#his name is soot and he's been trying to reach you about your car's extended warranty

[xensilverquill]

The shadow jumper (Abyssus souperluminalis), also known as the greater soot sprite or voidstalker, is a small demonoid common to many of the abyssal biomes beneath the Sunken Contintent. Powerful legs as well as its long tail aid it in jumping across large gaps in the relatively lower gravity of the abyss. Its body is covered in a thick, downy double-coat of fur that acts as insulation. Jumpers constantly shed soot-like dander that is both dusty and bitter-smelling, warding off many would-be predators. Jumpers are solitary ambush hunters and often use their club-like tail plume to stung prey.

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A sculpture I got to do of souperluminal's absolutely lovely Artober 2022 art. I loved this critter the second is crossed my dash and just knew I had to try my hand at crocheting it. Thank you again for the oppurtunity!

(Art used and entry written with permission from @souperluminal!)

[soliloquiums]

You find him under a bench in Berlin, more skeleton than man. It is 1955. It is winter. It is the post war era. Behind every dingy, squalid corridor you're bound to find a hundred of them, the left over almost-corpses that god just wasn't kind enough to kill. Haunted by a memory of a Germany that just doesn't exist anymore with charcoal padded under their eyes, limbs trebling from one two many needles. You're sure that if you pulled that ratty, dark blue coat sleeve you'd find his similarly pockmarked with cowardice. Still, something draws you in closer, a shiver, something about him seems heavier, denser, like his very body extends with gravity. A planetary mass. His neck snaps up in a lightening motion and he smiles, his mouth a crooked line that resembled a mountain you swear you've seen in the horizon, somewhere in the east. Beggars aren't allowed to be this beautiful. You shudder. And you take him home.

