#it was specifically because we were in a tight spot financially and we were going to sell the plants but……… we love them lol
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feeling real proud of my plant room after joining a teams meeting from home this morning to (successfully) impress my coworkers, so:
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(and also my 15yr old crested gecko, Plantain, and his housemates Card Catalog and Little Library)
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#note: i did not buy any of the fancy verigated plants - my partner was gifted a cutting at the start of vivid#and we’ve been propagating them since then#it was specifically because we were in a tight spot financially and we were going to sell the plants but……… we love them lol#my current favorite is the polka dot plant and the little fig that i grew from the midsection of an old leggy thing i cut back this summer#i kept it out of curiousitu and when i saw the little nubs of green growth i got so excited <3#i love being an adult sometimes.. i love having plants i’ve kept for years and years and years and seeing how big they get…#this room saves me in the winter… most of these live outside all summer so every year i drag them in and reorganize#personal#my plants
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Hello Mr. Atoms, I'm an animation student in college and fan of your work. I got this assignment in which I need to ask questions to a professional in the area. Could you pretty please answer them? It'd mean a lot to me.
1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.
2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?
3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?
4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?
5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?
Okey dokey.
1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.
Not really, in that there seems to be no career left.
The animation industry swelled its numbers greatly before 2020. Almost immediately after that, corporate greed synergized with a pandemic to reduce animated programs and the number of people working on them to almost zero. It takes almost a year from beginning to end to make a single episode of an animated show (by the modern standard). There was nothing being made in 2020 and four years later, we''re not in a much better spot. It's going to be a long drought for (especially) Kid's TV Animation.
Recently, many of my former co-workers have hit the financial wall and can't continue, moving away after (sometimes) 20 years in the industry. I begin to wonder if I'm very far behind.
A "bounce back" a year from now would need to start today. There are still some animated shows being made now, but those are almost universally "library" properties. That means it's an existing I.P. (Intellectual Properties like Garfield/Mario/Batman/Star Wars) so as an artist you're immediately in that box. Depending on the property and the studio, it can be an unpleasantly tight box. I grew used to holding and maintaining the vision for a show, but it's less fun when it's not my vision. It's even less fun when you can't inspire someone to follow your vision because they've been so ruthlessly abused.
I'm pretty sick of how big media corporations treat their employees. If I inherit one more burnt out crew due to mismanagement, I'm gonna lose it.
Over a decade ago I fought hard to get board artists story credit for the episodes they were actually writing, and felt like I'd won a big victory for everyone. The second my back was turned, it all reverted.
Mostly... what is the point now? My career is/was developing ideas, crafting those ideas into a workable show, then managing teams of thirty to seventy people to produce a couple of dozen episodes per year. Studios actively do not want new ideas right now, and are actively searching for ways to eliminate what artists from the process. I'm not sure what my job would be under this new system, but it feels like they decided to hang onto the anxiety-inducing deadlines while removing anything remotely pleasurable from the experience.
2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?
It's the only way to get anything done, currently.
The current state of the industry is not sustainable. I (along with a lot of other animators I know) are trying to decide what's next, and pretty much everyone agrees that "you just have to make something".
It is (in that very specific way) a great time to be a young animator. The system was never going to treat you well anyway. If you can get something like a Hazbin Hotel happening without studio help, you can currently write your own ticket. I'm super proud of Vivsie, because that's a LOT of stuff to handle. I never had to handle my own marketing or drum up money to make Billy & Mandy happen.
There are opportunities there, but it's definitely "Hard Mode". The best idea is probably to team up with a few other people you like and like to work with.
Hopes? I hope that the young animators take over and make something new on top of the bones of the old industry, rather than just allowing that industry to patch its rotting hide with their collected works.
3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?
I suspect true AI might just peace-out like ScarJo in "Her", but we're not there yet. What we have now isn't Artificial Intelligence at all (though I do believe it may be the underpinnings of the Artificial Suconscious of what may one day become an actual Artificial Intelligence.)
The LLMs and "Generative AI" are (so far) a big dumb waste. They consume tons of energy and aren't great for doing anything creative. If you've sat down with Chat GPT for a creative writing session, you've probably run into the "out of the box" limitations which prevent it from talking about sex or violence-- which happen to be a major component of most stories.
Still, the technology has come incredibly far in an incredibly short amount of time. I imagine we're going to hit the point where we're being hazed by artificially generated political ads way before Generative AI can produce a consistent and usable character turnaround, so that'll be the test. Whatever the legal fallout is from this stuff over the next few years will set the tone.
Still, studios have a vested interest in pleasing their shareholders. Generative AI potentially has the capability of not only replacing swaths of money-eating artists, but handing that control directly to the billionaire studio heads. Mark my words: We're headed straight for billionaire-generated content.
I don't think the public at large will want to watch Elon Musk's fever dreams, so there's that. So law and general distaste might stave it off for a while, but I think there's just too much impetus for studios to continue to try to please their investors. "AI Art" is here to stay.
Eventually that will lead to millions and millions of bots generating millions and millions of songs and paintings and movies all day every day. Most of it will be utter trash. Right now (so I'm told) viewers are already burnt out, and will generally only click on what they already know. On Netflix, where there are twenty things you've never heard of and one you have, you're more likely to pick the thing that gives you comfort and gives you a guarantee you're not wasting your time. With exponentially more A.I. trash, how would you even begin to filter it out?
You'd need absolute control of an already existing distribution system. We currently have a few of those, and all of the media companies are desperately trying to merge with them to insure their own survival.
To me, the post-Gen-AI landscape looks a lot like old-school Cable, but with endless I.P. and fewer masters.
4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?
The real question is, maybe, "What am I even doing?" These days I try to do a lot of gardening. I'm trying to learn new art skills, because suddenly twenty five years of experience managing, drawing, and writing isn't worth much. I recently worked on Jellystone until Zaslav lost 2.5 billion in the wash and had to find justification for his new yacht. The show before that? Also culled midway through to save money. The days of multi-year gigs seem to be over, and if I'm going to scrape by doing freelance, maybe I can do that somewhere else.
I'll always make art. I can't seem to help it. Ideas aren't my problem-- it's executing those ideas without the help of a structured pre-existing system. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to pull that off. My strengths are great, but were always supported by friends I worked with.
Can I start an indie cartoon with all of these cool friends? Sure, maybe. Most of those people have gone on to have other careers of their own and got used to being paid. Now nobody is getting paid and no one can pay anyone else. My immediate circle are all now middle-aged people with families and no jobs. Convincing them to give up a large chunk of their day for an idea that's not guaranteed to pay off is going to take some real effort.
I technically have fifteen years until I can claim my "retirement", assuming that still exists by then. That's a pretty big hole to fill with... I don't know what.
The difficult "What comes next" discussions at home are really just starting.
5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?
There are a lot of cool animation people out there. I already mentioned I was proud of Vivsie. I was also reminded recently just how great C.H. Greenblatt and Mr. Warburton are. I know they're my friends. They're both just really upstanding, creative people who take good care of their crews.
The treatment of animation industry professionals by the studio system has been one of the most demoralizing and heartbreaking parts of this demoralizing and heartbreaking time.
---
So there ya go. If you want to look for someone whose attitude is a little more upbeat, I won't blame you a bit.
Wherever you are, I wish you the best of luck. For me, just climb up there and crush it. I would very much like to add you to #5 someday.
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baby fever
๛word count: 1.3k, warnings/kinks: dom!wonwoo, sub!reader, language, unprotected sex, breeding, size kink, praise, creampie, daddy kink (wonwoo calls himself daddy like twice), feel free to let me know if i missed anything!!
wonwoo was a man of his word. to be specific, since the night of your honeymoon— he has been pushing hard to make you a mother. he loved thinking about not only being a dad but as well as how you'd look waddling around.
not to mention your husband, especially recently, had been having a horrible case of baby fever. you'd been busy, working and trying to get your house looking the best it could be, there was no way you could bring a child into your life while in the middle of so much. you weren't necessarily broke and neither was wonwoo, you were just one to watch your money and right now you were focused on getting food and fixing the house.
it's been a while since you and wonwoo had tried, you were still iffy about it all only because again you weren't ready financially. mentally as well you didn't know if you could actually take on the pressure of having a kid, having wonwoo by your side made you think about that less.
"fu— oh fuck," you moan out loud. a smirk plays along your lover's face, he knew how to please you and that's what always got him going— you were only his to please.
"feel that?" he asked, warm palm pressing flat against your tummy.
his tip bulged through the skin, this only turned wonwoo on more. he was so big and you were so small, he loved how he could do so much and toss you around like a doll.
you open your eyes the best you could, looking at the man with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. you softly nod, followed by a hum.
"you feel amazing around me, sweetheart," wonwoo praises, head falling onto you chest— leaving pecks here and there.
the love you had for him was unbearable, fucking or making love he always knew how to make it the best.
"i wanna give you a baby, my love," he said so confidently, "so fucking bad, please please, y/n~"
the more he pled, the more you wanted to give in. you had agreed before, right now is just not the right time. wonwoo insisted on taking care of anything else but you couldn't bare watching your husband work so hard while also having to take care of you.
"i promise, i'll take care of you. we'll do so good, don't you think?"
don't you think? i dunno. you really didn't, how could you when you never truly experienced taking care of a child?
"you're so beautiful, think about how cute they'll be. they'll have your eyes," he said, voice softening when he began talking about your features, "your pretty lips," his thumb brushing across your lips and pushing past the other to rest it in your mouth. closing your mouth around it, you suck slowly as he watched.
"is that your answer?"
you nod. it was like once you did, something changed in wonwoo— face lighting up, eyes opened wide and not looking fucked out like he did just moments ago.
"gonna be the death of me, y/n," he said before yanking his hand away and kissing you roughly.
the deep, soft thursts turned rough throughout time. he became needy and it was cute, his kisses became messy as well. you tried your best to keep up, tongues exploring one another's, but it was hard for you. you could barely hold up your legs anymore.
"i love you so much," wonwoo breathes out, sweaty forehead against your own, "you have no idea."
his next harsh thurst forced a high pitch shriek from you, eyes snapping shut with moans continuously coming from you as he went on. with each time his hips met yours, he hit that small sweet spot inside you.
"you— you're fucking crazy," you struggle to say. he was, he really was— for you that is. genuinely, you could never remember being fucked this good. no one was wonwoo.
"yeah?" he held your jaw tight, forcing you to look up at him, "fuck you so good you go dumb, can't learn any good damn respect."
all you heard was ringing and the tiniest bit of wonwoo's remarks, you were really fucked dumb. it was insane how he could do that, using your body as you go limp and can no longer hold onto the broad shoulders of your husband.
when you did finally speak, you let out a small "c- close," that could barely be heard. wonwoo knew though, he felt you getting tense knew how when you clenched, you were extremely close to your high.
"cum all over me, show daddy how much you love his cock," his groans had became low and his thrusts got sloppy, he was doing everything he could to get to his climax. the thought of you being pregnant was just enough to push him closer, but he needed to hear it from you.
your back arches off the mattress as he fucked you into your orgasm. each time you get to that point your words just spill out, half the time you forget what you say, but wonwoo loved it. he loved hearing you say the dirtiest things without any filter, without being embarrassed because that's what he wanted. to hear how he makes you feel gives him this boost that he could definitely use right now.
"sh— shit, woo you're so good to me," you moan out, hips stuttering, just adding more friction, "put a baby in me, we'll be amazing fucking parents. do it."
you said it like he wouldn't. that was exactly what he wanted to do, "oh, like i won't? i'll fuck several kids into you, baby."
his eyelids became heavy and he got deeper, overstimulating you in every way possible— mouth attached to your nipple, sucking hard, "gonna take every drop for me? like a good girl, yeah?" wonwoo asked and you nod, that not being enough, "say it."
"i'll take it like a good girl," you demanded, answering him like you should, "like your good girl." you finish. your breast fell from his mouth after he looks up at you in awe.
"that's it," he nods and moves back up to press his lips softly against yours.
this kiss went on for a while, the loving action not matching the impossibly rough and fast fuck wonwoo was giving you right now.
"ah—" he chokes out. you're cumming around him once again since you had been so overstimulated, this just sent shockwaves throughout wonwoo's body.
his warm seed filled you to the brim, him fucking it deep into you. both your sinful sounds were synced and eyes rolling to the back of your head, "gonna make me a daddy?"
"y– yes, yes," you responded.
wonwoo's mouth was so filthy and he kept going until he was draining out everything he could into you. you had been so curious about what wonwoo had been talking about earlier, about how he could see himself through your tummy. once you finally lifted your head and looked down, the sight was definitely something— he was so big and the fact that you could see him fucking you did something. his harsh movements caused you to leak out part of the load he had just put in you.
"don't waste it," he says, looking down and collect some of the substance onto his fingers.
they were brought up to your mouth, wonwoo making you suck his fingers clean. you didn't know how he was still going, fucking you hard while he was softening up inside you. the action of you sucking on his fingers alone would probably cause him to get hard again.
eventually, he had got tired— body falling onto yours, skin touching skin and still being inside you. the two of you laid there for a long while, catching your breath and lightly rubbing your hands along the other's skin. wonwoo eventually lifts himself up just enough to pull out and then lay right next to you, hand resting on your stomach, "this better work."
#seventeen smut#seventeen imagines#svt smut#svt imagines#jeon wonwoo#jeon wonwoo smut#jeon wonwoo imagines#kpop smut#wonwoo smut#smut#kpop imagines#imagines
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𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐄
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : you’re a pre-med student working the closing shift at your part-time job when you find an injured gangster by the dumpster.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : ushijima wakatoshi x gn!reader
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : fluff
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : gun induced injury, ( potentially ) graphic description of said injury
𝐚/𝐧 : sometimes idk if i do this fic thing right !! anyway !! this is dedicated to the brave captains of my ushijima harem , @from-left-to-write and @bubbleteaa
While your parents give you what they can, it’s barely enough to pay tuition and living expenses while you’re off at school. Picking up a part-time job gives you some pocket money and something to take your mind off of studying.
The coffee shop you work part-time at is a tiny, yet bustling spot in the heart of the financial district. As one of the few university students that work there, you get the privilege of working morning shifts. This means, you plaster on your brightest smile at six in the morning to laugh kindly with business men who deign to pick up their own coffee and grouchy interns who are dissatisfied with getting their boss’.
On instinct, you smile brightly at the chime of the door.
“Good morning, Washijo-san! How are you?”
The regular at your store was grumpy old thing with a stubby nose and bushy brows. His suits were befitting of his location: impeccably pressed. While he appeared to be perpetually unhappy, you knew that was a lie. You swore to all your coworkers that there was a heart underneath his gruffness.
The elderly gentleman gives an endearing huff, ignoring your question. “Small black.”
You don’t let it deter you as you beam at the man. “Anything else, Washijo-san?”
“Ushijima—” the man grunts— “do you want anything?”
The man on his left silently shakes his head.
“That’s all.”
“Coming right up!” You chime.
Washijo hands you crisp bill — significantly more than his total. When you hand him the change, as he does with every visit, he promptly dumps it into the tip jar. Your heart jumps in guilt but, as a struggling student, you swallow your tongue.
“Thank you!”
Washijo waves you off flippantly as he takes a seat. In his stead, the young man waits stoically by the counter. As you ready the man's coffee, you watch his companion from the corner of your eye.
While you had many questions for the old man, the most interesting mystery of all was the string of bodyguards who followed his every whim. While you’d gotten used to the anxiously eager Goshiki and his oatmeal chocolate chip cookie, your interest was piqued by latest guard by his side. He was strong jawed with a stern look to him — broad shouldered and serious. Like his boss, his well-tailored suit was befitting of the bankers in the area.
“Ushijima-kun, right?”
His eyes are far more intense than you anticipate. Lightning runs up your spine when he raises his head. He nods.
A second is lost on you as you try to compose yourself. “Um… Do you work with Washijo-san?”
“He’s my boss.”
Your heart almost stops. His voice is a deep timber, gravelly from lack of use. His words leave a resounding echo in your ears despite the low volume.
…Is this love? The dopey grin on your face grows.
“You must work around here then!”
He nods.
“Very nice!” You place the steaming cup of coffee on the serving counter before wiping your hands on your apron. “It’s a great place to walk around during your lunch break. Before I got a job here, I worked at the hospital around the corner. I could never decide where to go for lunch.”
Reaching for the coffee, he asks, “Why did you leave the hospital for a coffee shop?”
“It was just a summer internship program!” You reply as you begin plating a pair of sugar cookies. “I’m studying pre-med, actually.”
He gives a hum and you place the cookies in front of him. He frowns.
“We didn’t order those.”
“Don’t worry about it.” It was a feeble attempt to balance out the ridiculous amount the elderly man had supplied to your tip jar over the last year. “You should come by with Washijo-san more often, though! It’s nice to see new faces.”
—
It’s sort of like speaking a curse aloud. You don’t see Washijo, or the young man for a handful of weeks after that. While your tip jar remains fairly healthy thanks to your charming customer service, you do miss the endearing demeanour of the grouchy old man.
Shamefully, you can’t say that you don’t hope to see Ushijima, though. While you don’t share the same rapport with him yet, you would like to. There was something endearing about his quiet personality. He was like a sleeping volcano. There was something hidden just below the surface.
Without noticing, you find yourself grinning into the pages of your anatomy textbook.
After cleaning steadily throughout the night — all you have to do at this point is empty the pastry case and take out the trash. With nothing else to do, of course you spend your free time studying. It’s a boring way to pass the time, but it trickles away quickly.
The clock uneventfully strikes one and you flip the welcome sign.
As you’re looking out of the glass, watching a cat cross the sheet — two men run past the storefront, one taunts their tail with a daunting tune barely muffled through the glass. It sends a shiver up your spine.
Quickly, you lock the door before retreating further into the store.
You definitely prefer morning shifts, but with the younger part-timers out of school for the time being — you had no choice but to pick up the closings for fairness sake.
A sigh escapes your lips as you lament your tragic life as a university student. You push open the back door with your shoulder, lugging along a large garbage bag. It’s a struggle with your weak arms, but you manage to heft it into the garbage dump in the back alley.
As you give yourself a congratulatory pat on the back, you find yourself jumping six feet into the air.
Tucked behind the dumpster is a man, his long legs barely hidden behind the length of the trash heap. While you’d really like to run back inside, shut off the lights and lock up for the night, your morality wins.
“Are you okay?” You ask, coming to his side.
He groans in response.
“Do you think you can stand?”
He shakes his head.
You help him into the back of the store and lead him to sit at your makeshift break table. In the light, you can finally see his face.
“Ushijima-kun,” you gasp, kneeling at his side.
You can see two bright spots of poppy-red blossom into the white of his dress shirt. You stiffen your gasp with the sleeve of your sweater before inspecting his wound. The buttons of his shirt come undone with a touch of your nimble fingers. You swallow back a second gasp. Though you saw a hint of his wounds through the poplin fabric, you’re not ready to stare directly at the angry pucker of red skin in his red pectoral.
“I—” you pull away, patting at your pockets in search of your phone— “I need to call the ambulance. This… This is more than I can handle. Well, actually this is — this is entirely more than I know how to handle but—”
You’re startled out of your panic by the warmth of his touch on your arm. He says nothing to you but shakes his head instead.
“No ambulance,” he appeals.
Your hands drop to your sides. “Okay. No ambulance.”
When you move to your feet, he tights his grip on your sleeve. His sharp eyes, previously wary, watch you desperately.
“I’m just going to wash my hands.”
His grip goes lax.
With the first aid kit hung on the wall and your mediocre knowledge of dressing a gunshot wound, you do your best to treat his wounds. You’ve yet to learn how to clean a gunshot wound specifically but you’ve always been good at guessing games. Applying what you know from the pdfs you stole off the online library: you clean, you dress, and you bandage.
