources state that the first bombs to drop on London landed in the early hours of 22 August 1940, affecting Harrow and Wealdstone (technically not then in London, but within the London Civil Defence Area). These caused damage to two cinemas, a dance hall, bank and houses, but nobody was killed. A further strike on 24 August [in London] killed nine people, and prompted retaliatory attacks on Berlin."

So, by these accounts, Tom experienced the bombing of his city directly at least once and likely heard the impact of bombings from the suburbs at least twice. Could be more - there were several bombings close, and we have no idea where Tom was in those specific moments. He could be taking a walk to the West End, going to the suburbs with his orphanage, and so on.

He was lucky to miss the bombings that followed (until 1944), including the Blitz, but I really hate when people dismiss the psychological impact of seeing your city in ruins, witnessing the massive destruction, and not knowing whether the bombs are going to drop again today. It's not like the Germans announced, "Hey, the Blitz is over, you're safe now!" Of course Tom thought he might experience another bombing, and of course this thought scared him.

The summer of 1944 was terrible for London because that's when the V1 were dropped. Quoting from The Blitz Companion by Mark Clapson again:

"Yet during the summer of 1944 worse was to come, and it would manifest itself in a frightening new weapon. For some months rumours had been circulating in Britain about a flying bomb that had no pilot and which could be guided almost mysteriously through the air at great speed to attack the capital city. This was the V1, the ‘V’ standing for vengeance … The V1s killed over 5,000 people and injured 15,000."

The timeline for these attacks is here.

This one is trickier, though, because based on Harry's era, by 1944, Tom already came of age by wizarding standards. So there is an argument that he could finally use his magic and leave London. On the other hand, he was still a minor by Muggle standards, and we have no idea what Hogwarts rules and laws of his era stated - meaning that it can all be up to interpretation.

For those who prefer to imagine that Tom was there: maybe back in 1944, a wizard had to be 18 to be considered an adult, and the limit was dropped closer to Harry's era. Or there was a rule stating that Hogwarts students must continue to live in their assigned places up until they graduate, especially in a Muggle world - because if a minor disappears from Muggle care when they are still enrolled in a magical school, it could trigger the involvement of authorities, which might be something Hogwarts would want to avoid.

We can't make strong arguments here because the canon says nothing about these details. So, if someone wants to imagine that Tom missed the bombings in 1944, there are very logical reasons to support such a view, but if someone wants him to have experienced it, it's also easy to imagine.

Either way, whether Tom lived only through the bombings of 1940 or both 1940 and 1944, to deny that he was affected by the war is to reject the most basic human psychology, in my opinion. Anyone would be terrified when they are surrounded by destruction and death, when they are confronted with the idea of their own mortality and when they feel helplessly trapped. And Tom saw the war horrors every summer even when there were no bombings.

I'm a war victim myself, and I don't feel safe on the days my city is not attacked. Because I know that the situation can change every other second. The psychological effect of bombings is devastating even when you aren't physically affected.

Does Tom's trauma justify his canon actions in any way, though? Of course not. Did his war trauma cause his fear of death? I think it was definitely at least some part of it. How couldn't it be? It's exactly because he considered himself above others is that his fear could be this amplified. He probably hated sitting stuck in a dangerous zone with the people he despised, threatened by the beings he didn't consider proper humans.

Maybe the war didn't give birth to Tom's fear of death, but I think it obviously contributed to it heavily since, again, he was living in one of the very targeted places, and he lived through at least one London bombing.

Also, yes, I do think Dumbledore and Dippet were absolutely abhorrent for sending an orphan child to a war zone when it was so easy to give him shelter. They were responsible for Tom's well-fare, and this responsibility shouldn't disappear in the summer. Tom could have easily been killed - again, it's not like the Germans announced when they were going to bomb or not bomb London and other areas. Letting him stay at Hogwarts or finding some family to take him in - or an inn! - would have been beyond simple.

Dumbledore also definitely knew Tom is related to a Slytherin bloodline, so there had to be families willing to take him in for this alone. Sure, it could be dangerous in other ways for a child as self-focused as Tom, but he was still a child, and his safety had to come first.

Finally, there is an argument that Tom was moved along with other children from London since it was supposed to be mandatory. This is also something that can be looked at from different angles. The reality of people following a law always differs from the theory of it. There were many issues with evacuations at that time. About 7,736 children died in London from the Blitz alone - not everyone could evacuate, especially the poor. Maybe the Wool's lucked out, maybe not. There are claims that only children within the ages of 5 to 14 were evacuated. But also, if Tom was moved, then there is no telling if he was more or less safe there since the location is unknown. It once again depends on what a specific person wants to imagine as a part of his life.

Now, anon, as for your fics in particular: if you wrote about Tom witnessing the Blitz, it's all right - I mean, the entire universe of Harry Potter is made up. Maybe, in a world where these characters might exist, the Blitz could have happened differently - why not? We have no idea about the dates of HP canon-Blitz. The events there don't have to take place in our specific world.

So, strictly speaking - yes, it's not canon, but more in relation to our world than to the world of HP.

[torchlitinthedesert]

I'd be curious to hear your Ob-la-di Ob-la-da take lol

I claimed Ob-la-di Ob-la-da as a political song. No, I'm not kidding.

Obviously, Ob-la-di Ob-la-da isn't a protest song. It's a perky ska-style number about the happy, everyday life of an immigrant family. And it was released in 1968, when immigration had just become the most inflammatory topic in British politics.

In spring 1968, the UK government proposed a new Race Relations bill, making it illegal to refuse housing, employment, or public services to anyone on the grounds of race or national origin. It was a response to racism, particularly against recent immigrants, especially those from the Caribbean.

Cue a lot more racism, most notoriously from politician Enoch Powell, who gave what is still commonly referred to today as the "Rivers of blood" speech. Powell ranted about sending "the immigrant and immigrant-descended population" back to the countries they or their families had once come from. He was particularly freaked out by the idea that, having come to Britain, people would settle down and - horrors - have babies, eventually outnumbering the white population. Powell was sacked by his party the next day, but he sparked a horrible wave of racist protest and abuse.

All this was brewing over the summer, as The Beatles worked on the White Album, and on this song. What is Ob-la-di Ob-la-da about? It's an everyday love story. The ska style frames Desmond and Molly as Jamaican - which, in a British context, strongly suggests that they're immigrants. The song builds a happy ending out of exactly the things that racists like Powell were terrified that immigrants would do. They work, get married, and have children, who grow up and help with the family business. Life going on, happy ever after.

The Beatles were certainly aware of the tensions sparked by Powell, immigration and the Race Relations Act; they were still talking about it, and trying to write a protest song about it, in the Get Back sessions in January 1969. Ob-la-di Ob-la-da doesn't talk directly about any of that. Its subjects - work, home, children - are the sort of thing that 1970s rock journalists would put down as Paul's normie bourgeois sensibilities.

But normie is where most people live. The song presents Desmond and Molly as deeply relatable. It assumes that their happy ending is something everyone can root for and sing along with. That is not an apolitical act, particularly not in Britain in 1968.

And people did sing along, in their millions. Ob-la-di was staggeringly popular. The Beatles didn't release it as a single in the UK or the US (though it topped charts in Australia, Japan and Europe). There were multiple competing cover versions. One by the band Marmalade went to No 1 in Britain, and sold about a million copies. Paul's own favourite cover was by The Bedrocks, whose members were all first-generation immigrants from the Caribbean.

(Obviously, there are other questions here about race, music, and appropriation; The Beatles, and most of the artists doing cover versions, are white people singing black music. Hello, history of western popular music.)

As I said, this isn't a protest song. But it has been sung in protest. @beatleshistoryblog found this great footage from a Women's March in London in 1971. Just listen to the first seconds: la la la la life goes on.

[kapyushonchan]

My (not so) short review that nobody needs hear for this update - KFOS and SOCN

*sighs* Boy, where do I start?

TLDR: KFOS and SOCN turned out disappointing. This is my personal impression, reasons below, warning - lots of letters.

KFOS - first, my minor pet peeve - I don't like that they stopped giving cutscenes with the favorites except Christian. Ram, Kamal and Sara have much fewer of them with Devi compared to him. I also noticed that the cutscenes have lost quality? Just close-ups? I've had the impression before that stories that drop in the rankings get less resources.

Second - I think Stasya doesn't "feel" the story yet, because the only emotions I experienced while reading were my disgust and tension during the dinner scene.

Well also Doran turned out well, his not-so-passive agression with wishing a long life to the queen (especially in the context that he can't express his displeasure with Englishmen directly and he can't kill them all, so he turns to caustic sarcasm) is just slay king energy.

Third - and here starts my rant - a lot of interactions feel artificial and underwhelming. Devi's confrontation with Clara in the street seemed just like that - artificial and not really well thought out. The concept of the scene itself is good - Devi sees how Indian servants are bullied in Britain and lashes out. But the tone, the consequences that author chose to portray is just.... Devi just pulls Guy Richi and shuts the racist arrogant lady up. Yayslay, but… was it me or it was underwhelming?

RANT

Come to think about it, you didn't have to go to Britain to see that behavior (or all those Indian movies I watched and a few books I read kind of misled me). AFAIK this attitude was common in occupied India, as some of the British upper and not so upper class moved there to occupy and make easy money there. They built districts to their taste and style - all those clubs and establishments where Indian servants worked and where Indians were not allowed to enter. The police, too, were subject to the British. This apartheid and humiliation could be seen in India at every step, but Devi notices it only in England? And, bear with me, but I really think she couldn't just go to a high society lady and berate her for the way she treats her servants without some consequences to her and to Christian reputation. Devi has not changed Clara's mind with this argument, and she certainly will not change the mind of the whole of English society, which stands on the opinion of the exclusivity and superiority of the British Empire over all nations that have not risen to the level of their greatness. That's how empires work. Devi's act was from the good heart, but impulsive, and she would be spoken of not with respect but with contempt, saying that Christian had chosen “a rude savage” as his bride. Because Devi is not at home. She is in the land of her enemies. Because the whole thing was truly none of her business and it's not her servant, and also doing that she could have made things much worse for the servant-girl and for Christian's reputation (breach of etiquette! that Devi likes to bring up when someone's rude to her). And in this situation it doesn’t matter how angry Devi and we as readers would have felt, because we are in a different world and we’re not making the rules there. We should be uncomfortable with this scene, we should feel anger and frustration in this scene.My point is that the scene would have been more realistic if at its outcome Devi was faced with indifference, condescension and judgment, as if Devi had done something wrong (she hadn't, she just ended up in a world where such attitudes were the norm). Devi should have felt like she was in the Looking Glass, she should have been thrown off balance by the situation. Girl power slay in the style of "I'm Basu and who are you?" doesn’t work here. Or rather it doesn't give you a nuanced outcome of the situation. Even if Devi had come out of the verbal confrontation victorious in her own eyes, society would have gaslighted her. And because of that sence of powerlessness, her anger would have gotten even greater, and she would have actually cursed Clara with the help of the Dark Mother. And Devi would realize that she can't behave in England the way she did at home. It must be infuriating, annoying, but it's something she and we as players have to put up with. It resonates with us, we have to feel these emotions. I would read, of course, how the heroine deals with injustice, but if we have a story about colonialism and the Dozen trying to throw off that yoke, why aren't we shown such scenes in all their colors? Because mere words and knowledge of the etiquette are not enough. I also think Devi's connection to the Dark Mother's anger could have played out as a sort of Death Note, where Devi curses someone and then misfortunes happen to those cursed people.

I think the artificial tone of the story is my main problem with season two in general. Devi finds herself in a foreign hostile country, but now she's acting like Amala in India and by simple demands she shuts up the lords and ladies left and right just by demanding respect and they just listen to her and shut up. And it looks like a safe route, like there are no stakes there. And with change of the “location” we have to feel discomfort - but not with food, weather and new clothes, but with a feeling like we’re walking on eggshells. Devi, in a conversation with lord What's His Face, intimidates him with Christian, and he stops harassing her. But then the same lord makes a shapito show of provocation at dinner, showing that he doesn't give a damn about Christian's opinion and doesn't give a damn about him in general. I'm not saying there shouldn't be provocation, it shouldn't have been so brazen and direct in words. After all, English high society can masterfully insult in a veiled manner, and the author's skill in writing such dialogues was clearly lacking here. Imho (just my imho) storywise here, in England, Devi should realize how lucky she is to be a member of high Bengali society where she is respected, valued and listened to, when in England she should feel that she is looked down upon, trapped and treated worse, like a second-class person, no matter what her background is. Here, if you are on a route with Christian, there should be a test of his and Devi's feelings in the context of the contempt of the entire upper class society for the "second class people" as they see Indian people to be. Christian has to experience that he has become a pariah in some way by choosing to marry a Devi.