To your surprise, his skin is deceptively smooth. Like untouched snow after a blizzard- and you search him thoroughly, almost desperately, during your intimate moments, for some sort of mark, some sort of human imperfection. He allows you, absently, as if he’s been through this before, and strokes your hair as his mind wanders into places you know you will never reach. But that comes after, first, you seat him on the rim of your bathtub. He is listless, almost bored, as you wipe the river of blood off his shoulder. There’s no entrance wound, exit wound, no highway crossing where it could come from and after 20 minutes of frantic scrubbing, his hand grips yours. “It’s not mine,” he tells you gently, with that same crocked smile, eyes a circle of glowing blue like the hottest kind of fire, and you pretend not to notice as a very, very fresh red droplet runs down your porcelain bathtub and streaks red onto the tile. There’s not enough of him and there’s too much. After a week, his presence on the couch, skeleton hands gripping a book or remote seems commonplace. His place at your dinner table, the second pair of shoes thrown carelessly next to your orderly ones. The permanent, watery brown stain on your granite countertop where he'd spilled tea and that neither of you bothered to clean up. He is an indelible and yet insignificant mark. Most days, it's nice, quaint, the gentle buzz from the television every time you come back home, his coarse laugh punctuating a mediocre sitcom joke, the way he threatens bodily violence on inanimate objects for refusing to bend to his will. Other times, he is something just north of uncanny valley. He is wearing human skin. Sometimes, at night, he doesn't seem to be breathing and every few weeks, for a second at a time, you'd swear his eyes flashed a macabre red. Two months in and he still doesn’t have his own clothes. Doesn’t have his own closet. You offer to take him shopping, to empty out another shelf but he only shakes his head gently, pityingly, “I don’t own things.” You’re not sure if he’s crazy or if he’s one of those communist philosophy types. You’re not sure if you’d care if he was. You press your lips together. Don’t say anything about how his old clothes seemed to have vanished from the laundry altogether. Three months in and you don’t know his last name. You ask once, casually, assuming that a man abandoned to the snow wouldn’t care much for family anyways. (You can relate, your strict, catholic mother and even stricter pastor father are tucked far away somewhere in a mountain village in Saarland. Out of sight and out of mind.) But he says nothing, or smiles in that whimsically gentle way of his, or stares blankly as if he isn’t sure what a last name is. Sometimes he carefully grasps your hands and kisses you as a distraction and in those moments you’re sure you could live without knowing. Sometimes, you see his gaze catch on the window and you know he is somewhere else. Doesn’t feel like he was ever here in the first place, a ghost boy that floats around your apartment and gives you frigid smiles in place of actual conversation. Once, he lays awake in bed with you and asks if you will remember him on your deathbed with an earnest that makes you want to climb out of bed and vomit. His eyes flash blood and pin you to the bed. Yes, you say, without really understanding why, yes even when you are gone I will remember you always even in the smallest things even when there is nothing more to remember. His eyes go back to blue and you drift off into dreams about an achingly vast field with no horizon and crooked mountains shaped like a smile All at once you are disastrously, cripplingly in love. Falling from a cliff. You try every method in the book to ground him. You bring him flowers in the middle of winter, you buy him books, watches, a cell phone, wine, chocolates, a car. You clean up your act, work out, pen him love letters in the candle light when you think he’s sleeping, insist on cooking the food you think he likes. You drive her to parks. A cottage by the sea, take him to every pretty place in Germany that might even slightly interest him. Cologne, Dresden, Munich, Heidelberg, Watzmann, Brocken. You He dismissed every material gift with an apologetic shake of the head, almost disappointed you don’t understand. His fingers wrap around your wrist and you can feel the cold from his skin drip into yours as he pulls you close, whispering gently, a reminder, “I do not own things.” And I cannot be owned, without saying. The places, however, slaps him out of despondency. He puts a hand to an oak tree in a park in Heidelberg and tells you, absently, his voice drenched in memories, “Someone I loved is buried here.” He sees things you do not. He stares at abandoned buildings with a remorse and vindication you do not understand. There is a tragedy under the bridges, in every lake, that he seems intimate with. In cologne, he strikes a match and lights up a car at 9:43 pm. The pretentious, red thing goes up in smoke a carcass of metal and charred leather seats. He is seething with rage and you don’t touch him because you know he’d burn you if you did but you watch. In rapture and fear. He seems to consider doing the same to the house, but doesn’t. It feels empty, the motion, like the brace before firing a gun. Except there’s no bullets. You watch as the dancing flames reflect on his face, still perfect as soot begins to gather like dark butterflies. “Why?” You ask, sacrilegiously. Breaking the silence of that distinctly consecrated night. Even the stars seem to be holding their breath. “Personal despair could never be desperate enough," he tells you, watching as the smoke gathered and swirled off into the open night sky. A translation of pain, “When tragedy happens, it needs to pass down the line, like a disease. There is an innate sin in the blood of some people.” Like most things, this escapes your comprehension entirely, and all you can focus on, even when the police sirens start blaring, is how beautifully the red reflects off his irises. He gives you a wayward grin. Like he’s done this before- and he has, you know he had- as he grasps your hand with a grip that for once feels real and solid as he darts the other way, dragging you along behind him in this mad dash. He laughs, the sound beautiful and loud and perfect, like church bells or sermon. Something holy, pure. You’re just sane enough to stop your ethereal, cackling lover from veering into oncoming traffic. He looks at you were a eerie intensity that makes you stammer an apology, an apology that he quickly cuts off as he pushes you against exposed brick and crushes his lips to yours. Your tongue flooding with the taste of him, a musky wilderness. There’s a sigh, somewhere, and even though you’ve had sex this feels like the most heart trending thing you’ve ever done in your life. You tremble. Your arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer, as if forevermore. As if drinking god. It’s enough to make you forget that it’s the 50s and that you’re both boys and that if any police officer caught the way his fingers were tenderly, tenderly brushing against your cheek, both of you would be carted off to jail for a decade but you don't care, really you don't, for the first time you feel as if you know him. Gilbert. Your Gilbert. - When the story ends, you're on the floor and the coolness of his skin seems to finally have crawled inside you, making a home amongst your other fragile, human organs. He stands above you with his red eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He mumbled something about this before, in the beginning, about what it would be like once you knew, what the pain would feel like. A sigh from him and you know without looking that all the stars outside the glass have blinked out, that every single other person in the apartment besides you and Him have gone still, paused or maybe dead. Maybe it was the whole street, the country, a few million bodies and still, how can it said to have mattered? "Ignorance isn't safety," He quietly tells your quaking form, in some something that could've been kindness, "Tell me, how many poor weeds have you stepped on, unthinkingly, in your lifetime?" The clock doesn't tick but you can feel the universe moving, entropy. You can feel the vastness of it, remember those dreams with out any horizons in sight and the knowledge weighs down on you like a million bowling balls. "You promised to remember me," He reminds you, his voice still quiet but brimming with an emotion that hasn't quiet come to a boil, "We had more than this." All of Germany shifts slightly, as if moving in its sleep, and the stars blink back, your breath releases. "If I've hurt you," he begins, but shakes his head, stumbling over words that he knows you won't ever really understand, won't forgive him if he lets you know. Resignation, tinged: resentment, "You'll go on living just fine." You look up at him once, I love you, your look says, but he does not look back. The door closes. There are no footsteps down the hall.

[nitannichionne]

If He Was YOUR Fan, Chapter 5: Top of the World (Henry Cavill x Reader Fanfic)

You finally stop in front of Westminster Abbey and you gasp.

“You said you hadn’t gotten around to it,” Henry gives a shrug so small only you can feel it since you’re holding him.

“Ohhhhhh,” you whisper, sliding off.

He takes your hand and leads you inside. There is an evening tour going on.

“Oh, we’re late--?” You gasp, about to step toward them, but Henry squeezes your hand slightly. You step back and see a young man walking toward you.

“Mr. Cavill?” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Gordon, your guide this evening.”

“Hello, Gordon,” Henry nods, shaking the man’s hand. He introduces you and you all take off in another direction, but not before some of the people in the back of tour group start to notice you. You cringe as a few phones swing your way, but unless they are using zoom, probably got nothing.

You nod through the tour, but then you finally reach it. “Yes!” You move quickly.

“Ah, so you know Poet’s Corner!” Gordon smiles.

“Yeah!” you are excited and start reading names and telling what they wrote to catch your attention. “You see, from junior high on, I started reading these people. They were such a comfort, such a getaway, so inspiring, you know?  I absolutely loved them.” Your eyes are bright with tears.

“Your favorite English poet?”

“I don’t know, they all said things that struck me,” you say. “I mean, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning-she started writing when she was eleven! I was twelve!” you laugh, shaking your head. “Thomas Hardy—but not his heart, it’s with his wife, and then—” you sigh. “then there’s Herrick…” your face tears up. “He was the one who made me feel like I was beautiful no matter what—”

“Not Shakespeare?” Henry asks.