When the silence of it all gets unbearable, you croak, “You know. This isn’t what I meant when I told you to come by more often.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“It’s okay,” you reply, disinfecting the wound. You offer an apologetic smile when he winces. “I’m just glad to see you, really. I haven’t seen you in weeks.” A weak laugh escapes you. “I mean, you and Washijo-san, obviously. He’s one of my favourite regulars. I was worried.” You can’t seem to look away from the gunshot. “I mean… I guess it was for good reason.”
He says nothing, lulling the two of you into another bout of silence. You mask your disappointment as you move away from him — reaching for a dressing pack in the first aid kit. As steadily as you can, you apply the dressing to his chest wound.
Perhaps you’re distracted by his chiselled pectorals, or maybe you’re exhausted past the capabilities that your brain can handle at one in the morning — regardless, your startled gaze meets his intensity when he grunts.
For an infinity confined within the limits of second, you can feel his heart beat within his chest.
“This is an occupational hazard.”
They’ve said that lightning doesn’t strike twice, but here you are: silent in an aftershock.
“…This?”
He stares at you for a hard moment. “This.”
“Getting… Shot?”
“Yes. Similar to how an athlete expect injuries, I too expect injuries.”
Your lips press into a frown. “I don’t know many people who would take a bullet for their job.”
“As I mentioned, this is an—”
“Occupational hazard,” you cut him off with a roll of your eyes. “I heard. I guess this means that finding men hiding in my trash is also an occupational hazard.” As you fix him with your sternest glare, you simultaneously smooth down his dressing. “Should I expect more injured men outside my store at one in the morning? Because you should know that I rarely close and I should really pass along the message.”
He has the sense to look embarassed but it doesn’t look quite right on him.
“I couldn’t go anywhere else.” Then, quietly, he adds, “I hoped it would be you.”
A list of places come to mind, but rather than chew him out, you fix him with a stare. You stare at him until you’re sure he can see the questions overflowing from your ears. One glaring question stands above the rest, but for some reason, you can’t manage to ask it. Instead, you stand, putting a comfortable distance between you two.
“Do you want a cookie? I forgot to empty the pastry display.”
—
Other than a handful of students huddled on the couch in the back corner of the café, the store is virtually empty in the last fifteen minutes to close. After that encounter with Ushijima ( who a couple weeks later grunted and said, “Call me Wakatoshi.” ), you began to pick up closing shifts more often. While Washijo lamented this fact to your manager, you decided you liked having Wakatoshi walk you home after your shift more than the tips.
As you doodle absently in the margin of your textbook, the café door slams open. Wakatoshi isn’t usually so flamboyant, but you’ve learned to control yourself when startled.You look at the clock pointedly, then at your boyfriend.
“Toshi,” you whine, “you’re — oh. What happened to Tendou?”
The redheaded man hangs limply, upright only thanks to your boyfriend’s support.
“I — believe it or not — got shot!” In spite of his pale face, he’s scarily gleeful.
“Crazy,” you cheer weakly, coming to support him on his other side. “Why don’t you tell me more about it in the back.”
On noticing the injured redhead, the group hightail it out of the store — leaving behind their dirtied plates and mugs.
“Have a good night!” You call after them.
Tendou rolls his head back. “Have a good night~!”
Over his head, you give your boyfriend a pointed look. He meets your look. While his eyes still smoulder, you can see the tiredness in his movements as well. You give a sigh.
Biting the bullet, you decide not to chew out your boyfriend for letting his injured friend bleed allover you freshly swept store. Instead, you apply the same care to Tendou as you do when you do when treating your boyfriend.
“You’re better at this than Shirabu,” he says with a contented sigh, munching on the sugar cookie you had set aside for Wakatoshi.
You smile at the compliment. “Thanks, Tendou. Really, I’m still in school though.”
“Don’t diminish your talents,” Wakatoshi proclaims, pausing in his sweeping.
You give him a glare. Without a word, he continues.
“Rest here for a bit, okay, Tendou? I just need to finish closing up the store and then we’ll figure out what to do after.”
Tendou’s already humming under his breath as you walk back to the front. Wakatoshi, apparently finished sweeping, is behind the counter taking out the trash. He stops when he sees you, coming to your side. Immediately you pout.
“I’m sorry for bringing Tendou.” When your pout doesn’t go away, he takes matters into his own hands and draws you carefully into his chest. “I know it was supposed to be just us, but—”
You sigh. “It’s okay, Toshi. I’m not mad.”
While you’re still encircled in his arms, he pulls away to peer at your face. “You aren’t? You look mad. And, you’re not saying anything. That is an indicator that you’re not okay—”
“I’m upset because that could’ve been you, Toshi. You’re still healing from your last injury. You’re in absolutely no shape to be getting in more fights!”
You smack him lightly on his chest but he quickly catches your wrist. You try again and he catches you, again. You glare at him. He stares at you. You wind back your leg. Before you get a chance to kick him, he wraps his arms around you and hoists you off the ground.
You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Put me down!”
Rather than listening to you, he hugs you tighter.
“Babe!”
Now, he’s walking.
“Toshi!”
When he releases you, the both of you fall into the worn pleather of the back corner couch. The fall is sudden enough to surprise you out of your anger. Still, encaged in his arms, you look up at your boyfriend moodily.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The gentleness of his words relax you and all you can hear is his heartbeat.
“I know it’s an occupational hazard, but I can’t help but worry about you.”
His hand moves from your waist to gently pat your hair. “Thank you for caring about me.”
You melt in his arms — there’s something beautiful his softness.
“Toshi?” You murmur, squirming in his arms to look into his eyes. “You know I love you, right?”
He gives you a gentle smile, leaning in to give you a soft peck on the lips. “I love you too, baby.”
—
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @akaashichigo @drainedjaz @haikkeiji @annalyn-annalyn @mlkytobio @sosugasweet @cali-writes-sometimes @simping4ratsumu @shishinoya @ushiwakaa @from-left-to-write @akaashit-baeji @kxgeyamasmilk @agaassi @hanibuni @cupofkenma @kawanisshi @milkandc00kiez @thiccbokuto @shinsukestan @sufiawrites @wakaitoshi @skyguy-peach @fern-writes-ig @briswriting @airybby @kawaiikraykray @bubbleteaa @miyuswriting @raevaioli @ouikarwa @hakueishirei @pineapplekween @estherwritess @keiji-n @achoohq @badlywritten-hq @mochibeaa @hanzwrites @chxrry-wxne ( cheese cult taglist )
#ushijima wakatoshi x reader#wakatoshi ushijima x reader#ushijima x reader#wakatoshi x reader#ushiwaka x reader#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu fanfiction#writing
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Manipulative Power hungry Aunt torments my family for years. Costs her $300000
Dealt with my shitty manipulative abusive Aunt all my life, finally got revenge.
Players: Myself (M late 30s), Sister (3 year younger), Aunt (Older "Sister" to my Mother), Mother (Single Mom, adopted, no blood relation to my Aunt). Cousins (3 total, 1M, 2F. I have good relationships with them now, mostly).
My estranged father who had been living several counties over, is pretty much out of the picture by the time my parents got their divorce when I was 9. Due to financial hardship, we were forced to live with my Aunt and the nightmare of a household we would soon find ourselves in. My Aunt married into Georgia "Wealth" and you can figure out what that means on your own. She had 3 kids and eventually caught her husband having an affair. It's a huge scandal, she gets the house, the kids and a fat payout from the family attorney. This is important because my Aunt didn't do a damn thing in her life to earn her money, her house, her lifestyle or basically anything. She was born poor along with my Mom.
Under her household, she was drunk with power. Years of therapy have allowed me to recognize that certain people when in a position of power, get a perverse pleasure in ordering others to do their bidding. She was the strictest of authoritarians in every possible way you could imagine. Chores had to be completed by an exact specific time. Vacuuming by 3:45pm, Dishes by 3:55pm, Laundry days for my Mother us kids were Tues/Thurs 5:35pm-7:55pm. If it was still running, she would shut the power off for the two units. As we grew older, her own kids opted to stay with their father for full time custody and she had them on Weekends. Even they couldn't stand her when she was in charge and in the house. As time passed, she got them less and less opting for alternating weekends as Highschool activities took precedence over time with Mother.
For my sister and I, the large 6 bedroom house was not ours for the taking. My mom had to pay rent as well as rent for 1 bedroom as that was all she could afford on her salary. We had to share a bedroom until my second year of HS. All the while there was 1 spare unused bedroom available at all times. My Aunt needed this for "Guests" when they stayed over. Not one guest stayed there in the 10 years I was under that roof. Finally the church we attended told my Aunt to give up the spare bedroom so my sister can have her own room as it was "unhealthy" for two teenagers sharing a room together like that. That infuriated my Aunt because someone told her what to do in her own household. My sister and I got the brunt of her wrath. As my Mom's salary was tapped out, my sister and I had do extra chores like mowing the lawn, trimming the shrubs, cleaning the pool which we could no longer use without her being outside watching us.
My Aunt's behavior was becoming more and more outrageous and disconnected from society. For example, she had always snapped her fingers when she wanted to get someones attention, but it was getting far more frequent and she would blow up into a tirade if either my sister and I didn't obey. Her own kids tried repeatedly to tell her that the shit she was doing was wrong but she wouldn't listen.Eventually they wanted nothing to do with her outside of the home. She was a tyrant there and repeated intervention to get her to see the folly of her ways would fall on deaf ears.
I Snapped:
All through HS I had no confidence as a person. I was weak willed and growing ever distant from friends and society. I say this in all truthfulness and fear, that had circumstances continued the way they had been going, I could very well had taken a gun to myself or worse, to others around me. I was that bad off.
I had just graduated HS and started my first semester of community college. I'm 2 weeks into my classes attending from home when my Aunt drops a bomb on me. "You owe me $$$ for this months rent, the same amount for next months rent as well. It is the 27th after all. You're an Adult now. You're out of HS and working now, so you need to pay rent" The fuck? I blew a fucking gasket as I yelled back. "You can't just suddenly decide to charge me rent just because you feel like it. I need 30 days notice, I have rights".
My Aunt yelled at me some bullshit excuse that she had discussed this with my mother and it was decided that I needed to pay my own rent now. In some miraculous backbone move, of which I still have no idea how I stood up to her, I yelled right back at her, "If I'm an Adult, then treat me like and talk to me about rental agreements. I'll start paying you rent in 30 days starting the 1st." I turned my back to her and walked away with my fists balled tight. I was furious with anger but I walked away. My Aunt saw my fists from behind and screamed bloody murder that I was going to attack her. No, I wasn't. She snapped her fingers at me repeatedly on my tail to get my attention but I didn't turn around. I needed to cool off and clear my head. As I turned the corner, she grabbed my wrist hard yelling "I'm not finished talking to you". I threw my still balled up fist forward keeping with my stride to break her grip as I hadn't stopped my momentum. This caused her grabbing arm to slam hard into the corner of the wall that I had just turned into. She screamed in pain but I left the house and took off.
The aftermath of that incident was that my Aunt called the cops on me in an attempt to press charges. She was taken to the hospital and suffered a fractured wrist and she was put in a cast/sling (don't know as I never saw it and never inquired further). Her story changed every time she told the cops what happened while my story was spot on every time. I can still recall that moment down to the smell in the house, where I was facing, the working and non-working lightbulbs etc. Forever ingrained in me. I was kicked out of the house and I couldn't visit my sister or my Mom there at the house again. Fine by me as I didn't want to see my bitch Aunt ever again. I was happy to meet my Mother and sister at the local diner or outlet. We could be ourselves there and not hostages in our own home.
Years Later:
My Mom wised up and got out of that abusive relationship with her sister and moved out on her own. She got a temporary nice place, invested wisely and with the help from the church, got help getting a place of her own. In 2009 after the housing crisis, she bought her own place that she could never have afforded on her own prior the Market crash. But some good came out of it. She wept knowing my Sister (and her family) and myself can come visit any time and stay.
Over the years I've been able to forgive my Aunt. Not forget, Forgive. I've let go a lot of my anger and hatred toward her that she put me through. When she has no leverage or control over us, she's a somewhat decent person for being a total bitch of a person. My Cousin's have calmed down, heard my side of what happened those years ago and know what kind of person I am compared to what kind of person their Mother is. They chose to believe me and know I didn't hit her or strike her or beat her across the face like she continues to claim.
The Revenge:
While I have been able to forgive my Aunt for what she has done to me, I cannot forgive her for what she did to my Mother. Kept her in financial hardship for a decade while she sat on a bank account full of cash and assets. Or what she did to my Sister. Forced her to pay for damages because the water heater burst while my Aunt and Mother was away one weekend leaving my sister at home. She didn't discover the flooded rooms for hours. My Aunt's reasoning, "It was her responsibility to watch the house." Not the responsibility of the home owner to maintain/replace the water heater before it goes. Lets leave that Upfront $5000 financial burden before the Flood insurance kicks in on a 16 year old girl.
I've had little to no contact with my Aunt since I was kicked out of the house nearly 2 decades ago. But I do keep in constant contact with my cousins. While I'm not going to divulge what I do for a living, I can say that I work with and for the Government. I've worked my ass off getting to where I'm at today. I'm known for being truthful, wise and giving good advise when asked. Because of this, I often talk financially with my cousins. All of whom are money-smart and are doing well for themselves. They often then relay this information to their scheming mother who has no mind for business and investments. All that money she got from her house sale, her divorce settlement, her previous investments is pretty much gone. I spent YEARS planning on the perfect trap and it took a long time to prepare everything to make sure everything appeared right.
IANAL and I don't pretend to know the law but I do know the regulations and laws pertaining to insider information. This is not that. 100% certain of it and if I ever go to court, I know my lawyer has a solid case in my defense. But is this a grey area, most definitely. I let slip to my Cousins about some future real estate plans near my Aunt's new area of living. It "may" be worth a lot more because of future development taking place in the area. All of that was true and backed up by what was in the News paper and New Construction signs that newly appeared on Google Maps (at the time). The rest was fabricated by myself backed up by actual information I looked up on real estate websites and on projects I was working on through my work.
The Telephone game takes place and a few weeks later I presume, my Aunt starts making phone calls to real estate agents trying to buy lots of Land in the undeveloped shitty area of her new house. Over the course of a few months to a half a year, she spends $300,000 of her last remaining savings on land hoping it will pay out when the area around it gets developed in the upcoming years.
Only, HUD/Government/City doesn't have any plans to develop in those immediate areas. In fact, analysis showed that building in those areas was poor planning and would cost the tax payers twice to three times as much as the land was not environmentally sound. It was best to build 6 miles away.
This post was long overdue because it's been over 2 years since my Aunt purchased Land that is basically worthless. See, she won't sell the land unless she gets at least the same price she paid for it because she's the OWNER of that land. Can't tell her what to do on her own land. Sweet Karma strikes in a way I couldn't possibly have foreseen. My cousin informed me that the value of the land has decreased significantly because it's not environmentally sound to build anything commercial there. But it's zoned for commercial use. Currently 3 of the 4 blocks of land she purchased are just weed farms next to eye sore abandoned buildings or industrial complexes. Nobody can build on it and nor does anyone want to buy it. Sucks to be her!
Best part is, my cousins have absolutely no idea that I set them up for their Mother to take the fall. These environmental results are relatively new and the perfect cover to say why the Project changed locations 6 miles away.
TL:DR Abusive Aunt torments my family and myself for a decade and more. Decades later, I am in a position to trick her buying worthless land. Icing on the cake, that land can't be used for it's intended purpose and has devalued significantly.
(source) story by (/u/Limecherrry)
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where ignorance is bliss - chapter 2: where grass was green
SUMMARY: Obadiah is off to Washington to assist with the war in Vietnam, and Peggy and Maria grow closer, as Maria learns something she wishes she didn't. [AO3 LINK]
CHAPTERS: 1 [2] 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 ☆
November 15, 1959 – Bronx, New York, Obadiah’s Apartment
Struggling to find ways to pass the time after the war, Peggy frequented my apartment. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (or, S.H.I.E.L.D., as everyone says to save precious time) has been involved in the fight with Vietnam for a few years now. Obadiah left for Washington right after the Stark Expo to give weapons consult in the war, and I haven’t seen him in almost three months. We would write letters sometimes, and phone even less. I moved into Obie’s apartment to take care of the place while he was away for an indeterminate amount of time, and Peggy crashed in the living more times than she would care to admit.
“Did you love him?” I ask, fixing the two of us another round of Old Fashions. The empty Chinese carryout containers are scattered across the coffee table before us. There’s a good restaurant between the S.H.I.E.LD. Headquarters and the apartment, and Peggy will frequently grab something on the way here.
“I only knew him for a couple months,” Peggy replies, taking the glass. I curl up next to her on the couch, our heads leaning in towards each other. “So it’s hard to say. It could have been. We were both young, thrown together during some of humanity’s darkest days. We were all looking for something to believe in.”
She swirls the glass in her hand, lazily watching the whiskey fall back down the side before continuing.
“What about you and Obadiah? Is this love?”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” The corners of my mouth curl downwards on their own. Peggy notices. Peggy always notices.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“It’s more like paradise when he’s gone rather than when he’s here.”
“Why is he your boyfriend if you don’t even like him?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I take a large gulp of my Old Fashion, the whiskey burning the back of my throat. “He’s my fiancé.”
Peggy sits up, and my head slides off her shoulder to the cushion of the couch.
“Your what?” She takes my left hand into hers and finds my ring finger bare.
“I keep it in my sock drawer. Whether out of safekeeping or embarrassment, I’m not sure.” I sit up.
“When did this happen? And why did you say yes?” She looks at me with a tight expression, concern and worry on her face. Her red lipstick is all but gone, a faint imprint of it left on the rim of her class, and her usually tight curls hang loose around her neck and chin. If she weren’t so upset, I’d reach out to tuck one of them behind her ear.
“The last day of the Expo. He… He’s comfortable. We have our routine. We play chess together, I straighten his ties, I smile at the men he wants to invest in his company. I get some of the profits for my charities, and we make each other look good.” I frown at the empty glass in my hand and contemplate fixing another.
Peggy sets down her unfinished drink and looks at me. She has a way of effortlessly shifting her gaze from disapproving to comforting in a second. I never know if I’m going to be talking to the “unrelenting founder of S.H.I.E.LD.” Peggy or the “let’s go shopping and day-drinking” Peggy.
“I’m sure there’s a man out there that complements you and makes you feel good. You just-”
“-haven’t found him yet,” I finish her sentence. I’ve heard it from everyone – my parents, coworkers, strangers who learn I’m 23 and still unwed. 24, I remind myself; my birthday was on the fifth, less than two weeks ago. I feel the effects of the whiskey settling in, my eyes growing heavy and my weight shifting to my stomach. “You’re lucky to have experienced two great loves.”
“Daniel is far from a true love, hence why I stay with you the majority of the week. I’m also fourteen years older than you and have had more time to find them. I was 24 when I met Steve; there’s still plenty of time.”
“There doesn’t seem to be many men like Steve left.”
-
Peggy was gone without a word the next morning, and I am left alone with a pounding headache. By the time I wake, its well past noon on Saturday, and the mail’s already been delivered under the door.
I rifle through the envelopes once my toast is done, the coffee pot almost full, and the majority of the mail is addressed to Obadiah. Bills and letters of interest from inventors that I’m supposed to forward to him in DC. There’s a letter addressed to me in his precise, meticulous handwriting, but the one that interests me most is from Roxxon Oil Company, a large, thick packet with “CONFIDENTIAL” stamped across it. Naturally, I open it.
Maybe it’s the lingering hangover or the knowledge that Obie would forgive me for anything under the sun, but I rip open the envelope as I sip on my morning coffee, pouring all its contents out on to the table.