I may have a misconception of how things worked back then, but my thoughts are that it's like all the tension is gone from the story. And there should be - it's a story essentially about two factions who hate each other, who don't want to make contact and settle because it's a story built on a colonial takeover. It's toned down here, yes, it's not historically accurate and all, BUT: if this base of historical events gives you an opportunity to use a great source of conflict, disagreement, and drama - you use it (that's why the provocation with beef at the dinner resonated with me -  I was fuming!). And alas, I'm feeling less and less of all that. Especially after the first season that SLAYED.

Also, Devi's offer to Doran to team up with Christian, to use him, would have looked different and even more tense if those political and social nuances worked, and their interaction wasn't just some game of "who knows more". What kind of games are these anyway, they're on the same side, behind enemy lines. Devi could have shared her frustration with her experience in England with Doran and then open some cards to him and admit that they need Christian's resources to determine who's sowing turmoil in the Dozen. There could have been some great GOT-style dialogue here, not just the "The Executioner despises the Englishmen and therefore won't even consider it, he needs to be persuaded", but "The Executioner has been through enough in his life to know that if there's a chance, you have to take it, politics is always played dirty". Doran is described as intelligent after all, not just angry walking muscles.

Well, that's just my thoughts and impressions, you're free to disagree with me here. I'm probably asking too much from a visual novel, I never read them with a magnifying glass to look for nitpicks, but…. But I really liked KFOS S1 ._. And I'm sad for the untapped potential.

SOCN - I was disappointed too. I think Remy's original idea to write that Agnia and Amen attack Livius and Eva but were saved by Seth worked better.

Now, it's friendship and magic, no conflict and drama. The two sides of the conflict resolve everything man-to-man, blow off steam and agree on everything.

And I have the feeling that all the seriousness of the situation has gone somewhere and everything has descended into some kind of farce.

Okay, Amen using Livius and Eva to achive his goals still works fine. But Seth, who fights Amen for fun and then agrees to cooperate with him - no. Just no. It's seems OOC. It doesn't work. Even if he's weakened like a God. Even if he needs Hemseth so much. Seth is a god, he has pride and principles, and there's no way I believe he'd choose to work with someone who kills his followers and weakens him. Neither will Amen agree to work with Seth who he thinks is some kind of Supreme shezmu. He hates the Supreme. He wouldn't go for an alliance either.

Has the writes watched too much of House of the Dragon? WHERE ARE MY CONFLICTS I'M ASKING YOU I'M GOING TO START A SCANDAL

I thought that Remy's decision that Amen and Seth couldn't be friendsto MC like the other favorites had to do with this intransigence, but no, some other reason.

What's the point of not being friends with the favorites if everyone's drinking beer and making truces with each other???

[whencyclopedia]

Eyewitness Accounts of the London Blitz

The London Blitz (September 1940 to May 1941) was a sustained bombing campaign by the German Air Force during the Second World War (1939-45). Londoners were subjected to nightly bombings that killed thousands, destroyed homes, and necessitated long and uncomfortable nights spent in air raid shelters. This article tells the story of the Blitz through the eyes of those who experienced it firsthand.

After the fall of France in the early summer of 1940, the German Air Force (Luftwaffe) set itself the task of destroying the British Royal Air Force (RAF) both in the air and on the ground, a necessary prelude to an invasion. However, as the RAF began to win the Battle of Britain and so maintain air superiority, the Luftwaffe switched objectives to the bombing of cities, particularly London, in the hope of destroying civilian morale. Colonel Adolf Galand of Luftwaffe Jagdgruppe 26 explains this switch:

We didn't know at the time why he changed to London: we had only to obey orders. I believe today that Hitler and Göring wanted to make use of their advantage of having the capital of the enemy in the range of their fighters which could therefore escort the bombers. On the other side Berlin was far out of the effective range of the RAF at this time...Nobody knew at the time how much was needed to destroy a great part of the town. Perhaps Hitler and Göring hoped that they would force England to negotiate after these attacks.

(Holmes, 138)

Peter Stahl, a crew member of a Junkers Ju 88, noted in his diary his experience of bombing London in one of the first raids in early September 1940:

It must be terrible down there. We can see many conflagrations caused by previous bombing raids. The effect of our own attack is an enormous cloud of smoke and dust that shoots up into the sky like a broad moving strip.

(Holland, 731)

On the ground, F. W. Hurd, a member of the Auxiliary Fire Service (AFS), describes the sound of a bomb dropping close to him when fighting a fire in a London gasworks:

Guns started firing, and then I had my first experience of a bomb explosion. A weird whistling sound and I ducked behind the pump with the other two members of the crew. The others, scattered as we were, had thrown themselves down wherever they happened to be. Then a vivid flash of flame, a column of earth and debris flying into the air and the ground heaved. I was thrown violently against the side of the appliance…what a sight. About a mile to our right was the river front. The whole horizon on that side was a sheet of flame. The entire docks were on fire! On all other sides it was much the same. Fire everywhere. The sky was a vivid orange glow…And all the time the whole area was being mercilessly bombed. The road shuddered with explosions. AA shells were bursting overhead…The shrapnel literally rained down. It was now about midnight and still the racket kept on. It surprised me how quickly one got used to sensing whether a bomb was coming our way or not.

(Gardiner, 15-16)

Bombs landed on all sorts of places, but it was local landmarks being destroyed that often shocked the most, as explained by Anthony Heap, a local government official:

I heard that Tussaud's cinema caught a packet last night. So as soon as the All Clear went at 6.25 I dashed along to see. And by gosh it had too. Only the front of it in Marylebone Road and the proscenium was left standing. The rest was completely demolished as were some buildings behind it as well…not a single window in any building in the vicinity remained intact. Huge crowds thronged along the Marylebone Road to see the ruins. It was one of the sights of London today.

(Gardiner, 44)

Londoners went on with their daily lives as best they could, as explained here by Phyllis Warner:

One of the oddest things about our everyday life is its a mixture of ruthless horror and every-day routine. I pick my way to work past the bomb craters and the shattered glass, and sit at my desk in a room with a large hole in the roof (a block of paving stone came through). Next to a house reduced to matchwood, housewives are giving prosaic orders to the baker and the milkman. Of course, ordinary life must go on, but the effect is fantastic. Nobody seems to mind the day raids. It is the nights which are like a continuous nightmare, from which there is no merciful awakening. Yet people won't move away. I know that I'm a fool to go on sleeping in Central London which gets plastered every night, but I feel that if others can stand it, so can I.

(Gardiner, 48)

Sometimes people had no time to seek shelter, as told here by an anonymous East Ender:

The day I was hit was October 13th, 1940. About ten to eight I said to my wife and my in-laws, 'Well, I'll be off now,' and I just walked out the door. Lovely, big three-floor houses they were and I just walked up the approach road about twenty yards from the church which was our air-raid post and suddenly there was – shh – nothing. I heard nothing and I fell flat on my face. I picked myself up, I turned around and all I could see was just a grey curtain hanging down the middle of the road, about twice as wide as this pub. It was just a brownish-grey curtain hanging there and I thought, My God, something's happened. So I staggered down to the post and I said to the post warden, 'Jim, I think something's happened up at the Prince of Wales.' When we went up there and when I saw it I said, 'Christ almighty, the family's down there!' And there it was – we were there, about fourteen of us all on this big row of houses, and it was just one bloody great hole.

(Holmes, 140-1)

The authorities took some months to build communal shelters and then make sure they were not themselves unhealthy death traps. Barbara Nixon, an Air Raid Precaution (ARP) volunteer, describes the poor state of shelters in her district in Finsbury:

They were poorly ventilated, and only two out of nine that came in my province could pretend to be dry. Some leaked through the roof and umbrellas had to be used; in others the mouth of the sump-hole near the door had been made higher than the floor, and on a rainy night it invariably overflowed to a depth of two inches at one end decreasing to a quarter of an inch at the other, and rheumaticky old ladies had to sit upright on their benches for six to twelve hours on end, with their feet propped up on a couple of bricks. four or five times during the night we used to go round with a saucepan and bucket baling out the stinking water…There were chemical closets usually partially screened off by a canvas curtain. But even so, the supervision of the cleaning of these was not adequate. Sometimes they would be left untended for days on end and would overflow on to the floor…Then there was the question of lights…We had one hurricane lamp for about fifty people…The one paraffin light was the only heating that there was in those days. It was bitterly cold that winter.

(Gardiner, 62)

A shelter was not a guarantee of safety. Margaret Turpin recalls the night her shelter was hit by a bomb when she and her family found themselves buried in rubble:

I must have had lots of periods of unconsciousness…I remember seeing an ARP helmet, and it was way, way up, a long way away. And then suddenly it was quite near. I do remember the man saying to me, 'We'll soon have you out.' He said, 'All we've got to do is get your arm out.' And I looked at this arm that was sticking out of the debris, and I said, 'That's not my arm,' and he said, 'Yes it is love, it's got the same coat'…and I don't remember coming out of the shelter. I do remember being in the ambulance, and I think for me that was probably the worst part…I felt somebody's blood was dripping on me from above, and I found that awful - mainly I think because I didn't know whose blood it was, whether it was someone I knew and loved or not. And I tried to move my head, but of course it was a narrow space and I couldn't get my head away from the blood. And I heard a long time afterwards that the man was already dead. But it couldn't have been my father because he was taken out of the shelter and he didn't die till two days later…He died, my mother died, my baby sister died, my younger sister died. I had two aunts and they died, an uncle died…I knew almost immediately because when I came home from hospital…there were milk bottles outside and I just knew then that nobody had come home to take them in…The seven were all buried on the same day. My brother said that they put Union Jacks on the coffins…They sent me to Harefield…But unfortunately the people at Harefield could see the raids on London, and they used to come out to watch, to view it like a spectacle, and I couldn't stand that.

(Gardiner, 64-5)

The stations of the London Underground were a popular refuge, with people sleeping on the platforms in rows. A journalist describes the scene in the Elephant and Castle station:

From the platforms to the entrance the whole station was one incumbent mass of humanity…most of this mass of sleeping humanity slept as though they were between silken sheets. On the platform when the train came in, it had to be stopped in the tunnel while police and porters went along pushing in the feet and arms which overhung the line. The sleepers hardly stirred as the train rumbled slowly in. On the train I sat opposite a pilot on leave. 'It's the same all the way along,' was all he said.

(Gardiner, 84)

Some families preferred to stay near their homes, and so they erected an Anderson shelter in their garden. Made of sheet metal and packed around with soil, they could resist close calls and flying debris but not, of course, a direct hit. A London air raid warden, Mr Butler describes one tragedy where the Anderson shelter survived but not the occupant:

There was an Anderson shelter and apparently there was a little girl inside. Her parents had gone round the corner to visit their friends or relations or something and the shelter was more or less caved in and covered with soil. I got down into the shelter and there was this little girl about fifteen or sixteen and her mouth was full of soil. Naturally, I got hold of her hand, which is our job to console these people and try to quieten them down. She was in a pretty bad state and I cleaned her mouth out; she laid back and as she was catching her breath, sort of breathing heavily, some stupid devil walked over the top of the shelter, soil came down and went back in this girl's throat and as she squeezed my hand like that she just faded out. Now I had the feel of that girl clenching my hand for weeks and weeks and weeks. I could never forget it and I don't forget it now.

(Holmes, 144)

One family that stayed at home was the Royal Family, who earned much respect for remaining at Buckingham Palace. When the palace was slightly damaged on 13 September 1940, Queen Elizabeth was not too distressed:

I'm glad we've been bombed. Now I feel we can look the East End in the face.