“No!” you laugh. “I love Shakespeare, but there is this poem called ‘Delight In Disorder?’ Or ‘No Fault In Women? No?” you take a breath. “He talked about how our imperfections make us beautiful. I mean, men don’t act that way, but I thought, if one can see it, maybe there was hope—” You stop, realizing you were about to say something terribly personal, and turn back to the memorial, hugging yourself. “It’s a beautiful place, really!” You gaze upon the entire monument of graves, tablets and busts, trying to memorize everything, but your vision blurs with tears. “You probably think I’m silly—” You turn and see Gordon and Henry standing and smiling. “Yeah, you do.”

“No, madam,” Gordon nods respectfully. “I think you get it.”

Henry puts his arm around you. “Need more time?”

“Oh, I could stand here forever—” But from a distance, you hear a group coming in and you look up at him. “We should go. It isn’t going anywhere, right?”

Henry nods slowly. “Right.”

You finish the tour and Gordon walks you to the door.

“It’s been an honor, sir—” Gordon nods to Henry who nods back, then looks at you and half bows. “and a great privilege, madam.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

You walk away, and Henry pulls you closer to him as you walk out. “I think you made his day, pet.”

You gasp softly. “Why? What—”

“Not everyone loves literature and writing as you do,” he smiles down at you. “people like you are why Poets Corner is there-to remember and inspire the present and future with the past. I am quite sure he’ll never forget you.”

Your cheeks heat, feeling embarrassed. “I have been there before, but…it’s so, so, so—”

He kisses your temple. “Nothing to explain, darling,” he whispers. “nothing to explain.”

You move on and once again, Henry has made a reservation:

“Oh, my God, what a beautiful view!” you breathe as you ascend in the London Eye, looking at London from a bird’s eye view via ferris wheel. “This is great!”

You look at the virtual guide, which is a map of the city from on high with buttons one can push for information. Henry steps behind you and presses each one, systematically giving you a quick overview of downtown London. His voice is smooth and cultured, his words measured and articulate, total poetry in motion as he tells you about each site by heart. You try to listen, but the feel of his body behind, you the firmness and warmth of it, the softness of his lips as they brush your ear perhaps accidentally, the sound his voice that causes you relax against him, makes you a poor student at the moment.

At the height of the wheel, overlooking twinkling city of London and the moonlit river, Henry slowly turns you toward him and kisses you. You’ve been waiting for this; your first kiss was hot and branding, and you craved more, even that reckless and delicious yet aching feeling that he started in the pit of your stomach before. He doesn’t disappoint, and you arch to him again, his arms on either side of you and hands on the sightseeing console trapping you in his embrace. You rake his back, your finger tips digging into the small of his back, and he lifts his head with a small gasp as his hips surge forward compelling you to widen your stance.

“You have really got to stop that,” he smiles down at you with hooded eyes, his breathing quickened once again.

You are panting. “I’m not sure I can.” You do it again, and love the feel of him. His eyes are smoldering. Not here, you think. Not here. Ever?

But the answer was in his eyes as you private car starts downward. “Let’s…head to my place. Still got all that food from Godfrey’s.”

“Oooh, and olives!” you say excitedly, running your fingers through his hair. “I saw wine in there. We’ll make appetizers.”

He frowns slightly and nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “Alright, then. Sounds like a plan…when we get down from here.”

“We’re heading down,” you remind him, feeling a bit nervous now that you feel the wetness of your own arousal, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. You are beginning to ache for him, and you hope he doesn’t know that your heart and body are having a hard time being reined in by your mind and good sense.

“Got about ten minutes,” He whispers. “I’ll think of something…” He lowers his head to recapture your mouth with his and you arch again to his caresses, allowing yourself to surrender to his embrace knowing the night hides you and that reality would come before your ultimate surrender when you reach the ground.

@mistress-of-ward​ @nuggsmum @messyinsomniacbookgirl @jencanbeyouryengeralt​ @sweetdreamsofgelato​ @maryann84 @omgkatinka​ @the-soot-sprite @viking-raider @keanureevesisbae​ @henryobsessed​ @summersong69​ @kinbhot4henners​ @sunshine96love​ @michelehansel​ @radofrivia @thelastsock​ @michelehansel @tumblnewby​

Thanks for the follows and the messages! I’m really having fun with this and it makes me happy you are, too! Let me know if you want to be on the tag list.

[theartoflovingthomashunt]

Santa Monica -Happiness

[Red Carpet Diaries Masterlist]  ||  [Hollywood U Masterlist] – – –

Characters: Alex (MC), Thomas Hunt

Setting: This takes place between RCD books 2 and 3 (Red Carpet Diaries 2.5). However, it really could take place anytime in their relationship.

Rating: General – – –

Alex and Thomas walked hand in hand toward the Santa Monica Pier.  

“I know this isn’t your thing,” Alex squeezed Thomas’s hands. 

“That is an understatement, darling,” Thomas answered with a stern expression as he eyed the crowds of people all around them. 

“I appreciate that you’re giving it a chance,” Alex smiled. 

“I may find the noise, the crowd, and the general setting exhausting, however, anytime with you is enjoyable,” Thomas responded. The corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. 

“Let’s start with something calm.” Alex pulled Thomas toward the Santa Monica Looff Hippodrome. 

Alex’s face lit up when she saw the carousel. “It’s over 100 years old.” Alex marveled. “It was one of the first places I came when I got here. Chazz took me out for a day of more touristy fun and excitement, we came here as part of our adventure that day.”