Most of the information doesn’t interest me, talking about drill efficiency and rigs and pipelines, until I find the balance sheet and investing information. I did get my master’s in accounting, as Obie tends to forget as he relegates me to a trophy wife. As I drift back into sobriety, the pieces start falling into place. Roxxon isn’t investing in Stane International; Stane is investing in Roxxon, and they were already profiting, working together, inventing together. The copies of the blueprints are of Obie’s design, seeking to create clean energy to replace gasoline down the road. In the last two years, Obadiah has made hundreds of thousands of dollars, with deposits and withdrawals from countless accounts, and reinvesting it, the paper trail deliberately as confusing as possible. I’d call it embezzlement if it weren’t his own company.
I get a scratch piece of paper and start doing the math. It isn’t adding up. Nothing is adding up, the dates and locations, let alone the cash, with several documents addressed from Russia. I sit up, my heart in my throat, pulsing so hard it feels like the world around me was shaking.
Obadiah is not a sneaky man by nature. I knew that he was interested in me before he realized it; I knew when he was going to ask me to go steady with him; I know when he is on the brink of a great new idea. He tries his best to hide things, but every move of his body betrays him. I’ve caught him sticking things in the back of his closet and under his bed more times than I could count, and I’ve never had the opportunity to check with him there. But seeing as he’s away…
Kneeling, I fumble underneath the bed frame until my fingers find purchase on a briefcase, and I slide it out. I wrestle with the knobs until I realize there’s a four-digit code keeping it locked. Before I mess with the dials, I notice the number. 0213.
“Oh, Obie. Do you have to be so predictable?” February 13th was our first date; he chose the day before Valentine’s Day because he believed the holiday of romance should be reserved for people already together, and he made a spectacle on 14th because we were together at that point, by his logic.
The top of the briefcase pops open at my touch, and inside I find numerous telegram slips, copies of both those sent and received. I sift through them quickly, none of them really catching my eye, filled with code words that I didn’t have the motivation to try to decipher. One of them caught my eye, and this is one of the only times Obie’s over-organization paid off because the telegrams were in chronological order.
RECEIVED
September 21, 1957
To: Stane, O.
O., I am glad to hear you secured the trust-fund. Let me know what day you’ll tie the knot, and I’ll tell you where to wire the funds. I might just send you a gift to celebrate.
NEFARIA, G.
SENT
September 28, 1957
To: Nefaria, G.
I’ll be traveling for work extensively the next four months. Please send files to Location 2. She can’t know anything.
STANE, O.
RECEIVED
September 30, 1957
To: Stane, O.
O., safe travels. Remember the end goal – the reactor that threatens our future. It cannot be manufactured by anyone but us, for our sake.
NEFARIA, G.
Prior, my heart had felt like it was running a mile a minute; now, it feels still in my chest. Dead in the water, like a stunned minnow tossed in to attract larger fish. “The trust fund.”
I had been courted before for my parents’ wealth. In college, a boy had pursued me relentlessly. He made me feel beautiful, special, and like the only star in his sky. He had convinced me that love was this roller-coaster rush of emotions, one collision after the other, until his dormmate clued me in on his intentions. That’s why I try to keep Obie in the dark about what I’ll inherit, how big my trust-fund really is. Growing up, I was unaware of how good we had it; all my friends in boarding school were from the same social and financial class, we all vacationed at the same spots and shopped at the same boutiques. It took a lot of eye-opening experiences at university for me to realize life was different for others, and it honed my ability to detect insincere motives. Too little, too late, but I won’t let it happen again.
With shaking hands, I put the papers back in their order, and I snap the briefcase closed, pushing it back under the bed with a force. I return to the kitchen table where I had spread the other documents out, collect them, and place them back as they were. I’m not sure if I need to try to seal it to make it look unopened, or if I should destroy the whole thing. He hadn’t asked me about forwarding this one specifically, so he might not be expecting it. Under the documents, I find the letter addressed to me again. Obie’s handwriting hits me differently now. How well do I actually know the sender?
Mar- (God, I hate it when he calls me Mar.)
I am writing to you with success here in Washington DC. We have made valiant efforts with the war. We expect Vietnam to concede soon. Our troops are vigilant and the best America has to offer, and their farmers pose no threat to us or the hope of victory. I expect to return home to you Friday the 15th of November. I’m sorry, darling, that I missed your birthday, but perhaps I can make it up to you.
See you soon at home,
Your Obie
Friday. Today was Friday.
The living room was a mess. Peggy’s and my drinks and dinner dishes scatter the room, the mail on the table, and I look equally disheveled. I know Obie would be disappointed, as the apartment is always speckless when he’s here.
I am a flurry around the house, collecting garbage in the bin and dishes in the sink. I tie the heaping garbage bag and leave it by the door, and rush to check my appearance in the bathroom. A scarf around my hairline will make the windswept, frenzied style look intention, and I change into a simple blue sundress. Obie didn’t have a dishwasher, so I put an apron on to protect my dress from the dishwater.
As I was setting the last glass out to dry, a knock resounded from the front door. I could feel it reverberate in my chest, and my heartbeat pulsed in every finger in my hand. Shaking, I set the glass down, wiped the water off my hands, preparing myself to smile and wine-and-dine the man I’ve already committed myself to.
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This Isn’t A Ghost Story extras for Chapter 6: The Future
Chapter 6 of This Isn’t A Ghost Story has been posted! You can find it here on Tumblr, or here on AO3. Spoiler-ish extras under the cut!
With chapter 6 under our belts, we’ve made it through the main portion of this fic! The next two chapters will wrap up a few loose ends -- and possibly create a couple more, of the open-ended variety -- and if I hadn’t gotten quite so deep into the world-building for this, I might have actually ended the story here. All the research I did for the world-building directly inspired the next two chapters, which were both written and finished before I had anything more than a basic sketch in place for chapter 6.
Egyptology in the 1920s has clearly been a huge part of the world-building for this story from the beginning, and we get a bit more of it in chapter 6. The Doctor mentioned Howard Carter briefly in chapter 5, and here we loop back around to that and find out that Clara and the Doctor knew Carter well. I didn’t want to derail the chapter too much with talking about their friendship in any detail, but large portions of the timeline of when they were in Egypt in the 1920s was built around the historical events of the discovery and documentation of Tutankhamun’s tomb, and there are a few passing allusions to it in the journal entries in chapter 3 as well.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a49fd5f6d1e4d45c41ad09fe0125a1b1/0c1c66834388cc4b-56/s400x600/1edc3a1e050917ec74baa27d0a0252321053173d.jpg)
Howard Carter (pictured above in 1924) and his team of excavators found the entrance to Tutankhamun’s tomb in November of 1922, which would have been during the phase when Clara and the Doctor are exchanging letters and falling in love. One little historical detail that I sadly couldn’t quite use was that 23 November 1922 was actually a date of minor significance in the discovery of the tomb. It was the day that Carter’s financier, Lord Carnarvon, arrived at the dig site to witness the opening of the tomb, along with his daughter Lady Evelyn Herbert, who would have been about a year and a half younger than Clara. This picture of the three of them was taken at the entrance of the tomb in late 1922, and is similar to how I imagine Clara and the Doctor’s picture with Carter would have looked:
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9dd97182da4f89972f38907500d5e36f/0c1c66834388cc4b-e0/s540x810/2757fb1a7946a8233f4b5f705df15083a129c8df.jpg)
As the tomb was being excavated, Carter and Carnarvon assembled a team of experts to help with the huge task of cataloging, preserving, and translating all the many items found in the tomb, and though I never called it out specifically in This Isn’t A Ghost Story, I figure the Doctor was part of that team, probably specifically focused on translation work. In late February 1923, there was a short halt in the excavation that lasted a few weeks, which was what led, in our fictionalized version of events, to the Doctor briefly returning to Glasgow, and Clara’s impulsive decision to follow him there. After their wedding in May of ‘23, Clara and the Doctor went directly to Egypt, and the Doctor returned to work on Carter’s team.
Family members, tourists, and the press were all known to visit the dig site during that first year of excavation and the resulting media craze:
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/da69de54baf8e15f965be9f97d1d4ae2/0c1c66834388cc4b-ae/s400x600/e0f55034d794f4e5561788533b4c873366b7806b.jpg)
Given that, and Clara and the Doctor being ‘disgustingly in love newlyweds’ it seemed reasonable that Clara would have visited the site at least a few times, and been on good terms with Howard Carter. Carter actually got his start in Egyptology when he was hired as a young man to paint reproductions of ancient temple walls and other Egyptian artifacts:
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a813ab45a6e3fd68174ea989e377e774/0c1c66834388cc4b-7d/s540x810/71d8033ec99dc6739d78ffe6daf27afad2193fbf.jpg)
During the excavation of Tutankhamun’s tomb, he made detailed sketches, including careful measurements, of every item removed from the tomb and where it had originally be found in the tomb. Much of what we know about King Tut’s tomb now is down to how methodical Carter was in documenting the original untouched state of the tomb, both with measurements, drawings, and photography. These are both drawings Carter did of the tomb during that period:
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Chapter 3 mentions that Clara decided to learn to draw in the summer of 1923, so I liked the little detail that it was Howard Carter, with his meticulous and beautiful art, that suggested she take up the hobby. Modern Clara also notes in passing that she drew all throughout her childhood, particularly her ghost, which all connects back to those early days of their marriage in 1923.
I’ve got more up my sleeve about the world-building elements for the next two chapters, but since chapter 6 was the last chapter I finished, long after chapters 7 and 8 were done, I thought I’d talk a bit about the writing process as well. The final scenes I wrote for the entire story were near the end of chapter 6, and despite knowing what I needed this chapter to do, what needed to be in place to set up chapters 7 and 8, chapter 6 gave me a bit of trouble along the way.
I imagined this chapter in a lot of different ways as the story was evolving, but I always knew I wanted to emphasize the possibility of future travels for Clara and the Doctor. The theme of ‘101 Places To See’ is so strong in canon that echoing it for 1920s Clara was a big part of my world-building from the beginning, and I felt like any version of a happy ending for Clara and the Doctor had to include travel. An early draft of this chapter ended on Clara’s final line from Mummy On The Orient Express, ‘Then what are you waiting for? Let's go.’ to help emphasize that travel theme -- and because I can never resist borrowing a line from canon whenever I can find an excuse.
Another early sketch for this chapter had Clara and the Doctor venturing out for grocery shopping, with the Doctor complaining up a storm while Clara tried to carry on a conversation with him without any strangers taking note of it. Originally I had planned to include more of Clara’s work week, and had scenes roughed in where her friend and fellow teacher Amy Pond found out that Clara had gotten “engaged” over the weekend, leading Clara to have to make up something on the spot about how she’d been in a long-distance relationship that had only recently turned serious, which was why Amy had never met him. There was a whole thing about how Clara and Amy (who taught ancient world history) were co-directing Coal Hill’s production of Antony And Cleopatra, and Amy wanting to make sure that Clara wasn’t going to run off to see the world with her new fiance before the night of the play. Eventually that all got boiled down to just a single exchange between Clara and the Doctor, as I decided to keep the focus tight in on the two of them and their relationship, and not even include dialogue from any other characters.
One thing that comes up again and again in my writing projects is that when I’m imagining the plotline early in the process, it always takes up a lot more calendar days than the final product does. I imagine events taking place over the course of weeks, but then find that the emotional flow works much better condensed down to a handful of days instead. Despite my stories following that same pattern in development for more than a decade now, it somehow always seems to surprise me, lol.
Really early on in working on Ghost Story, I knew I wanted to keep Clara’s canonical birthdate of 23 November 1986 and build the rest of the timeline around that, and I picked out November 2014 as the time period for the main part of the story because it corresponds roughly to when the end of s8 of the show originally aired. But in a very early outline of events, Clara didn’t have the nightmare that led to her memories coming back until the night of her birthday, a full week later from what ended up happening in this final version.
Even as recently as a few weeks ago, I was still planning on ending this chapter on her birthday, and it wasn’t until I started digging into the scene by scene and line by line breakdown of the chapter that I realized that it really wasn’t necessary. And leaving her birthday as an upcoming event folded in nicely with the ‘Future’ theme I wanted for this chapter, so again I decided to keep the focus tight on Clara and the Doctor’s relationship as they unravel the mystery and deal with the fallout of what happened in 1927.
Figuring out what I actually wanted to happen this chapter versus what could be left on the cutting-room floor, as they say, was a huge part of the final phase of writing This Isn’t A Ghost Story. Once I had cut out extraneous scenes and meandering plot tangents (and poor Amy Pond), I was left with a very specific list of scenes and conversations, and I wrote them much the same way I write everything, jumping around to a given scene as dialogue or internal monologue occurs to me. To me it always feels like putting together a large jigsaw puzzle, filling in holes and connecting up pieces as the puzzle comes together.
I find that technique works really well for me when I’m in early and mid development of a story, but once I was down to just a couple of scenes that still needed written, progress slowed way down. I got to the point where I knew the emotional content of a scene and even most of the dialogue, and needed just a little bit of stage direction to stitch the whole thing together. Those of you who have been following along with my #process thoughts posts here may remember me posting about working on that last scene just a couple of weeks ago, trying to wrestle it into shape.
@tounknowndestinations, @praetyger, and a few others of you have asked about it, and I can now reveal that the very last bit to get written was the sequence with Clara preparing for bed and then the two of them getting into bed. I had the awkward sex conversation and the final scene the next morning already written, I just had to connect the first part of the chapter up with those last scenes. I’m happy with how it eventually came together -- and very curious to hear if any of you could pick out that that was the last bit written? -- but not having the option to work on anything else, just those specific words in that specific place, made it more of a struggle for me than writing most of the rest of Ghost Story.
My husband and beta reader Jack was more involved with the editing of this chapter than he was with any of the other chapters, and in several places helped me rewrite individual lines or conversation beats until we were both happy with how they read. @praetyger asked how I know when writing is ‘done’, and I have to admit it’s mostly a process of reading it over and over again, and then getting Jack to read it and taking his feedback seriously. I tend towards overly long run-on sentences, so if Jack gets lost while reading a sentence, that’s one he’ll call out as needing to be reworded for clarity.
There’s one sentence in this chapter that we went back and forth over quite a lot: ‘The feeling of what might have been that seeing their wedding photo had elicited in her wasn’t some strange, misplaced jealousy, but rather the knowledge she carried deep in her soul, buried in her subconscious, that their story wasn’t over yet.’ It was originally even more wordy, and Jack would have preferred the final version be a lot more simple, but it just didn’t read right to me without ‘elicited’ so I stuck to my guns on that bit, even as I filed down some of the wordiness in other parts of the sentence.
Both for reworking a sentence and for writing big sections in the first place, my method is generally to write it and edit a little as I go, trying to get the word choice and pacing as close to what I want as I can on a first pass. Then I’ll let it sit, at the very least overnight but often for days or longer at a time, then come back and reread it when it isn’t so fresh in my mind. At that point, sometimes a phrase will jump at me as awkward or something I used just a paragraph or two earlier, so I’ll rewrite it, let it sit, come back and edit it all over again. Sometimes what seemed like plenty of room for an emotional beat when I was writing it will go by way too fast when I reread it, so I’ll add to it, give it space to breathe. Rinse and repeat.
For the record, Jack’s favorite line from this chapter is this bit of dialogue for the Doctor: ‘“Yes,” he allowed warily, clearly not sure where she was going with this.’ I imagine it’s probably for similar reasons as why he liked the ‘she didn’t add again but knew they were both thinking it’ bit from chapter 5. I try not to put my own marriage into my writing too much, but there are some experiences of being married that I think are probably pretty universal.
@ephemeralhologram asked about my writing inspiration, and for me my writing is always driven by a kernel of a what-if idea and a desire to convey a certain emotion. I almost always start out with a ‘plotbunny’ idea, some tiny thing that I daydream about and consider from multiple angles until a plot and emotional tone starts coming into focus.
For Ghost Story, it was actually a shitpost here on Tumblr about a real estate agent having a conversation with the ghost who haunts the house they’re trying to sell, along with wanting to try telling a Twelve/Clara story in an alternate universe completely separate from the show canon, which I had never done before Ghost Story. The emotional tone started out much sillier, more in line with that Tumblr post, but as I got into the world-building and decided I wanted to have a mystery and mutual pining at the center of this story, the tone shifted quite a lot.
The other major drivers of writing inspiration for me are that I enjoy putting words together into interesting and emotionally evocative combinations, and I enjoy conveying character emotion and eliciting emotion in the reader. No matter what fandom I’m writing in, no matter how close to canon or how AU, how short or long the story is, those two things are always at the center of my writing.
I walk around the house or do chores that I don’t have to focus on too much (dishes are excellent for this) just tossing around bits of dialogue in my head until I find an emotional beat that grabs me or a bit of phrasing that I really like. I jot those down into a googledoc -- most of my DW stories start out in a doc called “Doctor Who Bits” that is in fact just fragments of multiple stories, and then eventually a story will graduate into having its own dedicated googledoc. Figuring out the plot is just as much about deciding on the emotional journey I want to take the characters and/or the readers on as it is deciding on an order of events.
Thank you to @tounknowndestinations, @ephemeralhologram, and @praetyger for the questions! I am more than happy to answer any questions about my writing process or details about this story, or anything really, so feel free to hit me up in my ask, or in the comments on this post, or in a comment over on AO3. Thank you to everyone who has followed along with this story, and for all the support and encouragement you’ve offered along the way, I couldn’t have written this story without this wonderful little corner of the Whouffaldi fandom! ❤️
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Extras for Chapter 7: The Museum
#This Isn't A Ghost Story#This Isn't A Ghost Story extras#process thoughts#my writing#Doctor Who#Doctor Who fanfic#Clara and the Doctor
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Teaching through COVID???
Bless you if you actually make it to the end of this post, lol.
I teach high school science- specifically Chemistry and AP Chemistry. I absolutely love teaching and I love my students. I especially enjoy getting to talk to them about what they want to do when they graduate, where they want to go to college, what kind of jobs they want to do, and all of that fun stuff. Finishing high school is an incredibly exciting time in life for a person, and I feel privileged to get to re-live the excitement and apprehension and hopefulness and all the other feelings that come along with having so many possibilities for your life laid out in front of you. I don’t know any other kind of work that allows you to feel those feelings year after year like I get to through my students. I also try to support them through the hard stuff. I listen when they cry and tell me that they feel alone in a room full of people, I hug them (if they want a hug) when they tell me their mom moved out over the weekend, and I feed them and get them additional support when they tell me they are hungry and don’t have enough to eat. I spend hours on tutoring, grading, and lesson planning outside of my “contract hours.” It never bothered me because I knew I was doing something that mattered to my kids. If you’ve never gotten to see a kid gain self-confidence in their own ability by practicing with you one-on-one- let me just tell you it’s magical. When they know you’ll sit down and work with them again and again when it’s still tough for them, they can see that you believe they’re worth the time and effort, and they start to believe it too. When you get a note from a student about how they never thought they’d be able to understand chemistry so well, but aced a state final exam or got a 4 or 5 on the AP exam, it feels like you’ve done more than teach them your subject- you’ve taught them to believe they can do hard things.
I’m sick to my stomach right now, because I am so torn on whether to go back this year. My students are set to come back in two weeks. There are so many things going through my head and this has been whirling around for the past two weeks, so I’m writing it out. To quit or not to quit. That is my question.
To Quit:
*My district notified parents of the plan just two weeks ago at the same time as the teachers- teachers actually just got a quick email that said something to the effect of “oh hey- check out this stuff we’re sending to parents about next school year.”
*Since they released their plan, I got in to see a doctor. I have an autoimmune condition. It’s not a big deal in general, just a pill everyday, but it does affect my risk- although in the grand scheme of immuno-issues, thankfully mine is on the low end of the COVID risk spectrum.