(Ziegler, 121)

The government was keen to keep tabs on people down in the shelters and find out if any social unrest could be bubbling under the surface. There was a Mass-Observation unit that sent out secret observers who then compiled reports on the public's behaviour. Mostly there ended up next to nothing to report beyond rumours as to what some couples were getting up to in the darker corners or the existence of a black market in getting the best positions to sleep in. One mundane report is typical, the highlight being a little aggravation between understandably stressed family members:

First was a girl, shouting and screaming at her mother. In the end they were separated by force, and led away from each other, struggling and screaming. The other case was of a man and his wife. The wife wanted him to sit down, the husband wanted to walk about. She became very excited, and a crowd of 'rubberers' formed round them. She bit his ear and tore out his hair. He smacked her face and threw her to the ground.

(Levine, 88).

The number of homeless kept on rising, and the need to look after them inspired such organisations as the Women's Voluntary Service (WVS), as here remembered by an anonymous East Ender:

A big morale booster was the Women's Voluntary Service – the WVS…When the Blitz started they certainly proved their worth. They went out with mobile canteens right in the middle of the Blitz; the following day they had their clothing centres open. People who had lost everything were fitted up with clothes and then taken along by the WVS and be given a cup of tea and a bun, then taken along to the assistance people who doled them out £10 or £20, whatever the size of the family was.

(Holmes, 142)

Tragedies were everywhere as people lost much more than their property. Frances Faviell, a Red Cross nurse in London recalls one woman's grief:

There was a little woman from Dovehouse Street sitting on a bench…Dovehouse Street had had a parachute mine on it and the Chelsea Hospital for Women had dealt with many casualties. Suddenly her control gave way and she began screaming in a frenzy of grief…'He's gone…He's gone and I'm all alone and no home, nothing. No one wants me…Why didn't I go with him, it's cruel, it's cruel, cruel. Why? Why?' Her anguish was terrible.

In the appalled silence with which officialdom treats such outbursts – almost as if she had said or done something obscene – a sleek, well-dressed clergyman…told her sternly to desist – that what had happened was God's will and that she must accept it and thank Him for her own deliverance from death. She looked at him in dazed misery as if he spoke a foreign language and began screaming even more wildly. 'God! There's no God! There's only Hitler and the Devil'

(Gardiner, 317)

A spirit of defiance drove people on, as evidenced by this anecdote from Anthony Eden, then Foreign Secretary, who was with Wendell Wilkie, the US politician sent to determine the mood of Britain during the Blitz:

We were coming out of the Foreign Office and his leadership. But immense credit is also due to the British people, because it was their victory.

(Holmes, 147).

The 'Blitz spirit', the pulling together of strangers from different levels of society to defiantly resist the terrors of the bombing, was, for many, the defining experience of those dark days of 1940 and 1941. Much has been made in recent times of a 'myth' of the Blitz with undue emphasis given to rare incidents of social unrest, looting, and prejudices against perceived outsiders. The vast majority of eyewitnesses speak of people simply getting on with their lives as best they could in terrible circumstances. Another recurring theme in witness accounts is that people had an all too clear sensation that they were playing a role in a drama that would have consequences for the future of Europe. As Caryl Brahms noted in her diary in December 1940:

These are the days to be alive in. These days now. They are hard, unhappy, lonely, wasted, infuriating, terrifying, heartbreaking days. But they are history. And in them we are a part of history. We are lucky to be living now.

(Levine, 313)

Continue reading...

[cl-01-kestis]

Come Back, I Always Do - Fred Weasley x Female Ex!Reader | Part 1

Summary: You break up with Fred Weasley after being accepted into a school overseas. Things are going well after you’re sent back to Britain 6 years after to work in Hogwarts, but you soon realise your story with him isn’t quite finished like you imagined.

Warnings: slow burn, angst, break ups, everyone lives AU, reader is muggle-born

Part 2

You still remembered the day you left Fred Weasley, the two of you were sitting inside a small muggle cafe not far from Kings Cross, silent and scared to speak.

He knew it was coming, he often heard you speaking of your desire to work overseas and specialise in Magizoology. He loved hearing you speak about your plans for the future, but he feared the day it would come true.

Fred sat with tear stained cheeks over an untouched americano as he watched you explain your situation, showing him your acceptance letter into a magic university in New York. He was speechless, smiling through his tears as he read through the letter. But his heart was ready to cave in, he couldn’t process that it was all coming true.

The two of you nearly died in the battle of Hogwarts, although you were closer to death than he was. He and Molly held you in their arms as they tried to shake you awake, his cries being the only thing anyone heard in the great hall. He thought you had died, your body was so cold and still. But his mother managed to bring you back into consciousness with some form of unknown magic.

Yet here you were, leaving him again. Just when he thought he was safe, just when he thought you could both finally settle down, you were slipping through his fingers. You gave him a necklace which you wore everyday, marking a reminder of your love for him. Fred wanted to refuse it, angry that you couldn’t stay. But he couldn’t say no to you, especially when you were just as upset as he was.

You left him sitting alone in the cafe, trying not to sob on your way out as you clutched your acceptance letter tight.

Your parents comforted you when you returned home, knowing how difficult the situation was for you. Fred was your world, but there was no way he could come with you, and you couldn’t stay. They both helped you pack your things when the time came, all the books and endless magical necessities took a while to cram in, but you eventually managed.

New York was unlike anything you had ever experienced, it was busier than London, the people were somewhat the same, but you were completely alone with no one to support you. You wished Fred was there the whole time, trying not to get emotional when he popped up into your mind at any given moment.

When you unpacked your things in your dorm, you only realised that your mother had packed an old letter from Fred when you were both still in high school. You hung the letter up on your wall beside a bunch of other photos with your friends and family back home, wanting to remind yourself of what you once had.

Your degree took 5 years to complete, but the years felt like they went by quicker than you could cast a spell. One second you were starting your first lecture, the next you were graduating as a qualified magizoologist.

It wasn’t long before the job offers started piling in, most were in America but one job in particular caught your eye. To your delight and surprise, Hogwarts was in search of an advanced Magizooligist teacher. You remember there wasn’t a teacher for that subject when you studied there, so there must’ve been a high request from students for a new and more experienced Magizoologist.

So you applied for the job as soon as possible, packing what was necessary for the interview in Scotland. Albus called off the job for anyone else as soon as he saw that you had applied. He didn’t want to put you through an interview, he had to since it was protocol, but he knew you were perfectly capable of teaching at Hogwarts. When he read your resume alongside Minerva, the two of them knew you’d be the perfect fit.

The interview was very comfortable, McGonagall was the one asking you the questions but she had a bright smile on her face the entire time. She was delighted to have you back in Hogwarts, regardless if you got the job or not.

To no one’s surprise, you aced the interview with flying colours and you were offered your own place to stay in Hogwarts. You called your parents and told them the news, the both of them were teary and excited beyond measure, inviting you out for a celebratory meal as a result.

One week later you were leaving your old apartment in New York and moving to Hogwarts. You were shown to your new classroom which had been unused for quite some time and spent hours decorating it with McGonagall and a few helpful elf’s. You made it feel like home rather than a classroom, setting up a kettle and teabags in the corner as well as a few candles and cushions. You set up your surgical tools by your desk, also bringing in different medicines, ready for display to the advanced students. For the younger students, you made simple diagrams of different magic animals and even set up a fun quiz for them to partake. You were having so much fun and school hadn’t even started yet.

News had broke out that a new teacher had arrived at Hogwarts, it even made it to the daily prophet, displayed within a small article on the front page. It just so happened that Arthur Weasley was reading it on a Sunday afternoon, the majority of his kids out tie house, when all of a sudden he spotted an oddly familiar name. He asked Molly where he had heard the name before but his thoughts were cut off when his wife let out a loud scream, snatching the newspaper from his hands as he looked at her worriedly.

The short woman smiled widely, calling on Ron who was currently visiting with Hermione, now his fiancé. The two of them ran into the kitchen with concerned expressions, until they realised no one was in danger.

“Mum, what’s the screaming for?!” Ron groaned, splaying his arms out before crossing them over his chest. Hermione let out a soft chuckle and curiously peeked at the newspaper in her soon-to-be mother in law’s hands.

“(Y/N) (S/N) is the new magizoology teacher at Hogwarts!” Molly yelled excitedly, turning the paper around and pointing to the small article underneath the large heading of a different subject. Ron and Hermione looked at each other in surprise, the both of them smiling. But Ron found his smile leaving his face, looking at his mum.

“Do you think Fred knows?” His voice was quiet, remembering the downfall of your relationship from 6 years ago. Hermione’s smile dropped off too, and so did Mollies and Arthur’s. Everyone went silent, until Molly cleared her throat and smiled sadly.

“He never reads the news, maybe it’s best we don’t tell him” She patted Ron on the shoulder, handing the newspaper back to her husband who decided to read the rest of your article, sipping his cup of coffee as Molly lead her son and his fiancée into the living room.

“Maybe we should invite her to the wedding? She’s still an old family friend, she was always there for Ron, Harry and I during high school” Hermione reasoned with the mother and son, but Molly wasn’t sure. Fred was distraught after you left, he went to his mother almost every night for closure, wanting to know he did a good job as your boyfriend. Molly remembers his drop in happiness and fulfilment, she remembers George fearing for his health nearly everyday. If he saw you now, Molly wasn’t sure how he’d react. The two of you would absolutely see each other if you were both invited to the wedding, but it wasn’t her decision to invite you. It was Ron and Hermione’s.

“If you invite her, please take note that not everything will go as planned. Their breakup was devastating for the both of them, they might still need time away from each other” Molly whispered, aware of the other kids in the house. George and Ginny were visiting briefly, the two of them up in their own bedrooms, but Molly couldn’t risk either of them hearing, especially George.

“We’ll have a think about it, thanks mum” Ron smiled warmly towards Molly, assuring her as she nodded her head and headed back into the kitchen. Hermione tugged Ron’s jumper, looking at him with bright eyes.

“We need to invite her” She muttered quietly, taking his hand into her own.

“I know, but should we really?” Ron pressed a kiss to her knuckle, unable to resist showering her with affection every minute.

“If we put aside Fred, we should still invite her, you know how much she did for us in high school” Mione reasoned, making sure her tone wasn’t too loud in case anyone upstairs was nosing around.

“Maybe you’re right” Ron sighed, looking at his fiancée’s small engagement ring which gleamed brightly under the candlelight of the living room.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs” Hermione kissed his cheek, beckoning him back to their room as he grumbled to himself.

-

Term had finally started. There was a particular buzz emitting around the students, desperate to meet their new Magizoology teacher. You were blissful and content about your new job, your skin humming with nervous anticipation. You weren’t sure how the students would react to you, you hoped they felt comfortable and attentive to your teaching. You didn’t wear any formal teaching uniform, you felt like Magizoology wasn’t the type of subject to mingle well with formal wear. So you opted for a jumper and jeans, your wand slipped haphazard in your back pocket.

As you were teaching during your second week at Hogwarts, explaining the primary organs of a Chimera, Mrs McGonagall slipped through the door to hand you a small letter with a wax stamp. You thanked her and slipped it into your drawer, continuing to teach as you sat on your desk. After you finished your lectures to the 6th years, you gave them a small surprise quiz about various medicines to treat magic creatures. You heard a few groans echo around the class, but that didn’t deter you from handing them out.

As the students sat their quiz, you opened up the mysterious envelope from your drawer. You slipped out the letter as quietly as possible, eyes scanning the impressively fancy calligraphy at the top. Your heart couldn’t help but drop when you read the heading, eyes unblinking as you read over the two names displayed on the letter.

‘Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger invite you to their wedding at The Burrow on the 1st of October with friends and family’

You wanted to throw up, not because of the wedding but because you hadn’t heard the name Weasley in almost 7 years. You didn’t even feel worthy of going to their wedding, you felt like you needed to phone them and talk things through.

Contact details and the address were at the bottom of the letter, Hermione’s being the first one. You excused yourself from the class, knowing the call wouldn’t take long and the quiz wouldn’t finish for another hour, and ran to your room to fetch your telephone. You stood out into the hallway, nearby the window so your service didn’t drop as you dialled Hermione’s number.

It rang for a solid 30 seconds, each ring making you feel more and more thinned out. But to your relief, she finally answered with a short and casual ‘hello?’.