“Somehow, I am not surprised.” Thomas guided Alex toward the carousel with his arm extended. “Shall we?

“Nothing would make me happier,” Alex smiled as she entered the carousel.

“Hmm,” Thomas pondered. “I shall endeavor to prove that statement inaccurate.”

Alex and Thomas took their place on the ride as the carousel went round and round. Alex couldn't wipe the smile off her face. She had always loved the pure, simple pleasure that came from riding a carousel. But, this time was extra special because she could share it with Thomas. Despite his grumpy exterior, she knew he wasn’t hating it as much as he pretended to be.

As the ride came to a stop, Alex led Thomas toward the vintage Ice Cream Parlor, where they got an old-fashion ice cream soda. 

A little while later, as they continued their exploration of the pier. 

"Oh, let's play a game!" Alex dragged Thomas toward a row of games. 

"You know these games are designed to be nearly impossible to win," Thomas explained. 

Alex shrugged. "Why should that matter?"

"Why attempt something at which you know you can not succeed?" Thomas questioned. 

"It's not about winning… it's about fun. Fun is when you ...okay, I won't sing the Spongebob song but you may have to suffer through the episode at some point in the future. Fair warning." Alex nudged Thomas teasingly. 

Thomas breathed deeply, trying not to roll his eyes. 

Alex continued. "It's just part of the amusement park experience, you go on some rides, you eat deliciously unhealthy food that you don't think too much about how its made, and you play no-win games. It’s just what you do. I don't make the rules.”

Thomas began to protest but ultimately sighed, letting Alex have this one. “Fine. Let’s play ring toss.”

Thomas bought Alex a bucket of rings. She tossed one after another, getting so close, but ultimately not getting any rings on the glass bottle tops. 

Thomas listened to the imperfect rhythm of the clanking of the rings against the glass bottles that surrounded him. He took a small handful of rings out of the bucket and examined them closely. He held each carefully, exploring their weight and quality. After a few moments, he tossed the first ring. It ricocheted off the top of one of the bottles and bounced around before falling to the ground. The second grazed the top of the bottle and almost stayed on, but a frustrated child throwing from across the stand sent a ring flying that caused Thomas’s to bounce off the top. 

Thomas tried to block out the stifling amount of chaos around him. He carefully balanced the third ring between his fingers and sent it soaring down a row of bottles. It landed perfectly on a bottle a few rows in without bouncing off. 

“You did it! You won!!!” Alex exclaimed.

“Yes,” Thomas verified. 

“I thought you said these games are unwinnable?” Alex pressed.

“I said they are nearly impossible to win,” Thomas began. “I’m a precisionist. I understand the world is imperfect and yet, I venture to bring as much order as I can by understanding things.” 

“You just happened to understand ring toss well enough to win instantly?” Alex asked.

“It’s all a matter of finding the precise physics behind it– from the way you hold the ring to how you spin it, even how the ring is weighted and where you stand in relation to the row of bottles,” Thomas began.

Alex gave him a knowing look.

“My parents took us to a carnival when I was 4. It was dreadful. I hated that I could not win any of the games. And yet they insisted on giving me consolation prizes, as if I could be so easily appeased,” Thomas scoffed. “I wanted to beat the game not get the prize. So, I taught myself how to master them. I set up variations of the games at home and tested different strategies until I found ones that worked. I refused to let them win. I actually think I ended up making money on it when kids in the neighborhood insisted on coming to play even though they refused to let me teach them how to play properly.”

Alex covered her mouth with her hand trying not to laugh. She could just picture Thomas as a child trying to best all the carnies. Before she could tease him about it, she noticed a little boy crying across the game tent. 

The game attended proudly presented Thomas with a very large and not that soft stuffed bear. “Thank you,” Thomas muttered.

Thomas turned to hand Alex the bear, but he also noticed the upset child who had seemingly lost the game. The boy was only a couple years older than he was when he had first lost the game all those years ago. 

When he turned back to Alex, she smiled and nodded to him. 

“Know that I won it for you,” Thomas stated.

“And that memory is all I need.” Alex held his face in her hands and kissed him softly. “You are all I need.”

Thomas and Alex walked over to the crying child who was pressed against his mother’s side. “Can we give this to him?” Thomas mouthed to the boy’s mother. She smiled and nodded.

Thomas knelt down next to the little boy and placed the bear beside him. “Hi. My name’s Thomas. What’s your name?”

“Jacob.” The little boy sniffled and turned his face toward Thomas. 

“Jacob, sometimes you won’t win, but it’s important to learn from every opportunity. If I tell you a secret, do you think you can remember it?” Thomas questioned in the softest voice Alex had ever heard him use. The boy nodded silently. “Practice makes progress. Can you say that– Practice makes progress?”

The little boy repeated it back. Thomas smiled. “That means you keep trying no matter what and you don’t give up. Little by little you will get better. The more you practice something, the more progress you make. Now, my friend here is going to need to learn about practicing. Do you think you can help him?”

Thomas moved the bear closer to the boy, who was only a few inches taller than the bear. The boy immediately hugged the stuffed animal as tight as he could. 

“Thank you,” the boy’s mother mouthed. 

As Thomas and Alex started to walk away, Jacob ran over and wrapped himself around Thomas’s legs, pulling him to an abrupt stop. “Thank you!”