*The district’s plan is for all students to go back to school 5 days/week, unless they opt for the virtual option. The hours will be shortened so that the district doesn’t have to do a deep clean at the 4 hour mark as would be required if we were in school for the usual 7 hours. Instead, teachers will all teach 4 class periods and also have to teach an online class. If you’ve never taught, teaching online is a whole separate thing, so even if you teach chem both online and in person, it’s likely that most of the time you’ll have to set up your lessons completely differently for the two. It’s not a deal breaker, but it’s extra work for sure.
*Teachers are responsible for sanitizing the classrooms between classes, which means we’ll have to pee some other time, although every teacher is teaching all 4 classes, so we won’t have anyone available to cover us? I guess they’ll figure that out?
*According to the FAQ document our principal sent out, if we are told to quarantine or isolate, we have to use our sick days. If we go through our sick days or run out we can apply to the sick day bank. They don’t say it in the FAQ, but once you’ve used up days, they dock your pay.
*However, that might not actually be a problem, because in a virtual staff meeting they held on Friday, the assistant superintendent shared that the health department here is now defining “exposure” as 15 minutes or more within 6 feet of a person who has tested positive without a mask. That means that we could be in the classroom with kids who later test positive for COVID for an hour and neither the teacher nor the parents of the other kids in that class would be notified or asked to isolate because we were all wearing masks and therefore were “not exposed.”
*Since all kids are going back at the same time, thats nearly 1800 kids (minus the ones who signed up to take all their classes virtually). Based on early estimates, less than 20% are going to opt to go online. There are no plans to stagger class changes, which means our hallways will be full- it will not be possible for students to social distance.
*Currently, I have a class with 33 students in one of my face-to-face classes. That’s a fairly big class anyway, but in COVID, they’ll be packed in there. It is not possible to keep that many kids 6 feet apart in my classroom.
*We are relying on parents to do temperature checks every day and keep their child home if their temp is 100.4 or above. If you’ve ever taught, you know that while most parents are responsible with things like this, there are some that will send their child in no matter what because they have to work or (in some very sad situations) want the time to themselves.
*In our state’s official COVID school plans, they outlined “Required,” “Strongly Recommended,” and “Recommended” measures. My district seems to be reading “Strongly Recommended” as “Not Required.” This means that they are okay with us running labs, sharing equipment, and working in close proximity because they think that parents understand that if they’re sending their child to school, that they know their child will be in close proximity to others. They say that parents know that their kids will be 2/bus seat anyway and that they’re going to have to be changing classes in a full hallway. I’m not so sure I agree with that. I think parents are probably very unaware of that because I think it would be reasonable for parents to think that the “Strongly Recommended” guidelines would be implemented. I’m not a parent, but I think that I would assume that? Unfortunately, things like 6 feet of separation, doing on-site temperature checks, and not sharing materials are in the “Strongly Recommended” category, which means the district will “do their best.”
*Our district’s Union President wrote a letter to the board on our behalf regarding the strongly recommended guidelines. The superintendent was dismissive of those concerns, stating that schools in other countries saw negligible spread upon reopening, which is like comparing our shitty COVID apples to European oranges. Shortly after his response, two other board members went on to praise the administration for putting together a “safe” plan and quickly approved it to send on to the department of education. I wish that those board members would come and sit in our classrooms for the first few weeks of school.
*We won’t know which class(es) we’ll be teaching online until the week before (best case scenario), so we can’t prepare very much that is specific to our class until the week before school. We won’t know our final schedule in general until next week. To not know this with only a week and a half to go is insane. My anxiety is in full gear.
*Financially, we could handle it if I don’t work.
Not to Quit:
*I have one student who had me for a science class his freshman year, then requested to take my chemistry class during his sophomore year, and is signed up for AP Chem this year. I don’t want to miss it.
*Lots of my former chem kids are signed up for my AP Chem class this year. I’m newer to the school, but I’ve been really working on growing the AP Chem program. We even had enough students sign up to make 2 sections of AP Chem this year, which hasn’t happened in a long time at this school.
*I don’t want to quit with only 2 weeks before school- granted, they just announced the district plans 2 weeks ago and in that time I’ve had to talk with my husband and family, consult a doctor, and look at our finances and upcoming expenses to gather the information I need to make a decision. However, with only 2 weeks left before kids are in my classroom, it would be extremely tight to hire and have someone in place for those kids. I would hate to leave students in that spot where they might start school with a sub.
*I LOVE my classroom and my lab. I put so much time into organizing and cleaning it out. I decorated it really nice and made it super functional. I would hate to have to move everything out- I doubt I’d ever have a classroom that epic again. All my desks match, too!
*A bird in hand is worth two in the bush. I have a job I really love at a school I like and with kids I like and it’s close to my house. If I resign, they’ll have to hire someone else for my job, and I won’t get it back next year. There is no guarantee that I get hired again next year at another school nearby either. With budget cuts, who knows?
*In a new job, I could be teaching anything in the sciences- I love that I have a specifically chemistry teaching job. Those are rare and hard to come by.
*One of the “Required” measures in the state’s plan is to wear a mask. That’s helpful. All students and staff will have to wear a mask unless they are medically exempt.
*I’m still youngish, especially by COVID risk standards.
*Maybe nothing bad will happen- hopefully it won’t and the year will go relatively smoothly and staff and students will stay healthy and get through unscathed. If that ends up being how it goes, I’d regret resigning and second guess my decision.
*I would feel guilty for calling it quits when so many others don’t have the option and may be at higher risk than me due to age or underlying conditions or taking care of loved ones that are either older or immunocompromised. I know so many teachers who have to work this year because their spouse/partner is unemployed, or they are the sole breadwinner for their family, or they are going to retire soon and need their income to stay high to maximize their social security benefits.
*I don’t know how I’ll take it if I go from teaching full time to being a stay at home wife. I did stay at home for a year when we moved to another state, and it was HARD on me. I developed a bit of a depression, exasperated by some other things that were going on. I got on medication and did some therapy and it eventually resolved, but that SUCKED. I would really miss my students and my fellow teachers and having a clear purpose/mission for my days.
In conclusion...
I’m not generally a hypochondriac or a “Nervous Nelly.” Most stuff rolls off my back fairly easily. This scares me. I get the flu or an upper respiratory thing almost every year. There’s no reason to think that somehow I’ll manage to miss COVID if it comes into our school. I am beyond anxious about teaching in person with so few precautions being taken. I’m also angry that my choices are to resign and lose the job I really want or to go in and feel anxious and angry about the lack of care and respect that teachers and students are being shown by district and building administration for the foreseeable future until COVID is over. I have had a stress knot in my gut for the past two weeks over this stuff, and I highly doubt it’s going away if I decide to stay and teach.
Since the pandemic started I have stayed at my house with few exceptions over the summer. I wear a mask when I go out, I usually use a pick-up option for my groceries, a drive-thru option for my pharmacy, and I just avoid gatherings. We do occasionally see my in-laws and my parents, usually outside and observing social distancing. In my state restaurants can’t fill to more than 50% capacity and movie theaters are just plain closed, but schools are about to open at 100% capacity. I honestly can’t imagine putting myself in an enclosed space with over 30 kids or into a hallway with close to 1800 of them. Even more than that, I can’t imagine not sitting down at a desk next to them to help them or watch them work a problem to see what they’re thinking. I can’t imagine not getting to hug the girl who’s mom left or sit with the boy who doesn’t feel connected with his peers so he comes up to sit with me and do his homework after school. Even if I do teach this year, I worry that my kids won’t get what they need from me- whether that’s homework help or emotional support.
If you are so inclined, please send up a prayer for state leaders, school administrators, teachers/school staff, and students this year. We could all definitely use some wisdom, some grace, and your good vibes.
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Bonswa Houngan!! I had a question...how do you spot a trained, initiated priest who is trying to swindle you/take advantage of you financially through the religion? I know that this religion can have heavy costs and services just generally cost something but beyond outright fakers or scammers, how do you spot people who are licensed to do the spiritual work of this tradition, but try to take advantage of you or profit off of you? Thanks
Hi there,
This is a good question. One of the unfortunate realities is that there are priests who were made correctly who make bad choices that harm others. Additionally, there are people who believe they were made correctly who are perpetuating that fraud that was inflicted upon them. It’s a crap thing that this is the reality, but the internet has provided a platform for the spread of information and there are unethical folks who take advantage of that and the relative ignorance of folks who are seekers. It’s even worse when they don’t even realize that what they are doing is based in fraud, because that’s what they were given.
I am of the mind that if someone is out there swindling folks or perpetuating fraud, they are not a legitimate priest. It’s a betrayal of the oaths we take as part of our initiation and so when they begin cashing in on people, they lose what makes them a legit priest. You can come out of an ethical djevo and turn out to be a terrible person. Kanzo gives us tools and opportunities, but it can’t force us to be good people or ethical priests.
It can definitely be hard to tell. Because learning and information in Haitian Vodou is passed teacher to student, it can be a challenge to discern what is accurate and what might look pretty but is broken. There’s no one way to figure it out, but there can be a lot of signs and symptoms of stuff that is not so great and/or downright harmful. I’ll write about a bunch of them below, but of course nothing is exhaustive...sadly there is always more.
Here’s some big red flashing warning signs:
They say they have the only ‘real Vodou’. It often is spelled out as that they are the only ones who have ‘real Vodou’. This plays on someone’s desire for spiritual authenticity and the search for a spiritual home, and seeks to create a dynamic where they are the only source of information. After all, who would want something that’s not real? The truth is that Haitian Vodou varies throughout the country. There are definitely some things that are absolutes in the religion, but there’s a lot that depends on location, lineage, style of initiation, and other factors. Insisting that they are the ones who can pass on what Vodou really is boils down to either miseducation (they were conned themselves) or deliberate manipulation (they are being con artists.
Don’t go talk to other people. This often goes hand-in-hand with the ‘real Vodou’ thing. Folks get told that they should not (or outright cannot) talk to other vodouizan. This is often couched as that no one else can help you or that this specific group is made up of bad people or whatever. This is an isolation technique that is setting you up to be beholden to one person or one group. In any other religious tradition, this would be labeled cult-like behavior, but folks seem willing to accept that in Haitian Vodou for whatever reason.
As a priest, it’s not my job to dissuade you from speaking to other priests or tell you that you should not seek out what Vodou looks like anywhere else. Part of the discernment process SHOULD be seeing as much Vodou as is possible before making commitments, if indeed commitments are what is being asked for by the lwa. It’s not the place of a priest to try and limit your access to the religion even if you it leads you away from them because it is not the job of a priest to limit you. If the lwa want you with someone, they will make that clear if you listen.
(More behind the cut...this got really long)
All the shit talk. Everyone in the religion has their own feelings about regleman and what other people do, and it’s not uncommon for people to instruct their ti fey/children born from ceremony in why what someone else does would not be acceptable in their house. It’s not uncommon for people to be gossipy (because we are all human). What is kinda out of hand is for folks to be outright denigrating someone to a seeker or a client. It’s poor form. We can say that we do things differently, we can say that we were taught differently or that we are not sure why someone would do xyz that way, we can even say that something was not done correctly or that you were misled without going in on some character assassination. This kind of thing is born from jealousy and insecurity, and it’s super transparent.
Exorbitant prices. Like you identified, things cost money. Neither people nor the lwa work without being paid, and part of the sacrifice of kanzo is the work and time it takes to come up with the financial sacrifice. That being said, there is unreasonable cost. With my airfare/transportation, special clothing, and all my personal shopping included, I paid about $10,000USD for my kanzo. The base fee was $8500, and I was given a complete accounting of what was purchased in my name. I came out of it telling my spiritual mother she should charge more based on the work I saw, but it’s hard to do because it’s already a lot of money for most folks and there’s no reason to ask anyone to pay more, really, since everyone can get paid out of that and all things can be purchased with that amount. No one who is ethical is making money off of ceremonies--it all goes into materials and making sure that everyone who shows up to work is paid fairly for their time and labor.
So, for an asogwe kanzo, it’s reasonable to be asked for anywhere really between $8,000USD and $10,000USD. I could see someone going a little lower than that, but I would side eye someone really hard who is asking for much more. I’ve heard stories of people being asked for $25,000USD for a kanzo, and that’s ridiculous and absolutely out of hand. Also, if you are paying in the $8,000 to $10,000 range, that should include all materials. You should not be being asked to ship barrels of supplies to be used in your ceremonies or be bringing suitcases full of stuff to be used on top of your fee. If someone is going to say that you need to provide all supplies (and a complete asogwe kanzo requires a LOT of supplies...the list I was given as an accounting of what was being purchased for me was three pages long single spaced), the price should reflect that.
Minimal pricing. On the other end, there are people who ask for so little money that it is not possible to even purchase all the supplies nevermind appropriately compensate everyone who is working on your behalf. I’ve heard of ceremonies supposedly being done for under $1000USD, and that’s just not possible. You are not getting a complete ceremony for that. If someone is trying to tell you that you can get a cheap kanzo, what are they cheaping out on? Do you really want to put your head in the hands of someone who is not going to do the work completely or is being tight with money and perhaps buying substandard supplies or leaving things out?
That goes for free kanzo, too. There *are* situations where kanzo can be done for no money; that is often the biological children of a priest or for someone who is working for the priest long-term. That is how many Haitians in Haiti pay for their kanzo: they live or live close to the temple and work for their initiatory parent to earn their way in. Also, a priest may choose to do the work gratis for someone who is facing imminent death (like, any day now) and the lwa have indicated the djevo will save them. It’s not free, as it will be paid off later, but I have seen priests work completely out of pocket when it is clear that this is the only option to save their life.
But...being offered free kanzo as just a regular person who needs the work is not a thing. It was offered to me before I went in with my spiritual mother, and I remember thinking about what they would actually be taking payment to do that, i.e. how much of my soul would I be leaving behind with them, however unknowingly. There is absolutely no free lunch.
Buy 1 Get 1 Free. Also known as ‘if you bring a couple friends, you won’t have to pay as much’. Packing a djevo with whomever can be compelled into it doesn’t make anything cheaper, it’s just that they want to collect as much money as possible and they know that people in the US love to think they’re getting a deal. There is no bulk discount on labor, in that the priests working your ceremonies are not going to be happy being paid less to do more, and the machann is not going to give a bulk discount on chickens and other things. That’s just no how it goes. Beware the person who wants to sell you a good deal.
Changing prices. The price you are given should be the price, period. There should be no last minute asks for more cash because of some crisis or some other thing that suddenly needs to be done. I hear this more and more often: someone gets to Haiti and suddenly the person who is going to be doing ceremony for them asks them for more money for things that were previously unaccounted for or, even worse, someone says mid-ceremony that more money is needed for something they didn’t outline before. This is taking advantage of your vulnerability in the situation, and it’s super gross. Prices of supplies can change and things can come up, but covering that is what the priest commits to when you are paying your fee. This is serious enough that, in the lineage I was initiated in, there is a contract that outlines how much kanzo costs, what the expected costs are for us outside of the fee, and a suggested outline of how to divide up payments (if necessary). This is not only a guideline and commitment for the person who signs it, but for the priest as well.
Asking for money for unrelated things. Asking you to invest in their businesses, pay for personal services like hair/nails/clothing, asking for expensive gifts in the name of spiritual devotion, etc is outside of anything that should happen. It’s not uncommon for children of a house to contribute to ceremonies being mounted (bringing a bottle of liquor, flowers for the table, contributing cash towards expenses if they are able, etc) but it’s never okay for someone to ask you to give money so they can get a massage or for you to buy them an iPhone or for you to invest in the start-up costs for their business (all real examples I have seen). Deciding of your own volition to give a gift is perfectly fine, but them asking for those things or holding them as necessary for you to undergo ceremony is not okay.
Heavy recruitment. Posts on social media recruiting for kanzo, people inboxing trying to get you interested, holding multi-level marketing lectures or group meetings couched as informational sessions (often goes hand-in-hand with the buy 1 get 1 approach) if you’re interested in kanzo, etc. A healthy djevo and sosyete does not need to recruit; the djevo fills itself because the lwa send the right people who need to be there.
They hold no other ceremonies for you to attend. Anyone who has not grown up inside the religion should be able to attend other ceremonies in the lineage they are interested in being a part of. The lack of other ceremonies being held is a big red flag; our spirits are fed through our fetes and spiritual feedings, and none of those are really secret (some aspects may be, but all have large public ceremonies). If they are not feeding their spirits in the ways the religion does, then they are feeding you to their spirits (I’ve literally seen people marked as sacrifices are).
And, if you cannot attend their ceremonies, how can you get to know their spirits, their other children, and the community that supports them? It is the first thing I tell people who are interested in serving the lwa: come to a fete and see what the religion is all about. How can you fully commit to something you’ve never seen? Those things should be accessible to you.
The first time you meet them should not be at the airport. That speaks for itself. Initiation and other ceremonies are forged via relationships and the religion is taught in person. If you cannot have a relationship with someone who you can see occasionally, you’re not really getting the benefit of the religion. This can mean sacrifices of time/money (many people travel for their Vodou), but it is worth it. You should not be expected or asked to undergo ceremony sight unseen. This is also why a house holding other ceremonies is important; seeing how the priest works and how they interact with spirits is key.
They have an empty temple. Healthy sosyetes have a community around them beyond the children of the house. Temples are full for ceremonies and are PACKED for kanzo and kanzo-related ceremonies. People travel from all over for fets and ceremonies that are done correctly and completely. The community also has an important function: their presence is endorsing the work the priest is doing, ESPECIALLY around kanzo. If there is no one there or it is only members of the house, there’s a big problem.
Related: if they are undertaking ceremonies alone, that’s also a red flag. If they have no priests who are willing to come work with them and they are doing all the work on their own, there is a problem.
They are rigid and immovable. This is often pushed off on the lwa being super pejorative. You have to do this thing, or the lwa will be mad. You can’t kanzo at any other time but this, the lwa said so. If you don’t do kanzo with me, the lwa will kill you. If you talk to this person, the lwa will be angry.
All of those things are real things really frightened people have brought to me personally. This is inappropriate power and control. The lwa understand we have lives and understand that sometimes things cannot happen in the timeline we had hoped. Sometimes there are consequences to not doing a thing, but there are DEFINITELY ways to manage that without things going totally sideways.
When folks make statements like that, it is really about them and not the lwa. Changing your mind on doing a ceremony can be a let down for the priest who has prepared to do it, but that’s not about you. How you work through that is between you and your spirits.
They cause or seek to cause outright harm. I’ve heard stories and seen the fallout from priest physically assaulting their children for genuine mistakes, smashing sacred items as punishment, coercing folks into sexual activity, calling and threatening family members when they decide they no longer want to deal with abusive behavior and tactics, and all sorts of horrific stuff. I’ve heard these things be passed off as traditional, and that’s a lie. While there can certainly be cultural differences and it can take time to learn to navigate those, assault, threats of violence, and outright abuse is not a part of the religion.
They rush you. While it’s certainly normal for a priest to need to know if you are going to be a part of a ceremony or not and to expect you to pay on time or as you agreed to, there’s no rushing someone into the djevo. I might tell you that the spirits are indicating that kanzo is necessary or that it might be a good idea to do it sooner rather than later, but there is no flurry of chaotic activity that demands you part with a whole lot of money and get pushed right into the djevo. The lwa are patient and if there is an emergent need things can be done to either address that need temporarily or to encourage the lwa to give more time.
They have no elders. If someone cannot name their initiator and their initiator’s initiator and on, there’s a problem. In Haitian Vodou, that’s not secret information; we are very proud of where we come from (or we should be). If they say they have no elders or don’t need them or have no contact with them, there is a deep problem. Our initiatory parent is our foundation; they even outrank the lwa in that the lwa place us in their hands to follow the expectations that our parent lays out.
If their initiatory parent has passed away, there are systems of checks and balances that still leave them with supports (godparents, priests who oversaw their ceremonies, elder siblings, etc).