“Hermione, it’s (Y/N)” You called her name with a smile, one of your hands pressed against your chest as you tried to suppress your anxiety.

“(Y/N)?! Merlin’s beard you have no idea how good it is to hear from you! I’m assuming you got the letter?” Hermione was ecstatic as she spoke to you, yet you couldn’t help but think she also sounded rather nervous.

“I did indeed, but I just want to ask why?” You look out into the breathtaking scenery of the highlands through the glass, holding onto the stone window ledge as you patiently waited for her response.

“Well… we realised you were back from New York after seeing you in the papers, so we thought we might as well ask” Hermione’s voice was hopeful, she felt awkward explaining why she invited you but she was sure you understood.

“I see, and who’s we?” You ask, a hint of worry in your tone. Hermione paused, taking in your question and realising what you meant.

“Just me and Ron, Molly and Arthur know as well but they’re leaving the situation to us” The young witch assured. Your eyes grew cloudy when you heard Hermione mention Molly and Arthur, they were practically your family at a point in your life, now they’re strangers, it stung much worse than you anticipated.

“You sure you want me at the wedding? I mean, heaven forbid you know who sees me, Mione, he would never recover” You argue calmly, chewing your bottom lip as your hand anxiously tapped against the stone ledge.

“Is it really that bad to say his name? He’s not voldemort, (Y/N)” Hermione scoffed with a grin, but you couldn’t feel amused, you couldn’t think of his name without wanting to cry.

“I know, it’s hard enough to think about him” You admit, straying away from the window and back to your living quarters. Hermione went silent at the other end of the phone, almost as if she was sad to hear you say such a thing and didn’t know how to respond. You couldn’t blame her.

“If you go, I’ll do my best to make sure you stay away from each other, all of us will if that’s what you want” She suggested.

“Don’t be silly, it’s your wedding day, you shouldn’t be worrying about me,” You groan. “Plus I haven’t seen you in 6 years, I’m not even sure I’m close enough to attend” There was something sorrowful laced in your tone. Hermione gasped and frowned on the other side of the line.

“You are closer than most of the attendees, (Y/N), aside from your connection to the Weasley’s, you helped us more than anyone else did in high school, you certainly helped me learn a thing or two” The brunette vouched for you strongly.

“Still, maybe not everyone will agree.”

“Well there’s only one way to find out” She raised a brow, and you had no other choice but to roll your eyes and chuckle softly to yourself.

“What time does the reception start?” You smile.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

[versegm]

“Sir Kyrielight? A word, if you will.”

It’s not the first time that Morgan has sought the knight out. For some reason she herself can’t really understand, Sir Kyrielight has become something of a soothing presence to her. Spending time with her has turned out to be something quite enjoyable.

Today, however, she is not here for such amusements.

“Of course!” Sir Kyrielight steps aside, to let Morgan come in. “Is anything the matter?”

Morgan steps in- though she does not find herself a seat, as she usually would. This is important. She cannot let herself relax. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Sir Kyrielight looks at her with confusion, closing the door. “Did you forget something in my room? We can look for it together-”

“I meant my catalyst.”

Sir Kyrielight goes still.

“… What are you talking about?” She does an admirable job keeping her voice even. It’s not enough, though. There’s still a slight tremble in there. She won’t look at Morgan. She looks like she barely even dares to breathe. Sir Kyrielight (has always been) is a terrible liar (she knows) it seems.

“I have been studying the Chaldean summoning system.” It’s fascinating, really. The world is desperate to be saved, which facilitates the process greatly- but even then, summoning Lostbelt servants or extra classes with a regular summon system should not be possible. And before that, the fact that they managed to brute force any summon at all prior to the incineration of humanity is truly praiseworthy. It has been quite interesting to take apart. “And I have noticed that there was an anomaly with my summoning. My spirit origin responded much more strongly than any other servant.”

“Couldn’t it just be that you were really eager to help panhuman history?”

Oh, an attempt at humor. Morgan will give it to her. This is quite amusing. “I am flattered you hold me in such high regards, Sir Kyrielight. But I am not so charitable to wish mercy upon my enemies.”

“And you hold yourself in too low regards, Winter Queen. You are not nearly as much of a witch as you like to pretend to be.”

For some reason, this statement fills Morgan with profound discomfort. Perhaps because she thought Sir Kyrielight smart enough to not believe Morgan any better than she actually is. She opts to ignore it. “Regardless. A catalyst was used to summon me. When I asked my spouse, they said they did not have any such thing on them. As you are the only other person present during summons, I can only conclude that you were the holder of my catalyst.”

“We had just come back from Fairy Britain. And Senpai is a walking catalyst anyway. Surely the dirt we carried back would have been enough to call you forth.”

“Then this would have applied to every servant from Fairy Britain. I am the only one subject to such anomaly.”

“Then maybe-”

“Sir Kyrielight. Please.”

She falls silent. They never talked about this, but Morgan is fairly certain that Sir Kyrielight is aware of her fairy eyes. Perhaps that is why she will not argue any further.

“I am not angry. However, whatever you had that called me forth, it belongs to me. I would like to have it back.”

“You won’t be able to do anything with them. They’re useless.”

They? Is her catalyst in pieces, perhaps? “It matters not. They are rightfully mine. It is up to me to decide whether they are of use to me or not.”

“They are important to me.”

“They are not yours to keep.”

A second tick by. Another.

Slowly, Sir Kyrielight reaches for her collar.

She pulls out a purse, attached around her neck by a loose string. Morgan had never noticed it before. It is most likely intentional. She wonders if her summoning was done on purpose. Probably not; chances are the knight was wearing this at the time completely unaware that Morgan would respond to it.

Sir Kyrielight hands the purse to Morgan. It’s light. Through the fabric, she can feel multiple small items. Based on the previous conversation, Morgan had thought that, perhaps, it could be the shattered remains of her crown. The items are blunt though, not a single sharp edge in sight. She opens the purse, and peers inside it.

The sight is such that Morgan forgets to hide her surprise.

Sir Kyrielight is looking straight at the floor, arms wrapped around herself. “It’s… it’s all that was left.”

Inside the purse, blindingly white under the artificial light, shines several bones.

“… I see.” She finally says. Whatever emotions this sight evoked in her- she shoves it right back into the abyss of her soul, where it belongs. They are irrelevant to the matter at hand. She closes the purse, and hands it back to the knight. “You are correct. I have no use for these. I will allow you to keep them. You have well earned this trophy.”

Sir Kyrielight does not move, however. She stares at Morgan with wide eyes. “… trophy?”

“Proof of your valor. Evidence of my defeat. Call it however you wish. You did kill me once, ineffective as it was. You have earned the right to desecrate my remains as you wish-”

“It’s not a fucking trophy!”

More than the tone, it’s the swear that startles Morgan. Never before has she heard the knight be so vulgar.

“Hate me. Shun me. Think me morbid and insane for hanging onto these. I have hidden things from you, I will not deny it, and any anger you might feel towards me is warranted. But I did not pick these up to- to gloat. I didn’t pick these up to humiliate you, Morgan! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I liked this? I’ve never wanted to dead! I wanted you to live! I wanted us both to live! But we couldn’t. The world was against us. Our ideals were against us. This wish was doomed from the very beginning. I wanted something to remember you by. I wanted something I could carry with me. I wanted something more than a memory, something more than my grief, for once in my life I wanted something I could actually hold! I know it’s sick, its deranged, I know normal people do not behave like this, and I will accept your blame and your wrath. But do not for a second think I took these because I wanted to hurt you, Tonelico.”

Her face is flushed with anger, hands clenched into fists, and none of these things matter because Morgan’s thoughts got obliterated by a single word.

“How…” for the first time in centuries, Morgan finds herself speechless. “How do you know that name?”

In the span of a few seconds, Sir Kyrielight’s face goes from bright red to sickly white. She takes a step back, pressing her back against the wall.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Morgan is a smart woman, and the puzzle is stupidly easy: the only people who know who Tonelico is are those who traveled with her back in the Fairy Calendar. Sir Kyrielight knows that name. There is one specific knight Morgan used to travel with.

Which means-

Which means-

The conclusion is so, so obvious. Morgan is this close to an epiphany- but it’s like running into a brick wall. She should be able to figure this out easily, yet she physically cannot take this leap. This means- this means-

Suddenly, it clicks.

It’s a curse.

It’s a subtle, but powerful thing, weaved with care to ensure that she might never notice it. If not for an evidence so damning, she could have gone her entire life without realizing it. Morgan is cursed. She’s cursed with a permanent blind spot, one very specific fact forever locked away from her.

She turns her attention inward. If it’s a curse, then she can find it. And she does; she finds the spell pulsing right behind her right eye, concealed under five layers of glamour. It’s too intricate for her to take apart so quickly, however. It was very clearly weaved by someone who had mastered magecraft-

Yes. Someone who had mastered magecraft.

This curse was cast by none other than Morgan herself.

Why? Why would she lock away such valuable memories? Why would she bar herself very basic knowledge?

Think. Think. The Fairy calendar was a mistake, a made-up tale crafted by the world to justify a present history. Morgan was the one to force the curtains to raise on the Queen’s Calendar,  to brute force this world into something real. As such, anyone aside of herself who would be acknowledged as both a part of the Fairy and the Queen’s calendar would be erased from history.

Morgan cast that curse on herself. She cast it to ensure that she would not kill the girl in front of her.

“You are-” She has to say it. She has to say it. This was important enough for her wipe away her own memory. She has to say it. She has to say it. “You are-”

Her entire being seizes, heart and body and soul. It can’t let her say it. It won’t let her say it. But she has to. It’s important. It’s important. It’s important. “You are-”

Tonelico’s fingers are tight around her throat, the last wish of a girl she no longer is. But if this girl is a ghost, then Morgan is just as much, dead dead and deader, and now that she is no longer beholden to her land and her duty she has to say it. “You are Fa■r■ ■n■ght G■lah■■.”

The name cuts at her throat on their way out. She cannot hear her own words, the title reduced to sound and sound and sound and pain. A violent cough overtakes her, hunching her over. She slaps a hand over her mouth. Her shoulder tremble under the strain. She peers down at her palm, only to find it covered in blood.

“Stop!” Mash- Sir- Mash- (Mash, Mash, Mash, Mash, it echoes, it vibrates, ripples upon the water mirror, cracks inside the winter palace) rushes to her side, grabbing her by the arms. “Don’t- don’t remember. Please. Please don’t remember me. When Totrot- please. Please don’t hurt yourself for me. I just got you back. Please, I don’t, I can’t lose you again, please,”

A realization, then:

Mash had loved Tonelico.

Of course. Of course. Why else would she carry these polished bones? What could drive someone as virtuous, as upright as Sir Galahad to such extremes? What grief could torment the knight so? Nothing but love with nowhere left to go.

And then, a corollary: Morgan is cursed. Morgan cursed herself. Morgan cursed herself into amnesia to protect this knight.

Inane as it is to consider- Morgan had loved her back.

[chambergambit]

DA fic idea that's been bouncing around my head for a while:

The Abbey has some money troubles, so they decide to sell their beloved Reynold's painting that hangs over the grand staircase. However, the few offers they receive are disappointingly low.

There’s a new chauffeur, someone Bates met in prison and vouches for. He broaches the subject with Cora while driving her alone somewhere.

“Do you know why the Mona Lisa is famous, your Ladyship?” he asks

"Because it's a masterpiece." replies Cora.

"True," he says, "but that's not why it's famous."

He and Cora come up with a plan to boost the painting’s fame and thus its price.

She arranges for the painting to be taken to some special studio in London to be photographed, but on the way back, the truck transporting it is held up! And the painting is stolen!

Cora notifies the police and the newspapers. Because the painting was just professionally photographed, it’s on the front page of every newspaper in Britain, along with profiles on the other artworks kept at Downton Abbey. Cora is photographed standing on the landing of the grand staircase, staring longingly at where her beloved painting should be.

The search for the stolen painting becomes a media circus, with rich art collectors offering up their own money as a reward. Some people try to pass off poorly-made copies as the real thing. Just when it starts to be too much– it’s found! Someone stumbles upon it in a Paris warehouse and immediately calls the police.