Thomas stood speechless as the boy turned and ran back to his mom without another word. 

“I know you find children tedious, but you were great with him.” Alex took Thomas’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Thomas smiled, giving one last look at the boy wrapped around his new prize. “I suppose they’re not all terrible.” 

“I love you so much, Thomas Hunt,” Alex expressed in amazement.

“I love you, too.” He snaked his arms around her waist pulling her closer. “Know that you make me a better man, Alex. I’m different when you’re around.”

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.” Alex wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his lips down to meet hers. She kissed him deeply, savoring everything she felt for him at that moment. After a few moments, she pulled back and smiled. “How do you feel about the Ferris Wheel?”

“I will follow you where you lead, my darling” Thomas admitted.

Alex led them to the line for the Ferris Wheel. 

"You know we don't have to wait in line," Thomas suggested. 

"True, but no one likes people who cut lines," Alex explained. "Plus, waiting in lines isn't all bad."

"How could waiting in line be anything but a waste of valuable time?" Thomas began to protest. 

Alex leaned into him, resting against his chest. She kissed his cheek, letting her lips hover over his skin. 

"I stand corrected." Thomas held Alex in his arms as they waited patiently for their turn.

When it was time to board their car, Thomas helped Alex in. Then he turned to talk to the ride attendant for a moment before getting in as well.  

“The view is so beautiful,” Alex exclaimed as the Ferris Wheel reached the top.

“It is,” Thomas agreed, his attention fully on Alex. The breeze blew her hair around. Thomas pushed a strand back away from her face. “How did I do? Is this better than the carousel?”

“Huh?” Alex questioned shifting her attention to Thomas. 

“You said nothing could make you happier than the carousel. I hoped a moment alone up here might exceed your expectations,” Thomas challenged.

“It’s amazing,” Alex looked around taking in all of the scene–the bustle of the crowd on the pier, the people on the beach, and the still calm ocean stretching out into the horizon. She could hear the couples in the cars nearby worrying about why the ride had come to a stop.

“How much longer do we have?” Alex asked, resting her head on Thomas’s shoulder.

“Unfortunately, probably only a few more moments. I imagine the rest of the line is getting restless,” Thomas replied. He kissed the top of Alex’s head. 

“Tonight has been perfect,” Alex confessed, snuggling tighter against Thomas. “You are perfect. Thank you.”

Thomas held Alex safely in his arms. “I would do anything to make you happy, Alex.”

“I know,” Alex admitted. “As I would for you.”

---

Thomas Tags:  @hopelessromantic1352  ;  @alleksa16  ; @the-soot-sprite   ;  @mfackenthal  ; @alj4890 ; @flyawayboo   ;  @twin-skltns   ;   @pb-boeboe   ;   @lilyofchoices ; 

Thank you for reading and for all the support! <3 Let me know if you would like to be tagged.

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents

Chapter Five Diagon Alley

Harry loved going to Diagon Alley. Lily and James didn't take him often. He had a few memories of people stopping the three of them and commenting on his scar. Specifically, he remembered a man in a top hat and a woman in a long violet cloak. Looking back, he supposed Lily's bright red hair, James's height, and a child with a prominent scar on his face made for a rather noticeable group, especially right after the war.

Today, though they were a larger group, Harry thought they might be able to move about the crowded streets of Diagon Alley easier than they had in the past. Lily placed a standard witch's hat with a wide brim over her long red hair. James put on a matching hat, then linked his arm in hers as they stepped into the fireplace. Sirius tugged a set of wizard robes over his usual Muggle-day-wear with a wrinkled face, but when he caught Harry watching, smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and stepped into the green flames of the Floo Network. Harry went next, combing his dark hair over his scar. He wanted today to be about getting ready for Hogwarts. Though the news about his scar was thrilling, he wanted this trip to be like any other wizarding student getting ready for school.

Lastly, Uncle Remus came through, and dusted off his long, ash-blond hair, though there was no soot in it to begin with.

"Well, what do we need first?" Lily asked as she pulled out Harry's school supply list.

"A stop at Gringotts, I think," James said as he pulled a handful of Knuts and Sickles from his cloak pocket. "We spent most of what we had on the party yesterday."

"Gringotts it is. Hang on to me, Harry."

The troop of four wizards and one soon-to-be-wizard walked down the tightly crowded alley. Harry held Lily's hand as they walked, and with his other hand, clutched at the back of James's cloak as the wizard led the way to the one and only wizarding bank at the end of the street.

Along the way, Harry's head swiveled from left to right, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells of Diagon Alley. He caught sight of the Nimbus 2000 Sirius had just bought him. There was the Owl Emporium he assumed his white owl from Hagrid had come from. She still needed a name. He saw a vendor selling dragon liver, and wondered if she'd take to a dragon name. He thought about writing a letter to Ron's brother in Romania. And, before he had quite decided how he would go about that letter — "Hello. Can you name my owl after one of your dragons? Thanks." — they had reached the end of the street, and the bank towered far above them.

"What's this?" Sirius asked quietly, as they realized most of the crowd in the alley was not actually made of shoppers, but people packed tightly around Gringotts.

The group carefully pushed their way to the front, until there were ten feet of empty space between them and the bank, but that space was guarded by goblins, holding the crowds at bay.

"What's going on?" Harry asked.