If their relationship with their initiatory parent has degraded to the point that their parent won’t show up to the ceremonies they are holding or won’t help, there’s also big problems.
They cannot provide any proof of their initiation. In this day and age, there are ALWAYS pictures and video of our leve kanzo and baptem. Those things are not secret and we looooove our photos and video. They also serve as important proof that we were where we said we were and underwent what we said we did.
If no pictures were taken, they should be able to provide contacts who can verify that they were in the djevo and can verify the ceremonies were done completely and correctly (another reason community and other priests are important). Even if their parent has passed away, there still should be priests who can vouch for them.
Additionally, there are also other ways that priests can be called out in public to prove that they are who they say there are. There is a whole ritual battle that can happen with the asson/sacred tool priests use, there are specific gestures and language that can be used, and other things that are only taught to people who make it through kanzo. If they can’t do those things or can’t account for them, there’s a big problem.
They mix things in. Haitian Vodou is Haitian Vodou and it’s a complete religion on it’s own. Folks who are selling ‘spells’ for the lwa, who are utilizing rootwork/conjure/hoodoo and presenting it as travay/spiritual work in the religion, who divine with Tarot cards or shells or runes or whatever else, who bring in outside spirits like Orisa or Santisima Muerte or whatever else and claim it belongs are missing the boat. People can certainly have multiple spiritual commitments, but those should be held clearly separate.
Haitian Vodou has it’s own system of spiritual work that is pretty distinct, and the same with divination, prayers, construction of a table for the lwa, and how ceremonies are laid out. For someone who has been taught well, it’s easy to spot but in general passing off all those other things as Vodou is not accurate.
And...sometimes it’s not that they are trying to mislead you. Sometimes they have not been taught how to do traditional work and so are leaning on what they knew previously because it has not been communicated to them that there are traditional ways to do spiritual work or to divine. See above with not knowing that someone has done wrong by them.
They exploit vulnerability. This often rides along with ‘I have the real Vodou’ and it focuses on addressing parts of identities and lived realities that carry weight in our day-to-day and that could be sensitive areas for us. The most common way that this plays out is claiming that they have real Vodou because they only make Black folks in the religion because it is a Black religion. This is super, SUPER insidious and requires some teasing out of threads to really get at what is being said.
It is certainly true that Haitian Vodou is a Black religion, in that it is born out the Black Atlantic, slavery, and colonialism, and that it has deep roots in Africa. There is no reframing or reinterpretation of Vodou that can subtract or nullify that, and any attempt to do so is a deeply racist wrong.
What this presentation of Vodou fails to take into account is it’s Haitian-ness; it divorces the culture from the religion and leaves it as a reinterpretation that isn’t rooted in the actual religion. This is a really carefully crafted whitewashing (really) of a HAITIAN religion aimed at exploiting the deep and true and valid desire that many Black folks have for a spiritual space without white folks and turns it into a cash cow. It’s gross.
If someone really wants to go down the road of ‘real Vodou’ and strip it down to it’s utter bare roots, no one who is not Haitian is getting in the door. That’s what the sales pitch is leaving out; it plays on the want for a space of folks from similar backgrounds and similar experiences and turns it away from the actual reality of the religion. There are many very legitimate lineages and sosyete who do not admit white folks, but they also only admit Haitians. It’s couching a grift under a veil of very true and real things.
It also doesn’t communicate the reality of going to Haiti as a non-Haitian: it can be hard, and it can be doubly hard for someone who might look majority Haitian (darker skinned) but who does not speak the language or understand how to navigate the culture, religious and otherwise. The word for someone who is an outsider no matter their skin color is the same across the board: blan. That can understandably be hard to swallow, and it’s a disservice to present the idea to someone that they are getting the real deal because it will only be Black folks only to be put in an environment where they are unprepared to be a cultural outsider.
This happens to other folks, too. I’ve seen situations where someone is told that they are the only white person that the priest has made, so they are getting the real thing, or that they are the only house that will make a trans person or someone who is queer or gay or whatever. Manipulating people through using core pieces of their Self is pretty heinous.
There are no Haitians. Tying into the above, you cannot do Haitian Vodou without the presence of the culture bearers. It’s simply not possible.
They will not give you what is yours. Someone who is made a manbo or houngan asogwe should have their own pot tet, asson, a kolye, a set of govi, and a set of paket kongo. All of those items should be made for you as part of your kanzo. The specific number of paket and govi can vary a little, but they are yours and you should be able to take them home with you if you want. Many houses give folks the option of keeping their govi and paket in Haiti, but the choice should be yours. Additionally, many sosyetes give asogwe the choice of whether to take their pot tet home or keep in in the Haiti temple. There should absolutely be no discussion about your asson and kolye; if they are not going to give them to you, they are essentially holding you hostage and disallowing you from acting on the initiation you went through with good intentions.
They do not do kanzo in Haiti. This has somehow become controversial, but it’s straightforward: kanzo is only valid when done in Haiti. I see it as presented as opinion or with qualifiers (only asogwe needs to be done in Haiti, etc), but that’s just simply not true. Beyond the outright impossibility to build a complete djevo in the US/outside of Haiti (throwing a little dirt under the floor ain’t it), there are things that must be done when your feet are literally on the dirt and there are parts of ceremonies and preparation for ceremonies that cannot be done in the US or outside of Haiti (chache fey, lalye, a full bat ge etc).
Further, an important part of all kanzo whether it is hounsi kanzo/senp, sou pwen, or asogwe is meeting the lwa in their home. The lwa are rooted in Haiti and how can we profess to want to serve them if we either won’t go there or won’t bring people there? When you go through ceremony in Haiti, you are profoundly changed and it is easy to see why it is so important to make the sacrifice to go there. Trying to find a workaround for that says a lot about what folks are really trying to do.
And, for people who are meant to be manbos and houngans, a ‘kanzo’ that is undertaken in the US is not recognized, meaning that no legitimately made priest can or will greet you as a peer. You can’t be passed an asson to salute spirits in ceremony, you cannot take part in what spiritual work is done outside of Haiti, and you have essentially taken your money and burned it up.
Folks don’t think it’s that serious, but I’ve seen Haitians literally turn their backs on people who profess an American ‘kanzo’ and be disinvited to attend ceremonies until they get right with the religion, and assons snatched out of hands that have not been made to hold them. It’s a real thing that has real world consequences, and that doesn’t even touch the spiritual repurcussions.
Ceremonies that can be done outside of Haiti include lave tet, aksyon de gras, spiritual feedings (if you’re feeling hefty and have lots of people to help), maryaj lwa, and all sorts of fets. Nothing can compare to having them done in Haiti, but they are absolutely valid done elsewhere. Some folks have asked what happens if going to Haiti is not immediately viable (especially with the reality of COVID19), and the answer is that we wait or do other things in the mean time.
So...that’s the big stuff that I can think of off the top of my head. It’s a lot, but that’s the stuff I see and hear about regularly (really). The biggest and best tool that Joe Vodouizan has to discern whether or not what they are seeing is common sense:
Would I accept this as true and valid in any other setting?
How can I verify that this is true/accurate?
Do I feel like I am getting away with something, versus working through a difficult process?
What happens when I ask questions or (politely) challenge what I am seeing/hearing?
Does this make sense?
How do I feel about this?
These are the things that will save you from being taken advantage of. Move slowly and thoughtfully, and listen to your inner voice...that’s your guardian angel trying to guide you.
I hope this is helpful...I know this is probably more than you asked for. Let me know if you have more questions.
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lfrp/about vali laghari
full name. vali laghari. pronunciation. valley lah-ghar-ee. nicknames. enchantress, the perfumer, the empath. height. 5 fulms, 8 ilms, excluding her ears. age. 25. zodiac. leo. languages. common, thavnairian, conversational far eastern.
PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.
hair colour. raven black. eye colour. pale lilac purple. skin tone. a warm, medium brown with rosy undertones. body type. of elegant bearing, with a natural, curvy hourglass shape. accent. a light and educated hannish accent. dominant hand. ambidextrous. posture. nigh regal. the posture of a woman with a deep level of self respect and large amount of confidence. scars. fading scars that surround both of her ankles, but more heavily her left ankle. tattoos. none that are permanent; the occasional henna on her hands and ankles. most noticeable features. her pale eyes amongst her dark complexion, the small beauty mark beneath her eye, a bounty of dark waves, eyes that seem to see right through you.
CHILDHOOD.
place of birth. thavnair. hometown. radz-at-han. birth weight/height. slightly small for a viera. manner of birth. natural home birth. first words. ‘bye.’ siblings. none. parents: daskha (mother, deceased), pratyush (father, deceased). parental involvement. dashka and pratyush both were deeply involved in the raising of their child. though commonly thought to be odd because of their viera heritage, they were doting parents for the early part of vali’s childhood. for the first ten years of her life, she enjoyed wealth, a fine and expensive education, and a happy home life, where she learned alchemy under the tutelage of her mother. when an accident befell her parents and she lost them both, however, vali was cast into the streets to fend for herself, finding a mother figure in another alchemist residing in the capitol of thavnair. she is tight-lipped on the subject of both her birth parents and her found-family -- or anything regarding her personal life.
ADULT LIFE
Occupation. a former dancer and slave, now a skilled perfumer. less an occupation, but a skill: psychometric and intuitive empath. Current residence. traveling. Close friends. few. she prefers to keep people at a distance. relationship status. single. rumors of her being widowed flit around the capitol. financial status. from riches to rags to riches again, vali makes a very comfortable living for herself and uses it to enjoy the finer parts of life. vices. secrets, breaking hearts, the occasional indulgence of recreational drugs, stubbornness, dabbling in some chaotic trickster god-esque behaviors with her alchemy and perfumes.
SEX & ROMANCE.
sexual orientation. heterosexual. romantic orientation. heterosexual. preferred emotional role. submissive | dominant | switch | unsure preferred sexual role. submissive | dominant | switch | sex repulsed libido. healthy, bordering on high. turn on’s. physically and emotionally strong men, sensual whispers, tall men, intelligence, physical touch to sensitive areas of the body, knowing someone is attracted to her. Turn off’s. lack of a spine, lying and liars, crudeness of nature, physically distant, cruel or unkind people, any sort of degradation between her and her partner. love language. touch, with words as a close second. relationship tendencies. a loyal creature, as well as doting. not much is known about vali’s relationship tendencies, but she is protective of those she cares for and keeps a lover on their toes. if she comes to love you, you have her heart entirely. absent minded touches, quiet, affectionate words of affirmation and reassurance. independent and will need time to herself, but will always be happy to come back to you after taking time to decompress. a good listener.
MISCELLANEOUS.
hobbies to pass the time. knowing things, practicing her craft, dancing, training her abilities as a psychometric empath, tending to her plants and flowers. mental illnesses. PTSD fueled anxiety and depression that she medicates for. physical illnesses. none, to her knowledge. left or right brained. an even split. fears. people finding out details about her past, losing her sense of smell, losing her abilities as an empath, getting too close to anyone, appearing vulnerable. self confidence level. outwardly, extremely high. inwardly... still pretty high, though she isn’t without her own secret insecurities. vulnerabilities. a soft spot for children and for animals, stronger reactions than she’d like to seeing injustices, knowing too much too quickly about a person, knowing too much in general.
RP HOOKS.
- open to discussion.
- vali is thavnairian born, but has begun to travel around eorzea selling her perfumes. these perfumes are often benign, but there are whispers of the scents she creates with ‘special’ properties. curious as to what these properties are? seek her out, and she may tell you - for a price.
- her abilities as a psychometric empath give her special understanding and looks into the past of people, rooms, and objects alike. while this is not an ability i will use without explicit OOC consent, it is a large part of her character. if you think this is an avenue you’d like to explore - whether it be to help your character unlock forgotten memories for themselves or for other things then vali is your girl. the same is to be said for her abilities as an intuitive empath. i will not use it without OOC consent, but they do allow her to tell if someone is lying to her, IC.
- vali is a very new character for me, and so i am very open to whatever hooks that you may have in mind! her past as a slave could come back to haunt her, and how she escaped. she is a beautiful and clearly foreign young woman in a new land, and is certainly meant to be eye catching. if you’d like to get to know her, shoot me a message here on tumblr and we can figure something out!
- friendships, rivalries, business partners, crushes, romances, and everything in between are all things i’m looking forward to exploring with vali.
- darker themes of RP are a-okay with me, including violence, gore, obsession, stalking, horror, as well as sexual themes. please know, though, that i am not going to ERP with you for the sake of ERP, and i do not do permanent death, injury, or disfigurement for my characters unless it is a specific plot point originally planned by me.
OOC.
- i am over the age of 18!
- i am very friendly, but am not willing to immediately hand out my discord. however, if we RP and click, chances are that i’ll offer it to you. the best way to communicate with me is either by sending me a DM here on tumblr or whispering me in-game on Audrey Wells, Sarah Hawke, or Vali Laghari.
- i am on the Crystal Data Center!
- thank you for reading!!! <3
#crystal data center#ffxiv rp#ff14 rp#viera#viera rp#ffxiv lfrp#ff14 lfrp#shadowbringers#thavnair#about
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Mine to Make: Chapter 7
Draco and Scorpius do some boring but useful economic magic, Albus reads the Daily Prophet, and Delphi announces her plans for world domination.
Beta’d by @abradystrix.
N.B. This fic is complete on AO3, so binge read away if you want! Here on tumblr I’ll be posting a chapter every day until it’s all done.
Read it on AO3
*
VII Stoppable
The kitchen door opens and Harry instantly drops his knife onto his chopping board and turns around, hope swelling inside him, the way it always does whenever someone comes home. Ginny is standing in the doorway, emerging from beneath her cloak, expression sombre. He grips the back of the chair in front of him, Albus’s chair. Already disappointment is crushing his heart, but he still has to ask, just to make sure.
“Did you find-“
She shakes her head. “Nothing. There’s nothing.”
Harry bows his head and nods, tightening his grip on the chair for support. Even after three weeks of this it’s the same torture every day. He’d thought it would get easier but it hasn’t, not even a little bit. There are still the highest highs that come with any hint of a sighting, any new bit of information. Every time someone enters the house, he still desperately hopes that it might be Albus coming home. But every hope turns out to be false, and Albus never comes home. They’re left with devastation and hopelessness that deepens with every passing day.
Ginny shrugs her cloak off and hangs it by the door, then she comes across and puts her hands on Harry’s arms. “I talked to Current Affairs and they’re running another article tomorrow, looking for any political reasons why Albus might have been taken.”
“There are plenty of those,” Harry mutters.
She rubs his arms. “Exactly. And I placed that advert we talked about too.”
Harry nods. “That’s good. That’s- Yeah. And I’ve still got teams in Yorkshire and up on the moors around here. I think we’re going to reassign the Yorkshire team over to the Lake District next week. The Scottish Minister said she’d give us some help with the areas around Hogwarts. It’s just working out where he’d be familiar with, where he’d go.”
“He’ll be right under our noses,” Ginny says softly, wrapping her arms round Harry and resting her forehead on his shoulder. “I know he will.”
“I agree,” Harry says, hugging her tightly. “That’s why I’m keeping teams down here.”
“What about Scorpius?” Ginny asks. “Do we have anyone with him? What if Albus tries to contact him?”
“We’ve had the Manor under surveillance for years,” Harry says, “and Hogwarts is closely monitored for the safety of the students. If Albus goes anywhere near Scorpius I’ll be the first to know.”
“Good,” Ginny murmurs, rubbing his back. “That’s good.”
He nods and holds onto her. She’s been his rock through so much, and right now he needs her more than ever. He doesn’t know where he’d be without her. Normally he’d turn to Ron and Hermione for help in a dire situation like this, but this time Ginny is who he needs. She understands what this is like. She feels the same pain as he does. They’re going through this together in a way that no one else can understand.
“We’ll find him,” Ginny says softly, massaging his shoulders, which he hadn’t realised were so tight and tense. “We will. Even if it takes years.”
“Course we will,” Harry agrees, injecting as much brightness and positivity into the words as he can. If he believes in them hard enough maybe they’ll come true. Magic is a bit like that. You want it and you work at it, and in the end it happens. But spells don’t exist for bringing lost boys home, at least no spell that Harry, Ginny, or even Hermione knows. They’ll just have to wait and hope because there’s nothing else they can do.
“I didn’t know you read the paper.” Delphi flicks the front page of Albus’s open newspaper, jogging it enough that he loses his place. He smiles and looks up at her.
“I don’t. I was just browsing.” Albus shuts the paper and sets it aside. He hasn’t managed to find what he was looking for. There’s no mention of the Dementor attack anywhere, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s not even that far into the paper.
“What were you browsing for?” Delphi asks, plopping down next to him on the bench at the edge of the training ground.
Albus shrugs. “Nothing much. Just seeing what’s going on in the world.”
Delphi smirks. “Is this new interest in current affairs supposed to impress your boyfriend?”
Albus elbows her in the ribs. “Not everything in my life revolves around Scorpius, you know.”
“Oh,” Delphi says in mock amazement. “It doesn’t? I could have sworn otherwise.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So why have you been such a stranger then?” Delphi asks, picking up the paper and unfolding it so she can read the front page.
Albus shrugs. “It’s been a busy week. Anyway, it’s not like you haven’t seen me. After seven inseparable years can you not live without me anymore?”
Delphi pulls a face at the paper. “Utter drivel,” she mutters. “No,” she glances up at Albus. “It’s not that I can’t live without you. I’m just worried about your training. And, you know, I miss you.” She gives a little shrug.
Albus grins at her. “Aww, do you really? You’ve never said that before.”
“You’re my best friend,” she says, not glancing up at him as she turns to the next page. “Of course I miss you.”
“Well,” Albus says, patting his hands on his knees as he works out how to deal with this surprising new information. “I’m here now. I’m all yours for the day – Scorpius is at work.”
Delphi glances up at him. “At work work? Not snooping around here?”
Albus nods. “He had to go to the Ministry for a meeting.”
A tiny frown flickers across Delphi’s forehead, just a fleeting glimpse. “You saw him this morning?”
“He may have stayed over at my house last night,” Albus says, giving her a broad, shining smile.
Delphi’s eyes go wide. “You slept with him? Already? Albus Potter, you saucy little-“
Albus’s cheeks heat up and he gives her a friendly shove on the arm. “It was a difficult evening and we both needed company, so we...” He waves a hand.
“A difficult evening?” Delphi asks, brushing a bit of hair out of her eyes.
Albus nods and explains about the Dementors, while she listens with rapt attention. “That’s why I was reading the paper,” he explains. “I wanted to see if there was any mention of it in the news, but I couldn’t spot anything so far.”
“How did you two escape?” Delphi asks softly, eyes wide.
“Thankfully Scorpius managed to cast a Patronus,” Albus says, a golden swell of pride bubbling up inside him as he remembers the shape of the silver bird sweeping through the night. “A really good one too. A corporeal one.”
“I didn’t know he could do that,” Delphi says.
Albus shakes his head. “Neither did he. I knew he’d be able to get it though. He’s brilliant.”
“So,” Delphi says lightly, leaning back on her hands. “Your new boyfriend saved your life and you repaid him with sex. Not a bad arrangement.”
Albus rolls his eyes. “Anyway, enough gossip about my evening. I thought I wasn’t training enough?”
Delphi shakes herself and sits up. “No, you’re not. I was going to punish you by making you do an actual gym session for once.”
“Are you serious?” Albus groans.
She nods. “Deadly.”
He sighs and picks himself up off the bench. “You’re evil.”
She grins at him. “I know.”
“These,” Scorpius says, slapping an enormous heap of files down onto the table in the library. “Are all the league’s financial records. Knock yourself out.”
Draco eyes the pile sceptically. “Do you have any suggested starting points?”
Scorpius shrugs. “Not really. We need to go through everything.”