While there are many suspects, the thief is never confirmed.

Lord and Lady Grantham go to Paris themselves to retrieve the painting, and when they return, they’re showered with ludacris offers for it, and they humbly take the second-highest.

After everything dies down, Cora gives the clever chauffeur his cut. It was all his idea, after all. He used his criminal connections to arrange the hold-up and stash the painting in Paris where it would be found before too long.

Bates has his suspicions, but doesn't say anything. He’s the one who vouched for this criminal, but he won’t take the fall for him.

The mastermind chauffeur uses his money to run away with his new beau, Thomas, who watched everything go down with immense pleasure.

Robert remains oblivious for the rest of his life.

[arthurdrakoni]

Flatland is an underrated classic that imagines life in a 2-D world. This is my review.

You’ll get a lot of answers when you ask when speculative fiction was born. Some will tell you that it began with Hugo Gernsback and the pulps. Others will say that it goes as far back as mythology and folklore. Personally, I go with those who say that it began with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, though I don’t discount earlier works such as Gulliver’s Travels or The Tempest. I say all of this because I’m taking us back to the 19th Century for today’s review. We’re going to review the classic novel Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions by Edwin A. Abbott.

Imagine, if you will, a sheet of paper that is infinitely large and stretching to all sides. Now imagine that on this sheet of paper there are a series of geometric shapes, but instead of staying in place these shapes move about and have complex social lives. Welcome to Flatland, a world of only two dimensions. There is width and length, but there is no height or depth.

The book follows A. Square who is…well, he’s literally a two-dimensional square. He acts as our guide to the realm of Flatland and relates to use the ways of his countrymen and their doings. There are two main events that serve to completely change A. Square’s world view. The first is his contact with Lineland, a world of only one dimension, and the second is meeting a figure known as Lord Sphere. Lord Sphere claims to come from a strange world of three dimensions called Spaceland.

The book goes into great detail about how life works in a world with only two dimensions. For example, it is customary to meet someone by feeling them in order to determine their shape. It’s also considered polite to give directions to the way north when meeting a traveler on the road. Societal rank and job are determined by the number of sides that one has, with circles being at the top of things. Each successive generation gains an additional side, except for the low ranking isosceles triangles, though there are exceptions. Women, being incredibly sharp and pointy lines, have restrictions placed on them so that they can avoid constantly killing people by accident. We also learn much of the history of Flatland, such as why colors have been banned by the upper classes. There is some pretty great world building in this novel.

That having been said the fact the citizens of Flatland are all living geometric shapes does limit the amount of exploration that can go into their biology and physics. A. Square does hint at future explanations, but he decides that it will take up too much time and bore the reader. Or to put it another way, if you wonder how they eat and breathe and other science facts…well, I’m sure you all know the words to the Mystery Science Theater 3000 theme song. You’ll also notice that Flatland society bares more than a passing resemblance to the society of Victorian Britain. This is intentional, as Abbott intended for Flatland to be just as much a satire as a compelling story. For example, the class system of Flatland is rather absurd when given further scrutiny, but Abbott was making about about how the British class system was absurd and ultimately rather arbitrary.

Since it was written in 1884 Flatland has long since fallen into the Public Domain. As such, many other writer have tried their hand at tackling the subject matter Flatland is built upon. Usually they will focus on one particular aspect while ignoring the others. Admittedly I haven’t read any of these books, but of the ones I’ve heard of thanks to TV Tropes I’d say Planiverse sounds the most promising. It attempts to look at how biology, chemistry, physics and culture would function in a realistic 2-D world.

Have you read Flatland? If so, what did you think?

Link to the full review on my blog: https://drakoniandgriffalco.blogspot.com/2017/02/book-review-flatland-by-edwin-abbot.html?m=1

[bluujae]

Ｍarauders Era, baby

Strap in, I tried to keep it to the need to know basis only, but there's still a lot bc I like to ramble

Meet the family, House Malyx

House Malyx is a house that brings dread.

“Oderint dum metuant.”— Let them hate, so long as they fear. The family motto.

To carry the Malyx name was to “bear a weight greater than God and gold”, if one believed in such things. They're dark artists. Their blood entered this world with the bearings of Hell, natural born sorcerers. A gift and an eventual curse. Due to their mixed blood, Malyx have a tendency to live longer than most, although death finds them as easily as anyone else in the end— And when it does, their flesh gives way to dreadful revisions of what once was. They become secrets to be kept behind the locked and charmed doors of their estate, buried deep under the floorboards.

The current state of the house holds ten members, including two wives who married in and two brothers who were brought from a separate arrangement. At the head of House stands Amaris Malyx, hailing at 142 years old but only looks about 65 at most. Her only husband passed when she hit 100. Between them, they had one sole son. Vesemir Malyx, who hails at 120 years old though only looks to be in his 60’s and married to his wife Wilhelmina, with 3 children. Two boys, one girl. The oldest was Ciro, who has yet to marry and shows no signs of attempting any time soon. Nyathera the middle child has proven, thus far, to be too wild for any true suitor but she has countless admirers. Then the youngest, Ambrose is the only child who’s married. Having settled down with the previously divorced Irina, who brought two sons with her; Morvan and Dimitri. Eventually conceiving a young son with Irina, now the youngest heir— the pride and joy of the house. That’s me :)

My father, uncle, and aunt are all at varying ages in their late 40’s early 50’s. Within the next decade and some change, their physical appearances will slow in aging.

Back in America, Vesemir had been a Wampus and Wilhelmina a Horned Serpent. Ciro and Ambrose had both been Thunderbirds, while their sister Nyathera had been a Wampus like their father.

In Britain, Irina had been a Gryffindor while her two boys had been sorted into Slytherin. Then I, while in America had been a Horned Serpent. When transferred to Hogwarts I’d been sorted into Hufflepuff— much to the amusement of both brothers.

-

House Malyx moved from America, where they truly come from is unknown.

Ambrose Malyx’s reputation came from how quickly he scaled the ladder of the MACUSA, becoming one of their best aurors, specializing in hunting down Sieges and dark wizards. The fact remained, Ambrose took after his now retired father and brother. He was and is one hell of an auror.

Earning enough of a reputation that he was headhunted for a position under M.O.M. He agreed to be a temporary fill in overseas for some time, where he met Irina. When it was time to go back he brought her with him. The two proceeded to be married and for the first 13 years of my life I was raised in America. When my mother grew homesick, my father packed us up without a second thought and moved the whole family to Britain— well known by that point for giving in to his wife’s every whim. Thus, I transferred during my 3rd year. In the meantime, my father clawed his way up and became Head Auror.

We’re picking this bad boy up at the beginning of 6th year.

The only real last thing to note is that House Malyx’s ‘psuedo-immortality’ isn’t, or wasn’t, really a known subject outside of America. However, there was a collision of two revered families when they briefly came into contact with House Black. At the time, Amaris was 120 meeting a 23 year old Orion Black. You can imagine the horror and fear when she turns back up 22 years later looking no different and with three generations under her.

And if anyone is wondering who the S.P is in this skit�� There’s three iterations of this, so depending on which one I’m currently running it’s either:

James Potter

Sirius Black

Regulus Black

[lostsbooks]

[Archives Entry] Michigan's experiences of 1812 (Wattpad|Ao3)

Dedicated to @weirdestarrow and @aloha-from-angel for creating the Countryhumans Research Archival Project! This also heavily references Weird's oneshot of The Time Spent in a Gilded Cage. Which I highly recommend.

PS. this is Michigan's retelling, so its biased to his perspective. ━━━━━━━━ ✠ ━━━━━━━━

Interview with Michigan State, 15th December, 2023. Transcribed by Alexa Woodbridge.

Interviewer: December 15th, 2023. Interview with The State of Michigan, on the subject of...

[Interviewer pauses]

Michigan: Britain being a /censored/.

[Interviewer laughs nervously]

Interviewer: I'm sorry I don't think we can write that down as the reason.

Michigan: Fine, How about 'Events of 1812 to 1814.' That sound better?

Interviewer: Yes that will do.

[Interviewer clears her throat]

Interviewer: Interview with The State of Michigan on the subject of events from 1812 to 1815. Would you prefer to start or are you more comfortable with prompted questions?

Michigan: Either, whatever you want to do. I'm fine with anything.

Interviewer: All right, You mentioned Britain a minute ago? I wasn't aware you had history.

Michigan: Not exactly common knowledge. Too embarrassing, I think.

Interviewer: How come?

[Michigan gives a dry laugh]

Michigan: Not exactly a great look for a country to lose so much land due to one person's mistake. Everyone wanted to move on after it went back to normal, but i'm not sure what good that did.

Interviewer [sounding confused]: Wait- So what exactly happened? Just to clarify for the record.

[silence for a minute]

Michigan: As a territory I was surrendered to the British at the start of what you call now the war of 1812. I was seven at the time.

Interviewer: So you mean-[cut off]

Michigan: Wait, you guys have customized pens?

Interviewer: Yes, we order them online- but we should really get back on topic. Did you just say that-

[Faint pen clicking]

Michigan: ...Is it okay if I keep this?

[loud sigh]

Interviewer: Sure, why not.

[faint pen clicking resumes in the background]

Interviewer: Are you done now? You are the one who asked for an interview.

Michigan: Yes- sorry, just hard to think about it.

Interviewer: Take your time, honestly I wasn't expecting this. How did you end up under British control?

Michigan: General William Hull, he was in command at Fort Detroit at the time- governor of the territory as well. I don't think they had much warning beforehand that war was declared. So when the enemy showed up, he didn't do anything.

Michigan: Within three days a Union Jack was flying over the settlement. Not so much as a shot fired.

Interviewer: where were you during this?

Michigan [sarcastically]: I was lucky enough to have been ripped away from everyone else, one second nothing was wrong and I was safe, the next I was looking up at the sky, woke up on a hill between the town and fort.

Interviewer: Didn't anyone- your father- come looking for you?

Michigan: Doubt they even knew I was gone at that point. You guys know about Dad's DID right? It gets complicated, but probably didn't realize anything until they got the news themselves,

[A small sound is heard, almost like a choked laugh]

Michigan: Can only imagine how well that went over with them. What with how overprotective Dad is.

Interviewer: Then you were captured?

Michigan: Yep! Stayed that way until 1814, when the Treaty of Ghent was signed.

Interviewer: So where were you taken? Were you a prisoner?

Michigan: I don't think prisoner is the right word, but I went to a house, I'm not sure where, but it was somewhere in Upper- er- sorry, Ontario. Out of the way of the war.

Interviewer: Was anyone else there with you? How long did you stay there?

Michigan: Upper Canada also lived there with me. Soldiers were also positioned around the property- I guess to keep me from leaving. I'm not sure how long I was there for, over two years not counting the trips, but i'm not sure. Time seemed to move slower somehow, at a different pace. It could've been that I was a kid, sure, or that I wasn't actually allowed to know any dates-

Interviewer: You weren't?!

Michigan: nope, anything about the war was forbidden. Didn't know what was happening to my family either. Kept me completely separated from the outside world.

Interviewer[weakly]: Ah- well, You mentioned you knew Upper Canada, what was he like?

Michigan: He was... good to me, like a brother. He was always the part of living there that felt bearable. He's the one who taught me what I needed to know. I think he was also part of convincing Canada to adopt me, said it was so we could be real brothers, not just through America.

Interviewer: did you have to agree to that?!

Michigan: ...yes. I don't think I was in the right state of mind to have ever said no by that point. Britain- he has a way of getting into your head, making you think things you normally wouldn't. Its-

[pen clicking fully stops]

Michigan [voice venomous]: -there was a time that I would have believed anything that came out of that bastard's mouth. He got me to disown my family, tried to make me forget about them, and I hate it but it worked.

Interviewer: Do you think there's any reason why Britain did that? Why he wanted you adopted by Canada?

Michigan: To get back at my Dad. What better way to twist the knife a little deeper than to harm his son? Send him back completely different and changed. I doubt he cared about me beyond a sick way to make a statement and prove a point to him.

Interviewer: We've all heard stories of harsh treatment to Britain's colonies before- did that, did he do anything to you?