But neither his parents or his uncle or his godfather answered. They didn't know. It was a witch on his left that said, "There was a break in last night, there was! Never anyone dared steal from goblins before and get away with it, but this one did!"

"Nothing was stolen!" a goblin shouted at the witch. "Now clear out!" Despite his stature, Harry found the goblin very intimidating. He had a gruff voice and a rather mean face. Harry had found in his very short life that most goblins had mean faces. He assumed it was because they spent all their time counting money. That would give anyone wrinkles.

Still, none of the crowd moved, and continued to shout questions at the goblins, who only repeated, "Nothing's been stolen."

"We're here to make a withdrawal," Lily said, as loudly as she could.

The goblin looked at her, upper lip curled back, like he didn't quite believe her. "Name?"

"Lily Potter," she answered, in a much quieter voice.

The goblin then did a double-take, surveyed the wizards in front of him, then gave a curt nod. "Account holders only."

James and Lily were let through the barricade, and they pulled Harry with them.

"I'm family," Sirius protested, but the goblin only sneered at him, and led Lily, James, and Harry into the bank.

"Really ought to put Lupin on the account, too," James said as they stepped into the bank.

The doors thudded closed behind him, and all the chaos and shouts of the crowd were replaced with an eerie silence and the gentle clinking of coins.

"Don't think he'd let you," Lily whispered back.

James made a noise that sounded like he agreed, but his face said he wasn't too happy about it.

Harry had not been inside Gringotts since he was very small. And though he had grown quite a bit since then, it was still as big as he remembered: large columns, high ceilings, and thick iron gates between tellers and patrons. On the left there was a sign for Muggle-to-Wizard exchanges. There was another sign displaying the current exchange rate in England. Further back were international exchange rates, where a witch and a goblin argued about Brazilian wizard gold and Brazilian Muggle currency.

But the most captivating and unnerving display was the large doors at the back, engraved with a silver script that Harry remembered glistening in the bright light — and today they looked like they burned angrily:

"Enter, stranger, but take heed Of what awaits the sin of greed, For those who take, but do not earn, Must pay most dearly in their turn. So if you seek beneath our floors A treasure that was never yours, Thief, you have been warned, beware Of finding more than treasure there."

And then the burning poem split into two as the doors opened for the Potters.

"Griphook!" their goblin guide said sharply, and another goblin grumpily climbed down from his post.

Griphook the goblin took Harry, James, and Lily down into a dark cave. The large doors thundered shut behind them. For a moment they were plunged into darkness, then green glowing torches lit up the immense caverns. They were wide and Harry could see at least six different tunnels. And then about fifteen feet away, the ground disappeared and it was impossible to see just how far down the caverns and tunnels went.

Harry couldn't imagine how a thief could even get in here, let alone find his way around.

There was a metal track that Harry could see reflecting torch light throughout the caverns. Griphook whistled and a cart came out of the darkness, along the track, and stopped when it reached them. James, Lily, and Harry climbed in, and the cart hurtled through the maze of the caverns. James sat back, unfazed by the speed. Lily kept one hand tight on the railing and the other tight on Harry, who was far more interested in how many twists and turns there were on the track to be worried about how fast they were going.

"What's the difference between stalactite and stalagmite?" Harry asked above the noise of the rattling car.

James shrugged his shoulders. "One's up and one's down, isn't it?"

"Stalactite hangs tight to the ceiling," Lily said in a tight voice of her own. "Now, Harry, will you please sit down?"

The cart stopped in front of one of several doors along the passage wall. Lily stepped out first and adjusted her hat. James ran his hand back through his hair so the ends stuck up and looked rather windblown, and Harry excitedly ran to the door.

Griphook unlocked it, and a green smoke hissed as the metal frame sprung an invisible seam and a door slowly swung outwards. When the green smoke cleared, mounds of gold and silver were visible as well as several of the more valuable family heirlooms along the back wall. Old family and old money went hand-in-hand.

While Lily and James debated how much they would need for the next few months, how much they ought to give to Remus, and hadn't Sirius offhandedly mentioned something about nearly being out of his inheritance, Harry walked along the back wall and looked at all the old Potter family heirlooms.

There was a trunk with Old English engraved into it that Harry couldn't read. He found a gold necklace with a large ruby in the centre that hissed at him when he tried to touch it. There was a matching bracelet he didn't dare approach. He saw a shimmery bundle of fabric and he was just debating on whether or not he should try to touch that — he was very curious about what it felt like — when James called him back.

"Harry, let's go. Careful or you'll get lost." He had a wide grin on his face as he beckoned Harry back to the door, but Harry noticed his eyes flick back to the shimmering bundle before they left the vault.

The cart was just as fast going up as it was going down, and soon, Harry, Lily, and James were stepping back out into the sunlight outside Gringotts. The large crowd was still there clamoring for questions, and then, as Lily and James pulled Harry back into the crowd, the noise petered out into whispers.

Lily pulled the brim of her hat down and pulled Harry close. He heard a wizard whisper, "Was that the Potters?" before James pulled them into the nearest shop.

The nearest shop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

"Oh, Harry, I meant to bring your dress robes to get them extended. I'm sorry," Lily sighed.

"Definitely alright," Harry said, quite pleased that he was not going to be putting on his dress robes again. Yesterday had been plenty.

Madam Malkin came out of the back of the shop. She was a short, round little witch dressed in lavender robes.