“And do you expect their bookkeeping to be reliable and truthful?”
Scorpius shrugs again. “Probably not but it’s worth a start.”
“Alright then.” Draco picks up the first file, pulls up a chair and sits down as he reads. “How was Potter today?”
Scorpius perches on the edge of the table and sifts through the files until he finds a bright turquoise one that he likes the colour of. “Not bad, actually. He liked my investigative work.”
“As he should. Is he going to promote you?”
Scorpius sighs. “Not yet. Probably not ever, but I’m doing my best.” He opens the file to the first page and looks down at the long strings of numbers. There are dozens of these files. They’ll be here all night. “I told him about the Dementors.”
“And?”
“He’s going to investigate. I don’t think he knew what you knew. About all the stuff going on.”
Draco smirks. “Maybe they should make me Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Then they might get something done.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “He’s not that bad. You just happen to have an unusual amount of nefarious connections.”
“That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me,” Draco says, looking exceptionally pleased.
Scorpius smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll put it on your next Father’s Day card.” He flicks to the second page of his file, eyes already blurred from the amount of numbers in front of him.
“Dad,” he says. “You know about money. Is there some sort of spell we can use to do this faster? To detect anomalies, or even look for specific names and organisations? I know there are spells you can use for book research... would they work on this too?”
“Of course,” Draco says, nodding. “There’s nothing especially easy or user friendly, but I’m sure we can work it out between us.”
“Great.” Scorpius draws his wand with a flourish. “Teach me some boring but useful economic magic.”
They end up having to get several books down from the shelves, because the spell is far more complicated than Draco recalled. They sit on the sofa, trying to memorise the long strings of Latin and testing each other on them. It’s a while since Scorpius has learned any completely new spells, and it’s a fun challenge, especially because he can tell he’s picking it up faster than his dad.
“Wrong word again,” he crows, when his dad mixes up the phrase he’s trying to repeat for the third time.
Draco sighs. “I’m too old for this. If you’ve got it memorised why don’t you do the magic?”
Scorpius frowns. “I could... but what if I get it wrong? Don’t you need to check it for me?”
His dad smiles at him. “The day has long passed when I checked all your arithmetic for you. You’re far smarter and more knowledgeable than me these days. I trust your spellwork.”
Scorpius swallows and twists his wand round in his hands. “Are you sure? No one else trusts me...”
“That,” Draco says, pointing at him, “is their fault and not yours. Go on. The world won’t end if you get this spell wrong. Give it a go.”
“Fine.” Scorpius gets to his feet and flips open the first file. He decides that hesitating and making a big deal out of this will only make it worse so he doesn’t hesitate before tapping his wand on the file and letting the long spell come rolling off his tongue.
It works immediately. He withdraws his wand with the last word and the pages riffle through, until the file lies open on an inside page with a single word, Rowle, illuminated in gold.
Scorpius blinks down at the page. He gives his wand an experimental flick to one side and the file flicks to the next result.
“It worked!” He gasps, then lets out a wild giggle and covers his mouth with his hands. “I thought it’d take a lot more tries than that.”
Draco smiles and squeezes his shoulder. “Confidence, Scorpius.”
“Right,” Scorpius says, returning the smile. “Confidence.” He flicks his wand and flips the pages back to the first result. “Well, I suppose we should get on and do some investigating.”
For the next hour and a half they pore over each and every one of the reports, jotting down notes, checking and double-checking spells and findings. Scorpius’s head aches and his throat is dry from casting the complicated spell over and over again. It doesn’t help that the reports are so mind-numbing that they alone would hurt his brain.
When they’re done with the last report he releases the spell and stumbles back to collapse onto the nearest sofa. He hunches over, rubbing his forehead, and his dad gently massages his shoulder.
“You did brilliantly,” he says. “Would you like a drink.”
Scorpius shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll live.” He rubs his eyes and lifts his head, trying to peer at the parchment in his dad’s hand. He’s been concentrating so hard he hasn’t had chance to register any of the notes they’ve been making. “What are the results?”
“There’s a very clear connection here,” Draco says, “which is a start.” He crouches down on the floor beside Scorpius and rests the parchment on the arm of Scorpius’s chair so they can read together.
“Here are all the names of the people we’ve been looking for,” Draco says, running a finger down the column. “These are some of the numbers they’re associated with, what they’ve paid in, got back, and so on. And this column, here, shows the Gringotts account numbers of all the accounts they were associated with.”
Scorpius scans the parchment, frowning, then glances up at his dad. “But... there’s only one account number there. Surely we’ve done something wrong?”
“It’s not quite the only account number,” Draco says, pointing out a couple of others in the list, odd anomalies amongst the uniformity of all the other transactions. “And you know as well as I do that your spellwork was impeccable. No, I don’t think there’s a mistake at all. I think we just happen to have found our answer.”
Scorpius rubs the very centre of his forehead and stares at the account number. “Can we find out who this belongs to? Do we already know?”
Draco shakes his head. “We haven’t got it here, but...” He brandished his wand and taps it on the front of one of the files, muttering the same spell as Scorpius had used before, but this time using the account number as their search term. Instantly, the file whips open and comes to rest on an inside page, and there, in the centre, clear as day, it says “the account belonging to Miss Delphini Black.”
Draco pulls a face. “Delphini Black? There isn’t a Delphini Black on the family tree. Who on earth is that?”
“The Blacks don’t exactly have a small family tree do they?” Scorpius asks. “Couldn’t she be some long lost cousin? Half cousin? Second cousin? Whatever?
“But Delphini,” Draco says. “I’ve never heard that name before.” He looks at Scorpius. “Is she someone who’s mentioned a lot around the league? Is she a racer? Organiser? Someone who’s in charge?”
Scorpius shakes his head slowly, trying to think. Delphini doesn’t ring any bells. He hasn’t read the name in any of his papers, or heard anyone, say it, except- “Delphi!” He gasps. “They’re all connected to Delphi.”
“And who is Delphi?” Draco asks.
“She’s Albus’s friend,” Scorpius says, sitting back in his seat, mind racing. “His best friend. She’s his manager or agent or something. I think she sort of took him under her wing when he ran away. They seem close, but I haven’t met her yet. I hope I get the chance to, but...but, anyway. That’s who she is. Our missing link. Delphini Black. Delphi.”
“Albus’s friend,” Draco says slowly and deliberately, “knows and is taking money from all these people.” He gestures to the list of names, and Scorpius reads down it.
It’s not a good list of names to be associated with, and although he thinks Rowle might be the worst, there’s nothing about it that looks positive, no redeeming features, apart from the fact that Albus is connected to her.
“If Albus trusts her,” Scorpius says, “shouldn’t we give her the benefit of the doubt at least?” He looks up at his dad. “Maybe she doesn’t know much about history. These are all rich families, maybe she just went for rich people and is ignorant of what they’ve done.”
“These aren’t the richest,” Draco says. “They’re just the ones who have money to throw at something like this. And this doesn’t look like ignorance, Scorpius. This looks like fraternisation with Death Eaters.”
Scorpius takes the parchment from his dad and studies it. “I want to go to Gringotts and get more details about her account,” he says. “I’ve got permission to get whatever I need. And maybe... maybe I should ask Albus about her?” He looks up at his dad. “They’re friends. He knows her. He’ll be able to tell me what she’s like.”
“He may also be biased,” Draco points out.
“I can ask other people too,” Scorpius says. “But he’s a good starting point.”
Draco nods. “I suppose you’re right. Be careful, though. Even around Albus.”
“But-“
Draco gives him a hard look. “Scorpius...”
Scorpius sighs and holds his hands up. “Alright. I promise.” He waves his wand to clear the files into a neat pile on the table. “I’m exhausted. I think it’s time for bed now.”
“Not quite,” his dad says. “We have things to talk about, remember?”
Scorpius’s heart sinks as the earlier encounter with his dad comes flooding back. “Dad, do we really need to-“
“Yes. We do.” His dad sits down on the sofa next to him. “Stop pulling that face at me, you look like a child.”
Scorpius sticks his tongue out at his dad, then buries his face in his hands. It’s the best he can do to hide from his dad while they’re both in the same room.
“I need to know that you’re being safe,” his dad says, in a surprisingly soft voice that makes Scorpius look up at him. “That’s all I’m concerned about here. You’ve known this boy for four days-“
“That’s not true! He’s been my best friend for over half my life.”
“And the seven year gap in the middle somewhat negates that,” Draco counters.
“Also,” Scorpius says, slumping down in his seat and folding his arms. “It’s been five days.”
His dad smiles. “Five days, then. The point still stands. You don’t know anything about his life now. He doesn’t know anything about yours. People grow up a lot in seven years. They change a lot. Clearly he’s made friends with the sort of people who would be involved in a Ministry investigation-“
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Scorpius interjects.
Draco holds a hand up. “I know. All I’m saying is to be careful... He’s the first person you’ve slept with, isn’t he?”
Scorpius’s face goes hot as Fiendfyre and he glares at his dad. “I’m not discussing this with-“
“Are you his first too?”
Scorpius glares at him a moment longer to make his point then gives a very tiny shake of his head. “No.”
“And did he look after you? Did you use all the right spells, and-“
“For your information,” Scorpius says loudly, cutting across him. “Albus Severus Potter is an excellent teacher.”
“That may be more information than I was looking for,” Draco says, and Scorpius realises the full implications of his words.
“Oh my- Dad!” He buries his face in his hands again. “That wasn’t what I meant. I meant that he’s good at the spells and the-“
“And the?” Draco asks, with just the hint of a smirk.
“I hate you,” Scorpius says, sinking as low as he possibly can in his chair.
“I know,” Draco says. “But I’m glad the two of you had a good time. And I’m glad he looked after you. I’d expect nothing less of him; of anyone my son chooses as a partner.”
“He’s a really good person, Dad,” Scorpius murmurs. “He’s perfect. And he loves me.”
“Has he said that?” Draco asks.
Scorpius nods. “I think we’ve both... we’re on the same page there. He missed me as much as I missed him.” He looks up at his dad. “I know he broke my heart. I know he left me behind. I know all that. I’ve felt it every day for seven years. But I think... I think he felt it too. He’s... He’s really scared, you know? Of coming back. Of people finding him. When he left it wasn’t because of me, it wasn’t about me, but maybe... maybe I can help him now. Maybe I can be the reason he stays.”
“Do you trust him?” Draco asks, looking him in the eye.
Scorpius meets his gaze and nods. “Yes. I do.”
Draco considers for a moment before shaking his head. “You’ve always had good judgement, I know you have. But that doesn’t make it easier...” He sighs. “Will you understand if I keep being sceptical?”
Scorpius smiles. “You’re my dad. Isn’t it your job to be sceptical?”
Draco smiles back. “I suppose it is. You learn by making mistakes and getting your heart broken, and then I’m there to say I told you so and help piece it back together again.”
Scorpius wriggles round and curls up by his dad’s side. “I don’t think I’m going to get my heart broken,” he says. “Not this time.”
His dad wraps an arm round his shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of his head. “I truly hope you’re right.”
Ginny is curled up on the bed, sitting on top of the blankets because it’s too hot to be underneath them tonight. She’s sucking on the end of her quill as she considers the letter she’s writing. Harry know she’s too absorbed in what she’s doing to have noticed him standing in the doorway, but that doesn’t matter to him. It gives him more time to think and work out how to say what he’s going to say.
“Gin,” he says finally. “Can I join you?” It‘s not even remotely what he was trying to say, and now he’s said it he realises how stupid it was.
She glances at the space on the bed next to her, tucks her legs up under her, then shoots him one of her sparkling, mischievous smiles. “It’s your bed too, Harry. You don’t have to ask me to sit down.”
“No,” he says. “I know.”
He crosses the room, twisting his hands together as he does. Even though she’s still writing, he knows she’s got an eye on him. There’s no hiding now. She knows something’s up.
“Who are you writing to?” He asks, as he sits down next to her.
She glances across at him. “Albus. I was going to ask him if he’d like to visit again, or maybe get coffee. If that goes well, I want to invite him for dinner.” She sets the quill and parchment down on the bedside table and shuffles towards him, reaching out to rub his arm. “Are you okay?”
He never knows how to answer that question. It’s been a long time – not since before Albus left – since he’s felt like he could give an unequivocal yes, but at the same time she knows that, and he doesn’t want to worry her even though the answer today is no. Thankfully she understands his silence and reaches up to gently ruffle his hair, flattening the bits of it that stick up everywhere, before dropping her hand to rest on his shoulder.
“What’s up?”
He stares down at his hands. “I had a meeting with Scorpius today.”
Ginny drops her hand from his shoulder and weaves her fingers together with his. “How is he?” She asks softly.
Harry nods. “Okay, I think. It’s always difficult to tell. He’s working as hard as ever. His investigative skills are brilliant. I think he’s better than some of my Aurors.”
Ginny smiles. “That sounds like him.”
“He’s wasted where he is,” Harry agrees. “But I still haven’t been able to persuade any of my recruiters to look past-“ He sighs and shakes his head. “Anyway... He wanted to report a Dementor attack.”
Ginny’s eyes go wide. “A Dementor- But there aren’t any left here, are there?”
“Only a couple,” Harry says. “We’re observing them all though, so we know they haven’t attacked anyone. But he said that these two – a pair of them – attacked him just outside Bristol yesterday night. He fought them off, he said he cast a Patronus, but the fact that they were there...”
“That’s not good,” Ginny breathes. “That’s like when you-“
“I know,” Harry says, looking at her. “It’s definitely a concern.”
“Was he on his own when he was attacked?” Ginny asks. “Did he fight them off alone?”
Harry swallows and doesn’t manage to speak.
“Harry?” Ginny repeats, squeezing his hand.
“Albus,” Harry says finally, in a small, strained voice. “He- he was with Albus.” He looks at her, and she stares back.
“Albus... Albus was attacked?”
Harry nods. “He and Scorpius. They fought the Dementors off together.”
Ginny grips Harry’s hand so hard her fingers turn white. “Is he still in danger? Are they-?”
“I’m not sure,” Harry murmurs. “I’ve got a team on it, but we haven’t found anything yet. We haven’t even found the Dementors. There’s so much that we don’t know...” He releases Ginny’s hand runs his fingers through his hair. “Scorpius told me that Draco thinks there’s something going on. He hears things, you know? He has contacts that we don’t.”
“Do you think there’s something going on?” Ginny asks, crossing her legs and resting her hands in her lap as she looks at him, attentive and curious, not showing any fear even if she feels it. That solidity and courage is what has always helped to keep Harry strong too.
“I don’t know, Gin.” He reaches across and takes hold of her hand. “There are things I haven’t seen before, not in a long time. Movements, whispers, odd stuff. It could mean something, it could mean nothing. But it’s definitely something to keep an eye on. All of it, the Dementors, the strange stuff, everything. You never know when it’ll change from being just a whisper and become a real and present threat...”
Ginny kisses the back of his hand, then reaches across and hugs him. “You’ll deal with it. When it happens you’ll fight it. That’s what you do.”
He rubs her back and rests his chin on her shoulder. “I try. I wish I could do more. I wish I could protect everyone.” He sighs. “I wish I could protect Albus.”
“I know,” she murmurs, squeezing him tight. “I know.”
For a moment Harry sits and holds her, then a thought occurs to him and he pulls back. “Gin... They were attacked just outside Bristol.” He looks at her. “Why would they be in Bristol?”
Ginny shakes her head. “It’s a nice city? We went there on holiday once.“
Harry seizes hold of her hands. “No! It might be where Albus lives. Think about it, we know Scorpius lives at the Manor, Albus has no other connection to Bristol that we know about. Scorpius said they were on their way home. I bet Albus lives there.”
Ginny tugs on his hands. “Harry. Don’t get carried away. It’s the middle of the night, and you can’t go and knock on every door in Bristol on the off chance that Albus lives there. Even if you did, I don’t know if he’d answer.”
“I could break down his door?” Harry suggests.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think that would be the best way to convince him to talk to you.”
“I don’t need him to talk to me,” Harry says. “I need to know he’s safe.”
“Well,” Ginny says, giving his hands one last squeeze before letting go of him and shuffling down on the bed. “You can go and wake up everyone in Bristol, but I’m going to sleep.”
Harry shuffles up behind her and puts a hand on her side. “Maybe tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll get an Auror to do it.”
“On a Saturday?” Ginny asks, reaching out to switch off the light.
Harry kisses her shoulder. “I’ll pay them excellent overtime for it.”
Her laugh comes bubbling out of the darkness, then she rolls over in his arms, and he can see her smiling at him through the gloom. “You’re incorrigible,” she says.
Harry kisses her on the lips, slow and lingering. When he pulls back he brushes her hair off her face and looks at her as his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Tenacious,” he says.
“Obsessed,” she counters.
“I prefer driven.”
“Are you really going to knock on every house in Bristol?” She asks.
He removes his glasses and reaches across to put them on his bedside table. “I’m thinking about it.”
She rolls her eyes and kisses him again. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.”
Albus is lying spread-eagled on the gym floor, too exhausted to move. It’s a very hot day, and the single tiny window that’s open doesn’t let nearly enough air into the room. His clothes are all sticking to him, and he knows the whole place reeks of sweat – it always does in here.
“Get up,” Delphi says, nudging Albus’s leg with the toe of her boot.
Albus groans. “I can’t. You’ve killed me.”
“I could do a lot worse than make you work out.” She reaches out a hand, and he grips it and drags himself into a sitting position. “You need to go home and get changed.”
He brushes sweat soaked hair out of his eyes – some of it has grown long enough to start annoying him again – and peers up at her. The sweat stings his eyes, and he has to blink hard to try and get rid of it. “Why?”
“I’m taking you out tonight,” she says, perching on the corner of the weights bench. “You don’t have plans, do you?”
Albus shakes his head. “No, not yet. Scorpius and I haven’t had time to talk.”
Delphi waves a hand. “You can see him tomorrow, or Sunday. Spend all weekend in bed with him, I don’t care. I just want one night.”
Albus folds his arms and looks up at her. “Why do you want to hang out with me?”
Delphi shrugs. “I miss you. And we’re friends! Hanging out is what friends do, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Albus gets slowly to his feet, grimacing as his legs complain at him. “Just don’t make me do anything active. I need to take a million ice baths before I can move again.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Alright,” Albus says with a shrug. “I don’t see why not.”
Delphi grins and bounces on the balls of her feet. It’s so rare to see her look properly happy that Albus smiles too.
“Is there a dress code for this evening’s activities?”
“Anything that’s not drenched in sweat,” Delphi says, pulling a disgusted face at his current clothes. “You’d better shower too.”
“I’ll do it now. Where and when are we meeting?”
Delphi thinks for a second. “Meet me at eight. Inside the gate of Regent’s Park, near the tube station.”
Albus frowns. “Is this a Muggle date or something?”
Delphi snorts. “Hardly. Just a useful place to meet. Bring a broom.”
Albus grins. “Training isn’t a pleasant evening out, Delphi.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “I’m not taking you training. I thought you liked flying.”
“I know,” he says. “I was kidding. So I need to bring a broom and what else?”
“Two brooms,” Delphi says. “We’ll need two brooms. I don’t have one so I’ll need to borrow yours.”
Albus’s grin spreads right across his face. “You’re going flying? I thought you hated heights.”
“No,” Delphi says, pointing at him. “No, that’s not true. I’m perfectly fine with heights. I just think brooms are unreliable and unwieldy.”
Albus beams at her. “But you’ll get on one for me.” He claps a hand to his heart. “It must be love.”
Delphi picks his bag up from the floor and throws it hard at his chest. “Go on. Disappear. And don’t forget my broom.”
Albus catches the bag, still grinning, and swings it over his shoulder. “Oh don’t worry. I won’t.”