[sharp intake of breath]

Michigan: From what I remember- yes. He visited the house often, It was always a punishment for something I'd done wrong, for not following the ridiculous rules he'd made. Though to be fair, at the start I usually made a point not to follow them when I could.

[silence for several minutes]

Interviewer: ...That sounds terrible.

Michigan: Could I have a drink of water real quick?

[recording is paused.]

[resume recording.]

Interviewer: We don't have to continue if you don't want to.

Michigan: No, It's fine. I want to talk, besides it's not exactly easy discussing this with my family, too much emotion wrapped up there, it gets complicated. This is better.

Interviewer: Do they know about this?

Michigan: Yes, They're aware of some things, never really tried to get the whole story out at once, so this is new. I think we all just wanted to forget what happened afterwards, and life just moved on.

Interviewer: Have you ever tried therapy before?

Michigan: Well I punched Britain in the face a few months ago. Broke his nose. Does that count? There's not really many options for us.

Interviewer [shocked]: WAIT THAT WAS YOU?

[Michigan laughs]

Michigan: Yeah. I'm still getting thank you cards from his former colonies. Very worth it.

Interviewer [sounding exhausted]: Okay well- getting back on topic- you said you were returned after the treaty of Ghent?

Michigan: During it, yeah. Don't know what would've happened to me if they'd decided to do something else. With how I was at the time I actually wanted to stay British.

Interviewer: How were you able to adjust back to being with your family again?

Michigan: It took time, more time than I care to admit.  I'm still so grateful for the patience they gave me. With how much of an ass I'd been acting like at the time- I really shouldn't have deserved it. They'd only wanted me back and safe while I- I'd pushed them away. I helped hurt them, was glad when they were hurt, tried to sell them out without even realizing how wrong it was.

[inaudible sound]

Interview: Is- is that all you wanted to say? Or would there be anything else you'd like to commit to the archive records.

[Michigan is silent again, then sighs]

Michigan: no, I think that's it. Thank you, sorry again for the short notice.

[end recording.]

[topoeiaz]

Chapter 14: It's High Time I'd Love to See Me From Your Point of View (HP) Tom Riddle x OC

18+ blog • minors dni

word count: 3.2k

hp masterlist • pov masterlist • ao3

“Morning, Grace!”

“Oh- Morning, Gideon!” Thea quickly reciprocated Gideon’s friendly smile as the latter walked past Thea’s section of the dining table. Once her fellow sixth-year had gone far enough away, she turned to her friends at the table. “Is it just me, or am I receiving more greetings from the Slytherins than usual?”

As if on cue, Thea was greeted once again by another passerby in green-lined robes.

Rosier wiggled his eyebrows and crooned, “an overnight celebrity within Slytherin, aye?”

“Hear, hear,” remarked Avery, “next thing you know, they’ll be lining up for autographs.”

“Merchandise next!”

Another croon, “great idea! How about…”

Druella and Walburga sighed in exasperation and shook their heads at the boys’ teasing. The older girl took pity on Thea’s perplexion and clarified, “what they mean is: you’re quite officially an honorary snake now.” When that earned her a raised eyebrow from Thea, she continued, “they’ve seen the way you’ve allied yourself with the purebloods yesterday and I reckon they’ve connected two and two and have made you out to be Riddle’s equal, in romance and in the plan to revolutionise Wizarding Britain.”

Druella nodded along and added in, “not to mention, your relationship with Devon. Colour me unsurprised if the second-years now regard you as an almighty saint.”

“…Oh,” flustered, Thea’s hands began fiddling with each other when she suddenly felt Tom’s hand envelop hers. Her fingers switched focus onto Tom’s hand instead and fidgeted with it absentmindedly. “That’s nice of them. I certainly wasn’t expecting that!”

“I hear they’re interested to attend more of your research showcases.”

Thea blinked, taken aback by Mulciber’s exposé of the final consensus of the snakes that he had heard in other people’s conversation last night. “More?”

Then, Lestrange perked up in remembrance. “Yeah! Didn’t you mention offhandedly about something to do with: purity of the blood does not equate to magical prowess?”

“Jenkins was especially interested to hear more about that; said he wanted to debate you if you ever come around to doing it.”

To hear from Nott that his yearmate also wanted more… just how many people…

Thea hummed as she gave it a thought. “I don’t suppose it’s a bad idea. I’ve yet to collate preliminary research on it as I had already done with inbreeding, though. It will take a while until that’s ready, especially as classes have started to assign more tasks.”

“Not an issue at all, Grace,” Avery shrugged, “just let us know when you’re ready and we’ll post it up on our noticeboard.”

“The noticeboard-” Thea nearly choked on air. The noticeboard, for something as trifling as her?! How could that be justified?! “Why would you post it up on the noticeboard?! Surely, there’s not that many people who would show up!”

When the others averted their eyes as they muttered incomprehensibly to dodge her accusations, her lips parted in shock. A chuckle sounded from her right and she turned to Tom. “You underestimate just how much word has spread of your presentation yesterday. The previous audience would be keen to attend again while those who hadn’t been there for your first one would be curious to see why you’ve become a sensation in the house.”

“A sensation…”

“A sensation, indeed!” Druella chirped when Thea had trailed off.

Her friends eventually managed to snap her out of her speechless state and moved on to other topics. As if today had somehow become ‘Thea Appreciation Day’, however, Thea found herself subjected to another talk with an admirer of her other works after breakfast.

The group of friends had gone to potions class early and it seemed that Slughorn had the same idea too, for he was already there when they had shown up. They kept chatter to a minimal volume while Thea and Tom went quiet when the professor had decided to approach the pair sat in the front row.

“Ah, Tom! So glad to see you bright and early to class today! Say, is it alright if I borrow your time for a moment?”

An affable smile on his face, Tom replied, “of course, sir. How can I help you?”

“Seeing as it has been a few weeks now since the term has started, I thought it might be time to host another Slugclub meeting! The students must have settled in by now so I figured we could all catch up sometime soon; let’s say, dinner this Friday at half past six. I’ll go around inviting the new members but- if I may ask for a favour, could you let the existing members in your house know?”

“Certainly, professor. We’ll be there.”

“Ah, much thanks, Tom!” Thea startled when Slughorn turned his glinting eyes to her next, quickly putting on a naïve smile. “And how about you, Miss Grace? Have you finally changed your mind about joining? I’m sure that you will have a marvellous time there! It’s only right that a student as talented as you should show up!”

Thea hesitated. She spared a brief glance to Tom and took in his patient smile. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if Tom would be there with her? “I suppose… I might?”

Slughorn brightened up and grinned in satisfaction. “Wonderful! I’m glad to hear that, Miss Grace! I won’t bother you now, then. I’ll see you both at the meeting this Friday!” He then proceeded to aim his course directly onto the unsuspecting Ravenclaw prefect who had come in a while ago, presumably to extend the same favour as he had with Tom.

Thea took Tom’s hand when he offered it on the desk, giving him her complete attention as he spoke, “will you join me for the meeting? It would be a better time with you there.”

The dread of wondering just how the gathering might go if she was to attend dissipated with Tom’s confession. She gave the back of his hand a small kiss and met her doe eyes with his. “If you’ll be there, I suppose I wouldn’t mind attending.”

His countenance softened and he squeezed her hand lightly. “I’ll make sure you’ll have a pleasant time there.”

They exchanged a brief look of compassion before Tom turned and casted a cool glance to the boys sat in the row behind; Avery and Mulciber had taken the table behind Tom and Thea’s, while Rosier was with Druella to the other boys’ left. “You boys in?” Having heard Slughorn’s invitation echoing in the quiet room, the boys understood Tom’s reference and gave their affirmative replies. When he returned his gaze to Thea, she had her bottom lip between her teeth and there was a tinge of heat in the darkness of her eyes as she stared into his. He gave a questioning hum and she refocussed into reality. “What’s up?”

Thea shook her head with a smitten grin on her face. “Was just thinking…” After a moment of hesitation, she decided to lay her thoughts bare for Tom. “I’ve noticed it very vaguely in the first meeting I had with the boys, but you really do look good when you’re in charge of something.”

“Oh?” Amusement curled his lips up further.

“Mhm,” her eyes almost visibly glazed over as her memories pulled her deeper and deeper into a chasm of want. “Merlin knows, I might just faint when you take the reins over the country.”

His eyes were now sporting the same glint. It was taking the both of them an excruciating amount of effort to not whisk one another away into a private space. Tom settled, instead, for a lingering kiss on Thea’s inner wrist. As innocent as the act had been, she was rendered nearly lightheaded when her blood rushed south. She only snapped back into her senses when he spoke again, “you flatter me, love.”

Thea had to remind herself of her own previous words, mind too occupied with Tom to remember immediately. “Just telling the truth, dear.”

The rest of the day passed by rather uneventfully. By the next morning, Thea had learned a couple more names of those in Slytherin and had gotten more familiar with the idea of being perceived as an honorary member of the house. The same went for the rest of the school population; they had gotten used to the fact that Thea tended to hang out with the snakes. That was why she frowned when Dumbledore announced a new seating chart at the next transfiguration class.

“I’ve observed the dynamics amongst the previous arrangement and have created a new one with the belief that it will improve the efficiency of the class,” Dumbledore had said when a student had questioned his motives.

As he recited the new pairings for the indefinite future, Thea shared a doubtful expression with Tom. Inter-house unity seemed not to be of the professor’s care because most of the students had been paired with their housemates, Thea and Tom included. Besides that, it was suspicious that Dumbledore had chosen to rearrange the class when it had been weeks into the semester; those usually happen earlier.

With a bitter smile, Thea gave a final peck to Tom’s cheek before joining the rest of the class in moving around for their new seats once Dumbledore had told them to. She found herself subjected to Reagan Diggory’s cheery greeting and quickly pulled up a friendly smile to return the sentiment. Guilt formed in her gut when she could only manage short responses to Diggory’s insistent attempts in getting to know her, her thoughts overly riddled with apprehension of Dumbledore’s true objective and dejection at losing the safety bubble that Tom brought with his presence. As it turned out, it was right for Thea to remain wary of the professor when, after class, he had approached her table and had asked to speak with her.

“How can I help you, professor?”

Her scepticism only grew when Dumbledore waited for the last person to leave the room, leaving her alone with the scheming man. Once the door had shut behind the final lagging person, he turned and regarded her with his iconic twinkling eyes. “If you may entertain an old man’s mindless worries, Miss Grace, I simply wished to make sure that you aren’t in any trouble.”

Careful to fake naivete in her composure as best she could, as if she was one of his impressionable admirers, she queried, “what kind of trouble do you mean, sir?”

“It is of the staffs’ unanimous agreement that you are particularly gifted in magic – charms, especially – and that makes you a valuable student, Miss Grace. Many others strive to achieve grades as outstanding as yours, and it seems that some are in the path of doing so – such as Mister Rosier, if I were to name one; his report has been particularly impressive lately. Powerful family, the Rosiers, very prone to suppress those weaker. You see, Miss Grace, Hogwarts tolerates no such power play and I only strive to ensure that it remains the case.”

Was he suggesting that Rosier had intimidated Thea into doing his schoolwork?! That was laughable! She had seen the boy deep in conversation with Tom before about school subjects and she had even, at one point, helped the boy with his charms essay when he had complained about it for a solid five minutes during lunch! For all the cheekiness that Rosier was capable of, he was an honest student who aimed to improve himself in academics. It was frankly disrespectful for Dumbledore to even imply otherwise!

Thea had to disguise her sharp intake of furious breath as a sigh and forced her features to ease up at Dumbledore’s expectant look. She cocked her head lightly to the side, modelling a perfect example of a calm and collected person, as she kept her tone level. “I can assure you, professor, that I have not seen Rosier act in such a way. It has only reminded me, however, of a recent bullying incident; I do hope that Lowe has received an appropriate punishment for tormenting Devon, sir.”

Dumbledore blinked twice, caught off-guard. That was as much of his true self that he was willing to show and his smile stiffened. “Ah, that is relieving to hear, Miss Grace. Do fret not, Mister Lowe has served his retribution as he deserved. Alas, it pains me that a student from my house has shown such behaviour and it has taught me, once again, that we should see the best in people-” Thea had to swiftly bite her tongue from retorting with his hypocrisy, and fumed when he continued with, “-unless, of course, they are beyond saving.”