"Hogwarts robes? Been seeing you little ones come in and out all month. Come on, to the back, I'll get you fitted right away."

Lily and Harry started towards the back of the shop, but James hesitated.

"I'm going to find Remus and Sirius if that's alright."

"Today's for Harry," she said tersely.

"And they want to be a part of it. We'll meet you right back here. Or wherever you're going next."

Lily pursed her lips, clearly displeased, but nodded once and waved James off.

He hesitated again, as if he might change his mind, but he stepped out the door after all, and Lily helped Harry step onto the fitting stool. Madam Malkin pulled a long black robe over his head. The edges of it fell around the stool to the floor.

"Well, if he grows up to be anything like his father, he'll need a lot of hem, won't he?" Madam Malkin said as she knelt down to pin the hem on Harry's robe. "Then again, you young ones get into so much trouble, I expect you'll wear through your robes before the year's out. Or are you a good, quiet boy, hm?" she asked with a small smile.

"Definitely a troublemaker," Harry grinned and adjusted his glasses.

Lily gently flattened the back of his hair. "You're impatient and curious, but you are not a troublemaker. You're very well-behaved. More than your father was anyway."

Harry fixed his hair back to how he usually liked it — fringe shoved to one side and a bit of a ruffle in the back so he didn't look like his mother had gotten him dressed. And when Madam Malkin looked up she raised her eyebrows.

"Didn't realize I was fitting Mr. Potter. Well, it's very good to see you, all grown-up and off to Hogwarts."

"Thank you. We're very proud," Lily smiled, and Harry, suddenly self-conscious, pulled his fringe back down over his scar and mumbled a quiet, "Thank you," to Madam Malkin.

They left with two winter cloaks, a hat, protective gloves, and five new black robes for Harry, all with all the proper enchantments to automatically change lining colours the moment he was sorted.

"Mum, what if I'm in Hufflepuff?" he asked as she led him towards Flourish and Blotts.

"Then your robes will be yellow."

"I mean — but what about Slytherin?"

"Then they'll be green."

"That's not what I mean, Mum. I mean, what if —"

"Harry, wherever you end up, your father and I will be proud of you. I had friends in all sorts of houses."

"But Dad didn't. All of Dad's friends were in Gryffindor — Uncle Remus, and Sirius, and —"

"Your father was an arrogant, ignorant, and pompous prat when he was in school. Don't be like him."

"But Mum!"

She seemed rather irritated, and he noticed her looking around for James with thinly masked irritation before stepping inside Flourish and Blotts.

Books were stacked to the ceiling from end-to-end of the store. In the middle were pyramids and towers of all kinds of books.

"Don't they believe in bookshelves?" Harry asked as he wandered towards the Hexes and Jinxes section.

Lily grabbed his collar and tugged him back towards the school supplies.

The bookstore manager was stacking "Standard Book of Spells, Year 7," in a corner when he saw Lily.

"Here for Marauding with Monsters?" he asked with a smile.

Lily's frown deepened and her voice was sharp. "No."

He looked surprised by her anger, and then caught sight of Harry. "Ah! School books. Of course, of course. Let me guess... year three?"

"Oh, yes, definitely," Harry grinned.

"No." Lily did not seem very amused. "Year one, please."

"Yes, yes, of course." The manager seemed eager to smooth over Lily's displeasure, unsure if he was the cause of it. He hurriedly gathered Harry's books together, put them into a neat stack — much neater than any stack in the store — and politely asked, "This is all, correct?"

Lily looked the stack over, checked it against the list, and nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

The manager quickly took the galleons from her and handed back a handful of Sickles and Knuts, and wished them both a pleasant day. Lily looked almost determined to defy him.

When they stepped out of the shop, Lily went over Harry's school supply list again. "Looks like we still need your potions supplies, a telescope, and your wand." She glanced around the street and briefly went up on her toes. "I suppose we could check in at the Leaky Cauldron and see if your father stopped off for a drink with his friends."

"Can I get a firewhiskey?"

"No," she said very sharply, then glanced down at Harry and saw his wide smile. She sighed, smiled, and tugged on his hand. "Come on. Let's get your Potions supplies."

Lily and Harry bought all the basic requirements for standard Potions. She even checked his school book to make sure he had enough of the necessary ingredients before going to get his cauldron.

In the window of the shop were silver and gold cauldrons, and just when Harry opened his mouth to ask, Lily already was answering his question.

"No, you may not have a solid gold cauldron," she scolded. "It's Potions, not Alchemy."

They stepped into the shop and were surprised to find James and Sirius at the shopkeeper's counter, with the rest of Harry's necessary school supplies, arguing over who was going to pay for it. "I couldn't get him an owl. Let me get this," Sirius was saying.

"No," James was protesting. "You got him a racing broom. That's more than enough."

"That was a birthday gift. This is a Hogwarts send off."

"These are his school supplies and I'm his father."

Remus saw Lily and Harry and waved with a weary smile. "They've been at this for about fifteen minutes," he said to them quietly.

The poor shopkeeper looked driven out of his mind by the argument and went to help Lily. She smiled at him sympathetically.

"Sorry, that's my husband, unfortunately. Don't worry about it. I'll cover it now and deal with them later."

The shopkeeper looked at the the men nervously, then at Lily, and nodded.

She paid for the school supplies, then tugged a bewildered James and an offended Sirius out of the shop.

"Then let me get his wand," Sirius pleaded.