When Albus gets home, there’s a letter from Scorpius waiting for him. Even seeing Scorpius’s familiar handwriting – spidery and loopy, not quite elegant and just on the right side of illegible – is enough to make him grin. He tears the letter open and reads, hoping it’s not an invitation to go out tonight, because he’s not sure he can manage to turn Scorpius down.
Dear Albus,
I was wondering if you’d like to meet up for lunch/dinner tomorrow? I have to go to Gringotts in the morning for work, but after that I’ll be free all weekend.
Sorry I can’t meet up tonight. I’m doing some investigate work with my dad – it keeps him busy.
Thank you for last night. It was perfect, apart from the Dementors, but even they were vastly improved by you being there to help me.
I really hope to see you tomorrow. I also really hope you’re okay with replying to Owls, I suppose I should have checked that.
Happily yours,
Scorpius
Albus knows he’s smiling far more than he should be for such a short letter, but there’s something about Scorpius writing to him that makes his insides glow in the best possible way. Scorpius wrote to ask him out, Scorpius thanked him for last night, Scorpius joked about him being elusive, and Scorpius signed it all ‘happily yours’. Happily. Scorpius is happy, and Albus is overjoyed.
He finds a quill and parchment and starts scribbling a reply before remembering that he doesn’t actually have an owl. He’s spent so long refusing to reply to letters that now he wants to he doesn’t think he can.
With a sigh he casts around for what to do. He could Floo Scorpius, but Draco might answer, and the idea of that is terrifying. He could borrow an owl, or pay a Post Owl, but the post office will be shut by now. Maybe Delphi might have one, or-
A soft hoot from the direction of his sink catches his attention, and he spins round, blinking in surprise as he spots a familiar owl sitting on his draining board. He recognises her as Scorpius’s owl, Ariana.
“Hello,” Albus says, going over to her. “Did he tell you to wait? Your Scorpius is brilliant.”
She gives another hoot, then dips her head and starts clicking her beak under his kitchen tap. It takes him a second before he realises what she wants.
“A drink! Yes. Sorry, it’s a hot day.” He grabs a shallow bowl from his cupboard and fills it with water, then puts it on the side for her. Instantly she starts guzzling it down, and he leaves her to it while he goes and writes his note.
Scorpius,
I’m glad you enjoyed last night. I quite liked it myself. Maybe we could do it again sometime...
It’s fine that you can’t meet up tonight. Delphi’s taking me out on a ‘date’. I have no idea what we’re doing but I have to bring brooms. I think it’s a bonding thing.
If you want to meet up tomorrow you won’t keep me away. I’ll come to Diagon Alley and find you. I might not come as Albus though; I’d rather not cause a riot by having the entire universe recognise me. That might derail our date a little bit.
Have fun entertaining your dad.
See you tomorrow.
Love,
Albus
He rolls it up into a tight scroll before he can cross it all out and start again, casts a spell to seal it since he doesn’t have any wax, and takes it across to Ariana. She’s managed to upend the water bowl in her excitement and is now sitting on top of it, feathers fluffed up and mouth open, glaring at him.
“Well it’s not my fault if you’re going to cause a mess, is it?” He tells her. When he reaches for the bowl she hops off it, and he gives her another quick drink before holding the scroll out to her. “Can you take this to Scorpius for me?”
She eyes him, then snatches it out of his hand.
“I’m guessing that’s a yes. Are you going to carry that in your beak, or do you want me to-“ She takes off and soars out of the open kitchen window before he’s finished his sentence, and he sighs. “I suppose it’s not that far to Wiltshire.”
He puts his quill and parchment away and heads up to his room, where he picks out one of the neatest pairs of shorts he can find and a tank top that he barely ever wears to work out in. He showers and changes, pausing in front of the mirror to run a hand through his hair, which already needs cutting again – it’s growing far faster than it should be – then he digs out his third best broom, grabs his second best broom for himself, and Apparates to London.
Delphi is waiting just inside the park gates, bobbing from foot to foot and watching the passers by with a sharp, intense gaze. She’s so busy staring at a man wheeling a bike between the bright banks of flowers that he manages to sneak up on her and poke her in the arm. She jumps and whips her wand out. The next second it’s pressed hard to his throat, and he has to lift his chin to breathe, hands held up in surrender.
“Delphi, it’s me,” he chokes out. “Sorry. I thought it would be fun to-“
“Sneak up on me,” she says, withdrawing her wand and tucking it away in her pocket. “I could have cursed you, Albus. You should be more careful.”
“You could,” Albus says, eyeing the pocket her wand has disappeared into. “I just wanted to have a bit of- anyway. Thank you for not cursing me.” He holds one of the brooms out to her. “This is for you, as requested.”
“I almost hoped you’d forget it,” she says, taking it off him.
He grins. “Not a chance. I want to see you fly. I can give you some tips if you want.”
Delphi snorts. “I’m not taking tips.”
“Not even from the best broom racer around?” Albus hops onto his broom and looks at her. “Better while we’re on the ground than in the air.”
Delphi lifts her chin and swings her leg over her broom and grips the handle as she steadies herself. “It’s not as if I’ve never flown before.”
Albus frowns. “Have you flown before?”
“I work for a broom racing league,” Delphi says. “Of course I’ve flown before.”
She kicks off from the ground and rises a few feet. Albus can tell from the way she’s gripping the broom, hard enough for her hands to shake, that she’s far from relaxed, and it looks for a moment like the broom is considering rebelling against her. But then Albus reaches across and steadies it and it calms down under the familiar touch.
“Relax,” he tells her. “The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be. Like any magic I suppose.”
“I’m perfectly relaxed, Sev,” she says, wobbling as she lifts the handle of the broom and it rises rapidly, much faster than she’d clearly meant it to.
He laughs. “No you’re not.” He glides up beside her and puts a hand over hers. “Stop holding on so tight. I promise it’ll help.”
“Won’t that make me more likely to fall off?” Delphi asks, glancing across at him and nearly slipping sideways.
Albus grabs hold of her arm and pulls her upright. “Careful.”
“I told you it’d just make me more likely to fall off,” she huffs.
Albus sighs. “Relax your hands, concentrate, don’t look at me, don’t be scared, and you’ll be fine.”
“Oh is that it?”
Despite the tetchiness in her tone, she inhales, looks straight ahead, and slowly relaxes her grip. The effect is instantaneous. The broom levels out and seems to become lighter in the air. It’s not fighting anymore, but obeying Delphi’s touch, so when she lifts the handle it rises smoothly and gradually.
“That’s it,” Albus says, unable to keep a hint of smugness out of his voice. This is the one thing in the world where he actually feels as if he knows what he’s doing. This he’s allowed to be smug about.
“I was just testing you,” Delphi mutters.
“Uh huh,” Albus says, but he doesn’t push it any further. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to that big Muggle skyscraper – the Shard,” Delphi says. “Right to the top.”
“Are you sure you can make it that high without falling off?” Albus asks, shooting a grin at her.
She raises the handle of her broom in defiance, and they both ascend together, leaving Regent’s Park behind them and skimming away across London.
“My first flying lesson at Hogwarts was a dismal failure,” he tells Delphi as they go. “Did you know that?”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t.”
“I mean, everything at Hogwarts was a dismal failure, but that in particular was...” he sighs and shakes his head. “It was an unmitigated disaster. It wasn’t even that I’d never flown before and didn’t know what I was doing. You can’t grow up in my family without flying, it’s in our DNA. But when I got there I was so scared of getting it wrong that I couldn’t get the broom to listen to me. You can’t fly if you’re scared. Those school brooms are flighty at the best of times. They’ll only pay attention to confidence, talent, and sometimes hope. I didn’t have any of those things.”
He looks down at the city below them, at the rivers of cars flowing down the streets, at the tiny green squares, at the sparkling glass of the buildings, at the grass of the parks, drenched in the red sunset. The view is one of the things he’s grown to love most about flying. The world looks different up here. It looks more inviting. You can see how it works, how everything just happens and will continue to happen, how you don’t need to worry because things fall into place. It’s far more difficult to see that when you’re in amongst the chaos and you can’t find your place.
“That was the second time I felt like I didn’t fit in,” he continues. “And that was the worst. Once is a coincidence. Getting sorted into Slytherin... I still had some hope that things might be alright. But then the flying lesson fell apart and that was when I really knew that nothing would work. You can’t be a Potter if you can’t get a broom to obey you.”
“And now the brooms obey you,” Delphi says, “and you don’t want to be a Potter anymore.”
Albus skims his hand down the handle of his broom and bows his head. “I don’t know. For a long time I didn’t. I wanted to be anything else, any other name, any other family. But now... Now I just want to be me.”
“Sev?” Delphi asks.
Albus swallows and shakes his head. “No. Albus.”
Delphi glances in his direction for an instant, eyebrows raised, then looks straight back ahead.
“That’s not what you wanted to hear,” Albus murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not not what I wanted to hear,” Delphi says. “But it’s unexpected. I thought Albus was your past.”
Albus shakes his head. “I don’t know what he is. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know, Delphi.”
“How can you want to be someone you don’t know?” Delphi asks, pulling a face. “That makes no sense.”
“I know it doesn’t. But... I spent so long trying to be anyone other than Albus, and then I spent so long trying to be Sev... I don’t want to try anymore. I just want to be. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to be satisfied with my existence, maybe it’s impossible, but now seems like a good time to have a go.” He shrugs. “If it doesn’t work out maybe I’ll go back to being Sev, but I won’t know that it won’t work until it all goes wrong.”
Delphi nods, carefully considering. “Well firstly, it all went wrong before, so it probably will go wrong again. Secondly, no one’s satisfied with their existence, Sev. It’s impossible. Everyone’s unhappy. That’s how life works.”
“Is it?” Albus asks.
“Absolutely,” Delphi says, and she sounds so certain about it that Albus almost reconsiders. But then he remembers Scorpius. He remembers how happy he’d been kissing him. He remembers the golden glow of joy and contentment. He remembers his stomach swooping as he flew down the gorge the other night, when everything felt glorious and easy.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I really don’t know. And just because it went wrong before doesn’t mean... I’m older now. I think I might be more determined. I’m ready to fix things.”
“It’s going to be a disaster,” Delphi says, throwing him another glance. “You’ll get your heart broken again. We’ll have to fix it all again. Nothing will be better. Take the future you’ve got as Sev and run. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“What is the future I’ve got as Sev?” Albus asks.
Delphi grins. “Yes, about that.” She takes one hand off her broom and gestures to the towering spire of the Shard in front of them. “Allow me to show you.”
They soar up over the lip of the tower, and Albus gently touches down on the flat roof right at the top, nestled between the jagged top pieces of the four glass walls. He waves Delphi in, encouraging her down, and when she gives up and hops lightly off a couple of feet off the ground, he grabs her hand to support her.
“I hate brooms,” she says, glaring at it and shuddering. “Anyway.” She gives him a dazzling smile. “Welcome, Sev, to the roof of the world.”
Albus looks around at the city spread out below them, all streams of twinkling light, fractured and segmented by the dark river and train lines. “What are we doing up here?” He asks. “This is a little bit illegal.”
Delphi tuts. “Your entire existence is illegal. Come and sit.” She takes hold of his hand and guides him to the edge, where she sits with her feet dangling over the endless drop. When Albus hesitates to join her she rolls her eyes.
“You’ll sit on that thing and fly all the way up here but you won’t hang your feet over the edge? Come on.”
“They’re two very different things,” he says, but he reluctantly sits next to her, putting his feet over the edge and doing his best not to look straight down.
“Good boy.” She pats his hand, then twists round and starts rummaging in her bag. “Here. I need a drink after that flight.” She pulls a bottle of Firewhisky and two shot glasses out and sets them down between the two of them.
“We’re getting drunk at the top of a very tall building before flying home?” Albus smiles. “It’s like you have a death wish.”
“And you don’t?” She pours him a liberal helping of Firewhisky. “Drink.”
He sighs, but there’s no real reluctance as he takes the drink and knocks it back in one. It sears the back of his throat and makes his toes curl, but it’s good. It’s delicious. Already he can feel it numbing his senses in the most perfect way, and he grins and leans back on his hands, kicking his heels against the metal beam supporting them.
“So,” he says. “Why have you brought me to,” he gestures the width of the skyline, “the roof of the world?”
“I wanted to remind you what the world looks like from above,” Delphi says, looking at him. She’s holding her own glass of Firewhisky in her hand, but hasn’t drunk any yet. “Do you remember,” she says, “when you first ran away, and that night when you were really upset, we went and sat at the top of the stadium during the race?”
Albus remembers. He remembers like it was yesterday. He hadn’t started racing yet, he was afraid of everything and feeling more inferior than he ever had. The fire all seemed so much hotter back then, before he’d truly been bitten by it. The racers all seemed faster, the crowds noisier, and every time he saw someone in blue robes he’d flinch, terrified that his dad or one of the Aurors had found him. He couldn’t race. He couldn’t do anything. He was worse than useless.
And on the day when he most wanted to go home – when his mum’s first letter to him arrived and he made the mistake of reading it, when he’d spent the whole day crying – Delphi had found him and brought him to the top of the stadium where they’d been racing. It was an old Quidditch World Cup stadium, back from when his dad had still been in school, perched out on a desolate moor side, away from the world. The sides were steep, towering up into the air, an enormous bowl shape, and when he was standing on the pitch Albus felt like an ant, tiny, inconsequential, and more than a little bit lost. But from the top they could look down on everything and everyone. The fire felt less hot up there, the noise less overwhelming, even the race looked slower. Albus relaxed and saw the beauty of it all, and Delphi talked him through it.
“This is your life now, Sev,” she said. “Embrace it. Own it.”
“The future is mine to make,” he murmured, and she nodded and wrapped an arm round him.
“You’re free, so let yourself feel free. Let go. You can do this.”
He took a breath and leaned against her. “I-I can.”
“Whenever you get scared,” she said, “imagine you’re up here. Everything is smaller than you, everything is laid out for the taking. You can do whatever you want.”
“I want to win a race,” he said. “Just one. Then I might feel like I belong.”
Delphi snorted. “You’d better win more than one. But one is a good starting point. And you can do it. I have complete faith in you.” She turned and looked at him. “Make all this yours. Believe that it’s here to let you become who you should be, and nothing will ever stop you.”
“This is your world, Sev,” Delphi says. “This is our world. We can do whatever we want, and nothing can ever stop us.” She downs her shot of Firewhisky in one, throwing her head back, so her silver ponytail swishes behind her. When she’s done, she pours two more shots and hands one to Albus. “You’ve got so grounded over the last week. I can see you forgetting all this. You’re getting weighed down by life again, by people. By Scorpius, your parents, your past. Don’t lose this,” she says, gesturing to the view. “Don’t lose your freedom. Don’t become stoppable.”
Albus braces his hands on the edge of the building and looks down at his knees. He can see the drop beyond, and it makes him feel vulnerable and queasy. “I hate it though,” he says. “This feeling that I’m floating and there’s nothing holding me down. Some days it feels like I could disappear and no one would notice. I suppose in a way I’ve already done that...”
“Sev isn’t someone who could disappear,” Delphi says, patting his hand. “Everyone knows Sev. Everyone loves Sev. Sev is a winner; a hero. You’re not going anywhere.”
“But...” Albus sighs. There’s no point explaining to her again that he doesn’t know if he wants to be Sev anymore. Clearly she doesn’t understand. How can someone like Delphi, who’s so certain and put together, possibly understand what it’s like to feel fractured, to be so many different people but no one all at once. She can’t know what it’s like to feel like he’s playing pretend, like he’s trying to be someone but failing. She knows who she is. She’s nothing but what she appears to be, and that’s the thing Albus has always envied about her most of all.
“Sev,” she murmurs, and she leans across to kiss him on the cheek. “Stop thinking.”
I can’t, Albus thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Instead he knocks back his second shot of Firewhisky.
“Good,” Delphi says. She ruffles her fingers through his hair and pulls back to look at him. “You need to cut it again. It’s got longer.”
Albus sighs. “I know. I only cut it the other day. I quite like it this length, though. It doesn’t look too much like my dad’s, does it?”
“It’s about as scruffy as his,” Delphi says, running her fingers from his forehead all the way back to his neck, examining every inch. “If I were you I’d cut it. But I’m not you, and clearly you’re going to do whatever you want anyway.”
“Sev would want it shorter,” Albus says, tugging on a bit of his fringe to pull it into view. He looks at it for a moment, then lets it ping back into place as he pours himself another shot.
For a while after that they sit quietly, listening to the distant sounds of the bustling city below. A train rattles along the tracks below them, car horns honk as people in bumper to bumper traffic struggle to get home from wherever they’ve been all day, people shout and laugh, an aeroplane soars overhead, a stiff breeze rushes past Albus’s ears. And above it all, the moon and stars hang, utterly silent but ever watchful. They see everything.
Delphi takes two more shots, and is nursing a third between both hands when she speaks again and breaks the silence between them.
“Do you ever think about what it would be like to rule over all this?”
Albus snorts and knocks back his third shot. “No. I can’t say I do. Why?”
“I do,” Delphi says. She takes her shot and picks up the bottle to pour another. “All those people out there answering directly to you, listening to your every word. You get to decide everything. You control it all. Everyone’s lives at your mercy...” She shakes her head and her eyes glint in the moonlight. “That would be... it would be incredible. All that power.” She inhales, tipping her head back like she wants to draw in as much of the sweet night air as possible.
Albus smiles and reaches across to take the Firewhisky bottle from her. “Delphi, I think you might have had enough to drink now.”
“No!” She holds the bottle away from him. “I’m fine. Just imagine it, Sev. We could have anything and everything we ever wanted. We could have palaces, fame, fortune. You could even have Scorpius if you wanted. And you would never disappear. Everyone would know your name. Everyone.”
Albus rolls his eyes and makes another grab for the bottle. “You have definitely had too much to drink. Is this what you think about in your spare time? Being supreme ruler of the universe? Because it’s a bit weird, Delphi.”
“It’s not weird,” Delphi says. “It’s ambitious. You’re a Slytherin. You understand ambition, I know you do.”
“Well yes, but-“
“Then you must have thought about this too.” She pours another shot and downs it in one before relinquishing the bottle and spreading her arms, a manic gleam in her eyes. “When you’re up here everything is laid out for the taking. You can have whatever you want. And I want everything.”
“There’s ambition,” Albus says, putting the bottle as far away from her as he can get, “and then there’s world domination. Those aren’t the same.”
“They can be if you try hard enough,” Delphi tells him, and he can tell that she’s deadly serious. “Can I have the bottle back?”
Albus shakes his head. “You may not have the bottle back. You have to fly down from here and you were bad enough sober. No more alcohol for you.”
“I don’t need the broom,” Delphi says, wrinkling her nose. “I can just jump. Jump and fly.”
Albus reaches out and takes hold of her arm. “Delphi, I’m not letting you jump off a building. We’re getting down now. Come on.”
“But-“
Albus shakes his head. “No.” He scrambles to his feet, holding the bottle well out of her reach, and tugs on her hand. “Up you get.”
Delphi groans and gets up. “You’re such a spoilsport, Albus.”
“That’s me.”
She makes another grab for the bottle, but he just about keeps it away. He fumbles in his pocket for his wand and points it at the bottle to vanish it. Even though he’s never successfully vanished anything before in his life, the bottle disappears in an instant, and he stares at his empty hand in amazement.
“Did you just vanish my Firewhisky?” Delphi asks, sounding as stunned as he feels.
“I-I think I did...” Albus says, still staring at the space where the bottle should be.
Delphi catches hold of his arm and pulls it towards her so she can examine his hand. “Albus Severus Potter. You vanished my Firewhisky. I can’t believe you. I thought we were friends.”
He laughs. “We are. I’ll get you a new bottle, once your feet are firmly back on the ground.”
“But I wanted us to get drunk while we survey our future kingdom.”