Plastering on an ignorant look, Thea asked, “and how do we know if they are beyond saving, sir?”

At this, Dumbledore gave a sorrowful smile as if pitying her. “When they are incapable of remorse and kindness, my dear. As wonderful as the world is, there are those who choose to view their surroundings in shades of grey. They cannot love – nor will they try – and it is best to not associate with them lest they corrupt your vision too. It is regretful, but a necessary sacrifice to not grace them with our hearts. They will only cut it up and burn it to ashes without regret.”

“I see.” As much as she had tried to not let his condescendence get to her, her voice had let slip of the fact that his words had affected her. She hastily rectified it with a faux understanding smile and thanked him for his advice. “It is always delightful to be guided by a wise figure.”

Seemingly pleased, he gave a hearty laugh. “Perhaps my age has caught up with me, Miss Grace! I see that the time has come for me to accept my fate as a wise old man.” Thea hoped that her attempt in resembling amusement didn’t make her look too stupid. “I won’t hold you back any longer, Miss Grace. Although, just as a final… acumen, I suppose; do rely on your housemates when you need to. You’ve been with them for years now, they’re quite like your family here.”

“Of course, professor. Thank you, once again, for your worthwhile insights. I will see you again in the next class.”

He nodded. “Take care, my dear.”

Her eyebrows furrowed the moment her back had turned towards Dumbledore and she took care to not sprint out of the class instantly. Upon exiting the room, her eyes immediately fell onto Tom, back against the wall and sporting a worried expression, and the transfiguration professor’s comments reverbed in her head mockingly.

…incapable of remorse and kindness… cannot love – nor will they try… a necessary sacrifice… will only cut… burn…

Frustration filled her bones at Dumbledore’s impudence towards Tom- who deserved so much more.

Tom, who took initiatives to ensure her comfort; who had promised her a beautiful future with him; who had taught her romantic love by loving her. He wasn’t some robot programmed to act human, he had feelings just as much as the next person and had shown to be unafraid to express them to her. Time and time again, he had proven himself as someone who loved and cared. Helga- she was proud to love him with all her heart.

Thea barely fathomed a voice off to her side asking her if she was alright as she stalked straight for Tom. Her sights narrowed on the boy who had given her so much and she didn’t register anyone else in the vicinity. His worry only intensified upon seeing her unresponsive and serious – and fierce – and he straightened up at once, reaching for her as she approached closer. “Love-”

He was promptly cut off when her hands flew towards him and held him by the juncture of his head and neck, pulling him forwards to meet her halfway as she tiptoed to collide his lips with hers strongly. There was only a split second of hesitation from Tom before he matched her eagerness and kissed her back, pulling her body closer by her waist and tilting his head to the side slightly. The feel of his lips and caress as he reciprocated her feelings only strengthened her idea of him as a man who could – and will – love with passion, and she felt her tempestuous nerves soothed by him, gradually grounding herself back into the physical world and regaining control over herself.

Thea pulled back and planted her forehead with his, taking a deep, shaky breath in. Tom’s left arm went to wrap itself around her waist while his right brushed against her cheek softly. The air was silent as she took the time to recollect herself, releasing a heavy sigh out as she opened her eyes and retreated further to meet his eyes properly. The concern written clearly in his countenance had yet to be assuaged and she gave a lopsided smile, volume low as she spoke. “Sorry, that came out of nowhere. I’m just- frustrated!” Her frown took over her lips again.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Tom’s mind had been wrought with mental images of all the terrible things that could’ve possibly happened, anxiety only worsening the longer she had been in that room.

Thea shook her head. “He was just being stupidly ridiculous. Advised me against giving you a chance and convinced that I’m around your lot only because Rosier’s taking advantage of me.”

A strangled choke sounded behind her and she turned to see the aforementioned boy looking at her incredulously. “Taking- what!”

It was then that Thea realised that Tom hadn’t been alone, waiting for her to come out unscathed. Judging by Druella’s teasing – and worried, still – grin and the fact that none of the boys – bar Rosier – could look her in the eyes, she was safe to assume that they had been there all along. She cleared her throat and fought against averting her sights. “I know! It’s baffling, really.”

“But you’re alright?”

She turned back to Tom and covered his hand on her waist with hers reassuringly. “Yeah, just beyond miffed.”

As they headed to lunch, Thea told them all about Dumbledore’s warning. In response, she had received their aggressive support.

“Just saying, if you ever need to hide a body…”

“I’ve got bleach.”

“My jinxes could always do with some practice.”

They prided themselves in Thea’s laugh as she thanked them. The same reaction came from the seventh-years when they regaled the story again upon meeting them in the Slytherin table. It was with great sorrow that she had to disappoint them all. “Unfortunately, he’s needed to defeat Grindelwald. I don’t know for certain how he would do it and where it would take place, so I can’t manipulate the circumstances.”

That reminded the boys of her nature as a clairvoyant, and only proved to Druella and Walburga that their suspicions based on the boys’ hint were right. Grumbles were shared upon her admission and they glared at the blasé Dumbledore who had just walked into the hall.

“Can’t wait for you all to win over the ministry. Oh, the spectacle it would be to watch you overthrow him.”

Walburga muttered in agreement to Druella’s words. Thea stabbed her plate with her fork, her acute dislike for the man getting to the best of her as words left her venomously.

“Mark my words; he will go down.”

ao3 🌱 topaz 🌱 masterlist

don’t steal my work, claim it as your own, upload it to another site, or use it to train AI

dividers by: @strangergraphics-archive & @saradika-graphics

[scotianostra]

Poets Heads Edinburgh Park.

Jackie Kay

Jackie was born to a Scottish mother and Nigerian father in Edinburgh on 9th November 1961, and was adopted as a baby by Helen and John Kay, who had already adopted a boy, Maxwell. The family lived in Bishopbriggs, Glasgow, where John worked for the Communist Party of Great Britain, and Helen was the Scottish secretary of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Kay has drawn on her unconventional upbringing in her poetry, and described it with humour and great affection in her autobiographical account of the search for her birth parents, Red Dust Road, which she has called a ‘love letter’ to her adoptive parents.

The poem here is Life Mask,( for Julia Darling and as usual it is not my favourite of Jackie's I like poems I can relate to a wee bit, and the second one hits the mark. Check it out, George Square, now I can relate to that straight away, and the subject, also, if I live to be the age of her father, in the poem, I hope I am still able to attend protests rallies.

Life Mask.

When the senses come back in the morning, the nose is a mouth full of spring: the mouth is an earful of birdsong; the eyes are lips on the camomile lawn; the ear is an eye of calm blue sky.

When the broken heart begins to mind, the heart is a bird with a tender wing,  the tears are pear blossom blossoming, the shaken love grows green shining leaves,  the throat doesn’t close, it is opening

like a long necked swan in the morning,  like the sea and the river meeting,  like the huge heron’s soaring wings: I sat up with my pale face in my hands And all of a sudden it was spring.

My seventy-seven-year-old father put his reading glasses on to help my mother do the buttons on the back of her dress. ‘What a pair the two of us are!’ my mother said, ‘Me with my sore wrist, you with your bad eyes, your soft thumbs!’

And off they went, my two parents to march against the war in Iraq, him with his plastic hips. Her with her arthritis, to congregate at George Square, where the banners waved at each other like old friends, flapping, where they’d met for so many marches over their years, for peace on earth, for pity’s sake, for peace, for peace.

[usagirln120]

Sachirou Hirugami: Hogwarts AU

Sachirou Hirugami was born on the 3rd of February 1979 and started attending Beauxbatons Academy of Magic on the 1st of September 1990.

He comes from a long line of quidditch players and he was expected to follow in their footsteps but, while he did love playing quidditch, his main interest has always been magical creatures which did put him at odds with his parents but his older siblings always encouraged him to follow his dream of becoming a magizoologist despite what their parents thought.

Despite this, he still tried to abandon his dream in order to make his parents happy by training to become the best quidditch player Beauxbatons had ever seen but after he had such a melt-down where he started to self-h*rm, his best friend Hoshiumi talked to him and told him that he can't continue doing this to himself which eventually led Hirugami to stop playing quidditch completely.

He started to focus on his grade after this with him eventually becoming the best student of his year which led to him being one of the students that weren't of age that was allowed to come to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament alongside his best friend.

He and Hoshiumi actually made so many friends during that year that they decided to transfer for their last year with Hirugami being sorted into Ravenclaw House and Hoshiumi Gryffindor.

They joined Makarov's Army together since they knew that the Second Wizarding War was about to break out and when it officially did, their parents tried to force them back to France but they refused and ended up staying in Britain during the whole war.

He and Hoshiumi participated in the Battle of Hogwarts which he did survive but he wouldn't have if it weren't for his sister who hurried to Britain from France to participate in the battle as well to protect him which he always have been grateful for even though he still thought it was a little embarrassing that he needed to be saved by his sister.

He eventually became a magizoologist after graduating from Hogwarts, with him being well-known as a healer as well, and got married to Hoshiumi but they never had any children which disappointed both of their parents who wanted grandchildren from all of their children.

He has a Beech wand with a Unicorn Hair core.

His Patronus is an Old English Sheepdog.

His favorite subjects are Care of Magical Creatures and Flying.

His least favorite subjects are Potions and Divination.

[greatbritishsimchallenge]

"What are you still doing up?" asked Cassian.

"What are you doing in my art studio? I wasn't aware you even knew this room existed," asked Isabeau.

"I saw the light and thought I'd investigate in case of something interesting. I didn't for a second think it could be my sister who religiously goes to bed before 10pm."

Isabeau laughed softly, "I am essentially a nun in your eyes, aren't I?"

"Worse. Nuns have to live dull lives. You choose to," replied Cassian, pouring himself a drink. "Anyway, what's wrong?"

"I could ask the same of you. I am not the only one who religiously goes to bed by 10pm - granted, you never go to bed alone."

Cassian grinned and said, "Come on, I asked you first. Stop changing the subject and tell me what's the matter."

Isabeau sighed and stopped painting, "I rejected a collection today. I am wondering if it was a mistake."

"Why would it be a mistake? You've got the best taste in art of all England."

"I didn't reject it for the quality of the art - it was beautiful. I rejected it for what the art was about.... the crusades."

"Ah. That poor artist didn't know he was hitting a raw nerve, then."

"Of course not. And I did not tell him as such either. I blamed it on the sensitivities of others."

"What? You mean you didn't decide to inform him that you dare not support art based on a military campaign that your great uncle led a revolt against? I'm shocked," said Cassian sarcastically.

"Hush!" said Isabeau, instantly annoyed.

Seeing how irritated his sister was only encouraged Cassian to push the joke further.

"I personally think we should make it open news. Tell everyone. Go visit Uncle Wilkin in the Magic Realm. Invite Queen Flori over to dinner."

"Shut up! Someone might hear you!" hissed Isabeau, hitting her brother repeatedly.

"Alright, alright!" laughed Cassian, "I'll stop! The family secret is safe."

Once Isabeau stopped hitting him, Cassian smoothed his hair back out of his face and went to pour him and his sister a drink.

"So, you rejected some art. He'll make more. What's the problem?"

Isabeau hesitated, "...Nothing. As you say, it's not a big issue. It just doesn't feel right."

"You obsess too much over things feeling 'right'. You need try feeling some 'wrong' - it feels so much better."

Isabeau nodded to Cassian, "Your turn."

Start (Iron Age) | Start (Roman Britain) | Start (Anglo Saxon) | Start (Medieval) | Start (Tudor)

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[blackswaneuroparedux]

Screechingblizzardbanana asked: Have you seen the Paul Smith-designed Picasso Celebrations at the Musee National? Understand there is controversy swirling around it. Is this because it's Smith or Picasso or how it is been done? Being my French and cultural lode star I would appreciate your take.

I have been to the recently opened Paul Smith curated exhibition on Picasso at the Musée national Picasso-Paris people just call it the Musée Picasso) in the heart of the Marais. I was strong armed into going by my formidable French neighbour downstairs with whom I’ve become good friends with since going through the Covid lock down together in our apartment building. She is a highly respected art gallery owner and is a fan of Picasso. She had been to the star studded champagne opening of the exhibition but now she wanted a second look through the eyes of a plebeian (yours truly).  I shall straight out say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself and I greatly liked the exhibition to ‘celebrate’ - or should I say mark - the 50th anniversary of Pablo Picasso’s death in 1973.