"No," Lily said firmly. "That's our gift to him."

Sirius looked ready to keep arguing, but Remus put a hand on Sirius's arm, and Sirius shut his mouth. He still looked rather sullen as the five of them stepped into Ollivander's.

A small, gentle bell sounded as the door opened and closed, and a thin, wizened old man came to the front of the shop. "Ah, what a crowd! I daresay I've seen you all before. Let me remember... Sirius Black — hawthorn and very unyielding, no?" he smiled. "And Remus Lupin — a ten-and-a-quarter pliable cypress, excellent for protective spells. Miss Lily Evans —"

"Mrs. Lily Potter," James corrected with a smile, and wrapped his hand around hers.

"Ah, yes," Ollivander smiled, "of course. Swishy willow, excellent charm casting. And for Mr. James Potter, a dragon heartstring core, yes? Pliable mahogany. Then you must be Harry Potter, hm?" Ollivander leaned in very close — Harry found it unsettling — and swept aside Harry's fringe to look at the scar. He touched it gently. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…." His voice trailed off, and Harry shifted uncomfortably under his close, silvery gaze. "Well now," he finally said as he stepped away, "let me see." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long measuring tape. "Which arm is your wand arm?"

Harry glanced back at his parents, who both gave him encouraging smiles. He swallowed hard, and held out his right arm.

Ollivander measured Harry all over — shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, around his head, even between his nostrils. Ollivander went on about wand cores while the measuring tape worked on its own, and he went through boxes. Harry was distracted by the silver swishing tape, and only caught the end — "dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

And a wand was pressed into Harry's hand. He waved it, like he'd seen his mother do in morning to water the herbs, but Mr. Ollivander took it back halfway through the swish and handed him another wand — "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy."

Harry flicked this one, the way he'd seen his father summon the brooms from the shed, but Ollivander snatched it away again.

He tried wands in all woods, in all cores, in all lengths. Harry wasn't sure what it was supposed to feel or look like, and as Ollivander kept snatching wands before he could even finish a wave, he began to be more and more disheartened. He glanced back at his mother and mouthed, "I'm going to be in Hufflepuff," and she stifled a giggle.

At the least, Ollivander seemed to be having fun. The wispy, quiet, and distant old man turned into a limber and excited wandmaker as he bounced between shelves and boxes, putting wands in and out of Harry's hands with ease and giddy smiles.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Oh, Harry thought suddenly as his fingers curled around the wand, this is what it’s supposed to feel like. The wand was warm in his hand, and there was a faint tingling sensation as he raised the wand above his head and brought it down with a flourish. Red and gold sparks burst from the end — not in a single spout, but in a steady flow, bathing the whole room in dancing red and gold lights.

Lily, James, Sirius, and Remus all laughed and applauded. Even Ollivander's giddy grin widened as he cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious..."

Mr. Ollivander carefully wrapped Harry's new wand back in his box and tied a red and gold ribbon around it, still about the curiosity of it all.

Harry and James, at the same time, asked, "What's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander seemed once again the distant and wizened old man they had seen when they arrived. He fixed his strangely distant gaze on Harry. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar."

An eerie silence settled over the group, and Harry felt James put a protective hand on his shoulder, and Sirius's tightened on his other.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember…. I think we must expect great things from you, Mr, Potter…. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible yes, but great."

There was a bad taste in Harry's mouth as Lily handed the galleons over for his wand, and he took the box from Mr. Ollivander. He held the box gingerly, as if it might spontaneously combust.

They walked out in silence and no one said anything until James finally asked, "Well, Harry, it's your day. Do you want dinner at the Leaky Cauldron?"

Harry thought that he very much did not want to be magical for a moment, and said, "Can we go to that one place Sirius took me to for my birthday last year?"

James and Sirius apparated the cloaks, hats, and school supplies home before they headed to the Muggle restaurant in London.

The quiet troop sat down in the quaint diner on a corner in downtown London, and finally, Harry’s first words apart from ordering his meal were, "How many people did Voldemort kill?"

James cleared his throat. "That's not a good question —"

"How many?" he repeated, and was met with a moment of silence.

"No one really knows," Lily finally said. "A lot of witches and wizards and Muggles. And there were a lot of his followers that did what he wanted and did what they wanted. Why do you want to know?"

Harry picked at his plate, not quite sure what his answer should be. "Everyone thinks I'm going to be a great wizard. They're all so excited for me to go to Hogwarts. But I don't even know what really happened. You haven't told me anything."

"We told you as much as we know," James said quietly. Sirius snorted, then took a hasty sip of his water when Lily glared at him.

Remus was the one who gently put his hand over Harry and said, "What they think of you isn't important. You don't need to be what everyone expects. Hogwarts will be fun. You'll make friends, you'll learn all about magic, and you'll decide who you want to be. You just do your best, and we'll all be proud of you, no matter what."

Those weren't the words Harry wanted to hear, but they were still comforting. More comforting than anything he'd heard all day. But Uncle Remus was like that. He had a talent for seeing what Harry needed when others could only see what he wanted.

"You'd make a great teacher, you know," Lily said quietly as the waitress set their food down.

Remus only shook his head.

The mood picked up considerably after that. Harry slightly regretted his choice because he still had a craving for butterbeer, but changed his mind again when Sirius ordered him an enormous triple-banana-split-with-all-the-toppings-and-more, that was so large even all five of them found they could barely finish it.