At 76 years old, Sir Paul Smith is a national treasure as one of Britain’s leading fashion designers. For him as an Englishman to be asked by the French to come over the Channel and curate an exhibition, to mark an important anniversary of one of the greatest and iconic artists of the 20th century, is testament to how highly regarded he is as an artistic designer in his own right across the channel.  Apparently this exhibition has been at least three years in the making. Paul Smith was surprised when he got a call from the then curator of the Musée Picasso, the dynamic Laurent le Bon, who invited Smith to curate an exhibition out of sample from over 200,000 works by Picasso held by the museum and put his own spin on it.

Smith was initially reluctant as he wasn’t from the art world but the fashion and design world. It’s precisely because he wasn’t from the art world that le Bon wanted him to curate an exhibition as his aim was to celebrate Picasso's work in a different way, and not in a predictive way and one that would appeal to a newer and younger audience.

Moreover le Bon assured him he would have complete carte blanche over the exhibition. Smith was won over and then Covid hit. Through the subsequent lockdown, Smith’s time was spent fully immersed in Picasso, trawling through 200,000 works, making choices that were spontaneous and intuitive. Le Bon would move on to fresh pastures but the new director, Cécile Debray, picked up the baton from le Bon and enthusiastically got behind Smith.

The challenge for Smith was daunting. Picasso was particularly prolific and his work can be seen all over the world. He had to show Picasso in more interesting way that perhaps hadn’t been done before. The most difficult thing was not to drown out the subject matter with all the works available to the museum and the artist's family. Smith didn't really know where to start, between cubism, the blue period and the ceramics from Vallauris but Cécile Debray shepherded him through that creative process.

The result, to my mind at least, is a spectacular rearrangement of Picasso museum’s permanent collection, combining the museum’s masterpieces with works by modern and contemporary artists. In a broadly chronological tour of Picasso’s artistic journey covering the whole of Picasso's creation and the most emblematic subjects of the artist's work, Smith has imagined a joyful dialogue between the masterpieces conserved in the museum and more contemporary works that invite us to take a new look at the collection while underlining the ever-present character of Picasso's work. The exhibition is punctuated by works by international contemporary artists such as Guillermo Kuitca, Obi Okigbo, Mickalene Thomas and Chéri Samba, all of whom contribute to the same desire to open up new perspectives on the posterity of Picasso's work, by questioning his image or by taking up some of his plastic innovations.

From the onset, Smith makes it clear that this is not your standard show. A wall studded with bicycle seats nods to Smith as the master of ceremonies - Smith has always been a keen cyclist and nearly became a professional cyclist in his youth. But the wall opposite, bare but for Picasso’s Tete de Taureau (a bull’s head made from a bike saddle and handlebars), establishes the Spaniard as the artist visitors are here to see.

From there on, it’s a helter skelter ride through Picasso’s life: pages of Vogue covered with his subversive scribbles; explorations into Cubism hung on walls lined with brown Kraft paper; the sketches for the Demoiselles d’Avignon against a throbbing pink. Collages are hung among a panoply of hectic wallpapers acquired en masse from a failed factory in Pennsylvania. Among them is the Nature morte à la chaise cannée from 1912, considered to be the first fine art collage ever made and shows he was a master of invention that you feel that Picasso wasn’t afraid to try whatever was on his mind.

Brought on by the death of his friend Carlos Casagemas in 1901, Picasso’s Blue period reduced the artist’s palette to the one colour for a year. This time in the artist’s career is shown in a deep blue room, the lugubriousness of the Woman with the Cloudy Eye (surely one of the greatest portraits ever) heightened by the azure monotone of the space. Bullfighting sketches are enveloped in blood-red gloss, while the iconic paintings of his “Seated Women” series, including lover Marie-Therese and her successor Dora Maar, are shown amid roughly painted stripes.

This interplay of wall and work pulls Picasso’s stylistic use of stripes into focus, reinforcing the portraiture’s fragmentary psychological complexity. The loose late figurative works - mostly derided at the time of his death - now look contemporarily relevant, as a driving force for Basquiat and Baselitz.

Of course, these days Picasso can’t be taken on without critique: his misogyny; his careless attitude to Africa and its artefacts. It says more about current English ‘woke’ sensibilities with race and social justice than French ones that Smith and (from what my art gallery friend tells me) Debray, a little hesitantly, insert contemporary works among Smith’s selections. Two Louise Bourgeois pieces speak of the travails of womanhood. A new collage by the Congolese artist Cheri Samba shows the artist at a cozy kitchen table with a map of Africa and a mask hovering over the canvas. A dazzling 2016 trompe l’oeil by the Argentinian Guillermo Kuitca, of a road disappearing into a hectic Cubist landscape, reflects the enduring influence of Picasso’s 70-year career.

Overall though it’s joyous and vibrant in colour. Above all it’s a whimsical vitamin-packed exhibition that establishes the Spanish painter as a true master of colour by contrasting his greatest masterpieces with the shimmering, polychrome creations of Mickalene Thomas or Chéri Samba. Paul Smith has imagined a possible communion between the different movements, making audacious connections and a resolutely inventive layout of the works that opens up new perspectives on the posterity of Picasso's name in the modern world.

As for the critical reception, it has on the whole been very positive. There really hasn’t been the controversial outcry that you might think would happen when an outsider - no less than an Englishman and not even an artist - is asked to curate an artist close to the French artistic soul. Critics have been largely pleased that Smith’s colourful exhibition has shown Picasso in a fresh new way. Many have been won over by Smith undoubtedly keen eye for patterns, best displayed in one room where he has assembled works that use the principle of the stripe, which he has also placed, tone on tone, on multicoloured wallpaper.

Of course there others who are less charitable and continue to grumble in their wine glasses. Some have decried his lack of academic expertise in Picasso. But the fact that Smith said that he wasn’t an academic from the very beginning was already built into expectations.

And I think personally Paul Smith is doing himself a great disservice. If you’ve met Paul Smith you would know Smith is characteristically modest and self-deprecating in a way that Englishmen are raised to be (or were anyway).

To my mind, Smith plays down his own pure artistic credentials. Back in 1970 Smith started with a 3 square metre design wear shop that was open two days a week. In the following year, in the basement, he set up a small gallery, where he exhibited David Hockney, Andy Warhol and photographs by the iconic David Bailey, whom he was friends with. The success of that led him to have many exhibitions in both London and Japan - two of the coolest cultural places in the 1970s. Moreover these days he has art works by British painters including William Coldstream and Euan Uglow in is home and a wife, trained at the Slate school of Art, to help buy and curate art.

One direct criticism I heard was from a well credentialised French art critic whom my art gallery owning friend had over for tea - and I was also there. He was quite sniffy about the Picasso exhibition curated by Paul Smith. He dismissed Smith as lacking imagination and even being disrespectful to Picasso. He was referring to Smith bringing together Picasso's paintings from the 1950s and making a wallpaper out of them with the number 50 on it. But more glaringly he was perplexed that there was in one room that was devoted to the painter's famous sailor T-shirts, with paintings, photos, drawings and a mass of T-shirts hanging from the ceiling, hanging like a peasant’s washing line.

I almost choked on my tea as I couldn’t but help but suppress a giggle. To me it was obvious that Smith was being reverential by having Picasso’s sailor T-shirts displayed on a washing line as nod to his own tongue in cheek English humour. It was playful, not malicious. I think English humour was lost on him because I tried to educate him but clearly he just didn’t get it, or more likely, too pompous to admit he didn’t get the joke.

In all fairness - and for what it’s worth - I do have my own criticism, but a gentle one.

That is the wisdom of some more contemporary art pieces done by other artist to sit in contrast to Picasso’s pieces was questionable. I’m not questioning the merit of the piece in itself but in comparison to Picasso’s pieces. For example, next to a painting by Paul Cézanne from Aix, a pillar of art history and the jewel in Picasso's collection, one of the artists also invited, the Argentine Guillermo Kuitca had created a rather unconvincing puppet house that takes up the motifs of Mont Sainte-Victoire. It just didn’t fit. It is dangerous to measure yourself too closely against such a genius of art history that Picasso undoubtedly was.

I would say Paul Smith’s curated Picasso exhibition is a definitely worth seeing if one is in Paris. What outsiders don’t understand is how bringing in an outsider with his own unique and keen eye on colour and design as Paul Smith has, he could be saving the Musée Picasso from decline.

The truth is the Picasso museum used to be very popular with tourists as well as Parisians. Until recently, endless queues stretched out on rue de Thorigny in front of the entrance to the prestigious institution, the hôtel Salé. Alas this is no longer the case. Of course Covid can take some of the blame for until 2019, 60% of the museum’s visitors were tourists. However international tourists have returned and neither have Parisians.

I think one reason that those in the art world are now beginning to fret about is public disaffection. There have been a fair number of articles leading up to his anniversary that was keen to highlight Picasso’s sins: he is the incarnation of toxic masculinity as well as white privilege, an absolute misogynist, a pervert, a tormentor of Dora Maar and Françoise Gilot, a rapist, a paedophile, a racist, a thief of African art…..and so on and so on. This is part of the opening salvo in the new war with the woke that is only now entering the French cultural discourse. So far the barbarians have been stopped at the gates because the French just see anything woke as an unwelcome American import.

But I think the real reason is the Picasso museum is a victim of its own success. In short France is saturated in all things Picasso. Under Laurent le Bon’s dynamic leadership (the last Picasso museum director/curator) he created a network, ‘Picasso-Méditerranée’, with 78 institutions which, from 2017 to 2019, hosted a travelling programme on Picasso in France, Italy, Spain, Greece, Israel, Türkiye, and Morocco. That’s two intense years of what critics called ‘Picasso-mania’, with exhibitions of ‘Matisse-Picasso’ (in Nice), ‘Godard-Picasso’ (in Arles), ‘Picasso and the Ancient World’ (in Naples), ‘Picasso and the Performing Arts’ (in Izmir).

Moreover the Picasso museum was once seen as quite sniffy and stingy with its hoard of Picasso artefacts. But under le Bon’s direction that changed when the museum lent to anyone who asked, especially to regional institutions.

So on paper the idea was fantastic. But some critics say it’s been taken too far with curators thematising Picasso to the point of vertigo. In the last two years, we’ve had ‘Picasso under the Occupation’ at the Grenoble Museum, ‘Picasso the Illustrator’ at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Tourcoing, ‘Picasso's Music’ at the Philharmonie, ‘Picasso, Baigneuses et Baigneurs’ at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Lyon, ‘Picasso the Foreigner’ at the Musée National de l'Histoire de l'Immigration, ‘Pablo Picasso's Louvre’ at the Louvre-Lens. And this doesn’t even include exhibitions at the Picasso museum itself such as ‘Picasso-Rodin’, ‘Picasso and the comic strip’, ‘Picasso in the image’, and ‘Picasso the poet’.

Indeed some now say Picasso-mania is drowning France in Picasso to the point where the inevitable question is asked: is Picasso out of vogue?

This would explain the decline of the Hôtel Salé, which has housed the world's largest Picasso collection since 1985. It’s not just artists like Picasso who have a blue period, museum curators do too. Cécile Debray has gone on record to say, “It's very difficult to supervise empty rooms”.

But just like artists like Picasso can’t be reduced to one colour or defined by their sins (as judged by the puritan police), so I don’t think you can keep a great artist down for long.

Picasso had a fertile mind that fed his creativity in so many ways than any other modern artist. He was modern, spontaneous and drew on paper napkins or newspapers. He was interested in everything around him and he was into everything from colours, objects and art forms. His creativity was rich because he was open minded. Picasso said that he spent his life painting like a child because a child is free.

Anyone who is engages with his art comes away with an invitation to have their soul filled with child-like wonder. That’s why I hope Paul Smith’s Picasso exhibition attracts a new and younger audience so that they can discover the artist for the first time, but also I hope they treasure their child-like soul for wonder against cynicism or nihilism, which is the best our western society can offer them because it is sick with impoverished souls. 

Thanks for your question.