“Well,” Albus says. “You’ve succeeded in the getting drunk part. Do you want to go on the back of my broom on the way down?”
Delphi shakes her head and wraps her arms round him, holding him tight and looking at him. Her eyes are dark with her back to the moon, but they burn, hot as coals. She brushes her fingers over his cheek and down to his left shoulder onto his back, where she lets it rest right over the wing tattoo on his shoulder blade.
“Will you be in my future?” She asks softly. “Will I be in yours?”
Albus rests a hand on her back, holding her steady. “Of course. Both. You’re my best friend, Delphi.”
“Will you still think that tomorrow when you’re in bed with Scorpius?”
Albus’s face goes hot, despite the sting of the cold wind. “You saved me, Delphi. You showed me that I have a future. You brought me up here to show me the world and get me drunk on Firewhisky. You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect.” He runs a hand over her bare back, where he knows her wing tattoo is exposed. “You and Scorpius aren’t in competition. I want you both and I need you both. A future without either of you isn’t a future I’m interested in, so don’t worry about that.”
He kisses her on the cheek, and she closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder.
“Good,” she murmurs.
“But,” he says, gently tickling her side to get her attention back. “If you fall off a broom now and die then I’m going to have to live without you, which isn’t a great prospect, so I think we should get down from here now, and I think you should ride on the back of my broom.
“I can fly myself,” she protests, lifting her head.
“Can you?”
She twists round and glances at the brooms. “Okay fine. Maybe I’ll ride with you. I hate brooms.”
Albus kisses her forehead. “I know. Let’s get you home.”
#Harry Potter and the Cursed Child#Cursed Child#Cursed Child Fic#Scorbus Fic#Scorbus#Scorpius Malfoy#Albus Severus Potter#Harry Potter#Ginny Potter#Delphini Diggory#Draco Malfoy#HPCC Fic#Keep The Secrets#My writing#Mine to Make#Mayhem to the nth degree
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Arlen Schumer: The Frederator Interview
Arlen Schumer is the designer and illustrator of our Frederator Fredbot, the robot that’s inspired so many variations.
You read that right.
We all hear so much from fans about our “red robot” that I thought the time was right for Arlen to design something for us again, 20 some-odd years after his first.
So here it is! The 2019 Frederator New Year’s poster. (You can see some of the poster’s development work here.)
Arlen’s not only a fantastic artist/designer, but he’s a prolific pop culture historian with some great books and essays to his name, and a thriving lecture series on some of the famous (and even more unsung heroes) of comic book art.
How did Arlen Schumer come to Frederator? And how did Arlen come to art, specifically, comic book art? As you can read below, he and I have known each other and worked together for several years, even pre-Frederator.
All this and more, in the first Frederator interview of 2019.
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Hi Arlen. When did you start drawing?
I grew up in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, a great place in the early-mid ‘60s, with equal parts bucolic American suburbia and small-town Rockwellian, pop culture ambiance—everything from an uber-Jewish deli like Petak’s to Plaza Toy & Stationery, which had a classic 20th Century soda fountain: it was there, after school, that I read all the comic books of my youth while drinking chocolate egg creams (with a pretzel log, natch). And because Fair Lawn, like all of New Jersey, was in the shadow of New York City, I grew up on all that pop culture through television, not just the 3 networks but the 3 local stations that showed everything from the old Universal monster movies to The Little Rascals to The Three Stooges to the George Reeves Superman TV series.
One of those local TV shows, a children’s show called Diver Dan, which was filmed in black & white to look like it took place underwater—the actor, in a deep-sea diver’s suit (with a helmet that never revealed his face, so he was like a superhero), walked slowly like he was underwater, surrounded by pop fish hanging by wires—triggered my interest in drawing, as I watched my brother draw him first, and copied him. I’ve been drawing ever since!
What was the first comic you fell in love with?
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Giant Superman Annual #7 (Summer ’63): Not only is its cover the hands-down greatest of all the great multiple-panel Superman Annual covers that Superman Artist of the Baby Boom Generation (and my first favorite artist) Curt Swan drew in the ‘60s—not only does it feature perhaps the greatest single Superman figure ever rendered by Swan (in pencil; head of DC coloring Jack Adler did the hand-painted grey wash tones over it) or any Superman artist, before or since—but it is the first comic book cover I can recall ever seeing, when I was five years old, in summer camp that year. What an image to come into the wonderful world of comics by!
What was your first professional job as an artist?
My summer job between freshman and sophomore years at art school (Rhode Island School of Design), creating black & white line illustrations for a t-shirt silkscreening company in Fair Lawn.
I know that you count Neal Adams as a primary mentor? Were there any others?
Neal Adams was one of two Gods of Comic Book Art in the late-‘60s: the other was Jim Steranko, who was described as the Jimi Hendrix of comics, because Steranko’s career was as meteoric in its rise, and as short-lived. Though Steranko didn’t die in ’70 like Hendrix, that’s when he left Marvel Comics after less than 4 years of explosive and experimental works—and, like Hendrix, his impact on both the art form and its audience was in converse proportion to the relatively small amount of work he turned out. In particular, Steranko’s design sense and typographic talents were a tremendous influence on my choosing to major in Graphic Design at RISD.
It was sometime in my junior year there that I must’ve written Steranko a fanboy letter, gushing about those very things—and much to my shock and surprise, he wrote me back, inviting me to come see him in his home/studio in Reading, PA! So I took a bus from Providence, RI to Reading, and spent the day with Steranko—except I barely remember a thing about it! Why? Because I think I was having a Dr. Strange-like ectoplasmic out-of-body experience the whole time I was with him—I, a fan, spending quality time with one of the Twin Gods of Comics!!!
He wanted me to leave RISD and begin working with him as his apprentice! I couldn’t believe what he was offering me; I remember the bus ride back to Providence in a daze, feeling the utter cliché come to life of my future like the road in front of me: I could either stay on the main highway of getting my college degree, or take that exit ramp and join the circus! What do you think I did?
I stayed in school and got my diploma a year later. Had it been freshman year, maybe I would have left; but not when I was a year away from matriculating—not to mention honoring my mom’s sacrifice of putting me through school financially. But I’ve remained in touch with Steranko ever since, and feel both fortunate and unique, that I am the only fanboy who grew up to not only work for one of the Twin Gods of Comics (I ended up working for Neal Adams 3 years after I graduated from RISD), but almost worked for the other, too!
And then, Fred, there was—YOU! You were one of the first great professionals I met/interviewed with after I graduated from RISD and moved to New York City, when you were still at Warner-Amex having just created the MTV always-changing logo [actually it was Manhattan Design; I was the company creative director]. You impressed me as someone who was “real,” who didn’t hide behind a phony “professional” mask. We stayed in touch after that, and you gave me my first real breakout illustration job when I went solo as a freelancer a few years later, designing and illustrating an animated 30-second spot for a radio station, working with Colossal Pictures in LA (who later became Pixar)—and a NY metro-area billboard to go along with it!
Since then, we’ve done a bunch of great things together, up to and including this Frederator poster! And I’ve watched you wade through your own career waters as a multi-dimensional leading man, wearing so many different hats over the years—the decades—which has inspired me to cultivate my own Renaissance Man attributes. I’ve always described you to others as a mensch, the ultimate New York pro who’s got a great big beautiful heart an d soul to match his creative mind. If I could ever be described that way one day, I would consider that to be the highest compliment I could ever receive!
How about the mentors that you never met?
My father died when I was only four months old; my mother raised my older brother (by a year and a half) and I herself. Neither of my grandfathers was alive, and, though I had a handful of uncles, I would only see them a few times a year at family gatherings. So I had to find surrogate father figures elsewhere—and I found them in the American Pop Culture I grew up with in the’60s, in roughly this chronological order: Sean Connery’s James Bond, my first idealized masculine role model (the first movie I ever recall seeing, when I was around four-five years old, was Dr. No, the first Connery Bond, at a drive-in theater); Twilight Zone’s Rod Serling, a pop prophet of moral righteousness in the vast television wasteland, looking cool as all get-out in those incredibly tight TZ introductions—all of my artworks based on the series can be seen as my ways of honoring Serling’s legacy as a son would honor his father’s; and the superheroes in comic books, first and foremost Superman and Batman (the Yin-Yang of the genre), pseudo-paternally teaching me right from wrong, good from evil, and standing up and fighting for one’s beliefs. These are the things I suppose sons learn from the fathers, as well as their religious and academic authority figures. But “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Comic Books”!
You've published a few pop culture histories, and given countless lectures on various great, neglected figures. What got you started as an historian?
I don’t know how any artist in any genre or medium, if they truly love their work, cannot also be equally-interested in the history of that art form. When Keith Richards plays any of his classic Rolling Stones licks, he knows which black bluesman he nicked it from; filmmakers like Spielberg and Scorsese know the history of film like they know their own films. And the history of comics is as rich in artistic triumphs (and personal tragedies) as the histories of the other major 20th Century art/entertainments: film, television, popular music and rock and roll.
When I was a senior at RISD, for my degree project, I toyed with designing an exhibit of comic book art, and when I went looking for a theme, the only subject that seemed both worthwhile of my passion for the material and deep enough for the demands of the assignment was one based on the comics I grew up with in the 1960s, and the artists who drew them, the twin founts from which I drew the inspiration to become an artist. Though I never did that exhibit (I ended up doing a giant autobiographical photo-comic instead), I kept the ideas and images that I gathered, in the hopes that one day I’d use them in some other form. Many of those 1979 layouts are the same ones I’ve used in my book published in 2003, The Silver Age of Comic Book Art; its introduction, in which I place the images and ideas encountered throughout the book in a socio-political, historical framework, is composed of essentially the identical concepts from my aborted exhibit idea.
The idea to do a book instead on this period of comic book history goes back even further, to 1970, when Jim Steranko, on the heels of his amazing barnstorming stint at Marvel Comics, wrote, designed and published the first of his twin-volume History of Comics, which remain the best books of their kind, and were—and continue to be—a source of inspiration. Except they were about The Golden Age of Comics (circa 1938-1950), the period Steranko grew up with and was affected by, not The Silver Age of Comics (circa 1956-1972) that I, and the entire Baby Boom Generation, was turned on to.
Steranko himself might have been inspired by the first great book about comic book history, Jules Feiffer’s 1965 The Great Comic Book Heroes, even though it’s more of a handful of wonderfully written, witty essays on specific Golden Age superheroes Feiffer followed avidly as a boy, accompanied by reprints of the origins or earliest adventures of those heroes. Feiffer may not have realized what it was like to be an 8-year old comic book fan in 1966 and hear that there was actually a book in the Fair Lawn public library about comics!
How did you come to design the Fredbot?
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When you asked me to come up with my take on the classic Japanese-influenced sci-fi trope of the giant-monster-attacks-the-tiny-people back in 1997 for your first Frederator brand image—but make it a robot, and make it look like you [I don’t remember this last part], to boot—I immediately thought of the animated robot Gigantor, one of the first Japanese anime to reach American shores in the wake of the Batman TV series in 1966. Once I started drawing my version of Big G, it was a no-brainer to add the distinctive Seibert horned-rim eyeglasses, topped by the equally-distinctive Seibert eyebrows, and voila! Fredbot!
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OK, I know you love Bruce Springsteen. How come?
I believe there are Four Pillars of Rock & Roll, in roughly chronological order: Elvis, Dylan, the Beatles, and Jimi Hendrix, representing the greatest voice, lyrics, band, and guitar; hence, The Four Pillars.
Like Elvis, Bruce is a singular, dynamic presence with a commanding vocal power; his lyrics and songs have stood the test of time and made him the only one of the many “new Dylans” to actually live up to the label, living a true, real rock & roll life while writing it down, The Great American Novel but on records, great American songs chronicling not only his life and career, but that of the postwar generation that has come of age with him, timeless anthems like “Born To Run,” “Thunder Road” and “Born in the USA,” just to mention three of his greatest hits; with The E Street Band, Bruce captured the sheer joy, enthusiasm and positive energy of the early Beatles; and, like Hendrix and any of the other guitar gods—Clapton, Page, Van Halen, The Edge—Bruce has played searing, soulful, melodic leads with the best of them.
But Bruce isn’t one of those rock & roll pillars—he’s the rock & roll roof built over them, the complete rock & roller, putting it all together as no one has before. Bruce Springsteen is, quite simply, the promise of rock & roll...delivered.
His uncompromising and unparalleled creativity, body of work, attitude, and performance and work ethic have been an inspiration to me since I first heard the song “Born to Run” over a tinny AM car radio when I was 17 years old in the summer of ’75. Especially when I lecture, I employ what I call the “Springsteen Performing Style,” which is to give your 110% all to your audience, whether it’s 10 people or 10,000 people.
Bruce is also a bonafide moral leader for our age, doing what a true leader should be doing: living his life by example, and using it to inspire and exhort others to do the same.
He is the true President of the United States.
Thanks for the interview Arlen. And of course, thanks for the Fredbot! Happy New Year!
#Arlen Schumer#Fredbot#frederator#poster#2019#The Frederator Interview#posters#illustration#interview#artist#graphic design
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All Summer Long | Chapter Eight
Summary: AU where Draco Malfoy gets stuck in his Animagus form, and Harry Potter unsuspectingly takes him in. Set post-war. | Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
The walk to the chair in the center of the room seemed so far with all eyes on him. The entirety of the Wizengamot was seated, and the moment the doors opened and he stepped in, their voices dropped first to a whisper and then to silence. The back of his neck heated up, and he tried to focus his attention on the chair alone. The chains dangling from them did little to ease his worry. The last time he’d seen this chair, they had wound their way around his father’s arms and legs, keeping him in place even though there hadn’t been much of a fight in him to begin with.
Draco took a deep breath sat down, and Harry made eye contact with him as he passed by to sit at the chair behind Draco’s, but for the first time, it did little to reassure him.
Looking up directly at the members of the Wizengamot only made it worse. There were few kind faces. Kingsley’s stood out in the center, but Harry had warned him, Kingsley’s word weighed the same as everyone else’s when it came down to the vote.
It only took a moment for Draco to find Matthews. He looked down at Draco with a cold and calculating look that made Draco’s stomach drop. Before Draco had too much time to dwell on what it could mean, Kingsley cleared his throat. “I believe everyone here wants to get this over with. It’s been a while since we’ve needed to convene.” A quill beside him perked up and began to scribble, presumably taking notes. “Are you ready to start, Mr. Malfoy?”
“I am.” Draco’s voice wobbled, and he cleared his throat before repeating, more firmly, “I am, sir.”
“And you as well, Mr. Potter?”
“I am,” Harry called out behind him.
“Excellent. Interrogators are Averill Tyne Matthews, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Freya Malvoia Tyndall, high-ranking official within the Office of Aurors. Witness for the defense is Harry James Potter, high-ranking official within the Office of Aurors. Today’s date is September twenty-fourth. Mr. Malfoy is called forth for breaking the Decree for the Registration of Animagi. I will let Averill Tyne Matthews proceed.”
Despite Matthews’s best attempt to appear calm and balance, Draco spotted the malicious glint in his eyes. “Mr. Malfoy, are you aware that under section two of the Decree for the Registration of Animagi, wizarding law clearly states that all wizards who are attempting to transfigure themselves must register themselves in the Ministry’s official records no later than the first day of successful transformation.”
“I am.”
“When – may I ask – was your first successful transformation?”
“Three years ago. Maybe a little more.” Draco could see a few members of the Wizengamot glancing between themselves. Harry had warned him that the closeness of his first transformation to his father’s imprisonment would be easily manipulated by Matthews.
“And are you aware why the Decree was set in place?”
“To ensure wizards did not abuse their powers as Animagi.”
“More specifically, do you know the history of the law?” Matthews asked. He tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips. The history of the law hadn’t come up, and Draco looked behind to Harry, who looked just as bewildered. When Draco looked back at Matthews, an unmistakable smirk had formed.
“Why is the history of the Decree relevant to Mr. Malfoy?” Harry asked. Draco couldn’t help but think his name sounded strange coming out of Harry’s mouth like that.
“I take it that you don’t know the history either, Mr. Potter. Then this will be a learning moment for both of you.” Draco wanted to object. It was clear that Matthews was attempting to belittle both of them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see where Matthews was going with this.
Harry must not have either because Draco saw him step forward out of the corner of his eyes. “But why is it relevant?” Harry asked again.
“It is relevant because if Mr. Malfoy had known the history, he would understand what a clear abuse of power this is, and considering his family’s history with such matters…” He trailed off. The tips of Draco’s ears burned, but he knew better than to push back.
“Mr. Malfoy is not his father nor his family history. In fact, he and his mother were cleared of charges seven years ago.”
“Pardoned and with your recommendation, if I remember correctly,” Matthews said. Draco hadn’t known whose recommendation it had been, and despite the pink tinge to Harry’s cheek, the defiant look in Harry’s eyes only grew.
“With almost unanimous agreement from the Wizengamot that they did not deserve the same fate as Lucius Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was surprisingly steady. Had Draco closed his eyes, the two would have sounded no more unnerved than they might have been over a friendly debate over a Butterbeer, but their tight-lipped expressions said it all. “I won’t press any further. If you’d like to continue with your history lesson,” Harry said.
“I agree. I think we would all like to hear the point you’re trying to make,” Kingsley said, cutting through the tension. Underneath his kindness, a sharp edge in his voice warned not to press their luck.
“In the late 1920s, there was an unsettling amount of people using their Animagus forms as disguises to commit crimes. They were not tracked easily. Floo Powder, Portkeys, even Apparition to a certain degree – these were all easy methods to trace back to a specific witch or wizard. But no one was looking for an animal, so it was easy for Animagi to leave stealthily without people knowing that they’d ever left at all. There was an increasingly high rate of Animagi linked to the uprising of the Dark Arts. So, in 1933, the Ministry decreed that all Animagi must be willing to sign themselves to a registry so that Ministry officials could better keep track of them.” Matthews paused. “Why didn’t you want to come forward if you had nothing to hide, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco stared blankly at Matthews, trying to process the implication. “You believe that I’ve been using my Animagus form to – what – scurry off and practice the Dark Arts like some wizards did almost a century ago?” He knew he was supposed to remain calm. It was the one thing Hermione had warned him about most in their practices, but the jump between Matthews’s points seemed impossibly ridiculous.
“No one said anything about the Dark Arts, Mr. Malfoy!” Matthews shook his head. “I merely asked if you had anything to hide. If that’s what you heard, though, I think that speaks more of you than it does of me.”
“The implication was there,” Draco said, trying to steady his voice. “And I had nothing to hide. I just wanted peace and quiet.”
“From what?”
The truth sounded bad. To say he wanted time away from the Ministry’s watchful eye would only make cement the belief that he had something to hide, but it was the only explanation he had. “I spend eight to ten hours a day at St. Mungo’s for work. I understand why the Ministry wanted me under close surveillance, but I couldn’t leave to go grab a drink without being followed.”
“So you go to Knockturn Alley to grab drinks, then?” Matthews asked.
“Yes.” Matthews didn’t say anything for a moment. The lingering silence felt heavy, and Draco shifted in his chair.
“How has your financial situation been since the war?” The sudden switch of topic surprised him.
“Did you want to know my salary?” A sarcastic edge crept up in his voice that made Draco wince. But beside him, he heard – just barely – Harry chuckle quietly enough that only he could hear.
“That won’t be necessary.” Matthews scowled. “Compared to before the war, how is it?”
Draco could feel bile making his way up his throat as he realized where this was likely going. He swallowed thickly and took a deep breath before replying. “It was better before.”
“Your general standing in the wizarding world must have gone down following your father’s imprisonment,” Matthews said. “That must have been hard.”
“You’re leading,” Harry interrupted. “I think you’re insulting the intelligence of everyone in this room if you pretend like we don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“Fine, then I’ll cut to the chase. Mr. Nott offered evidence stating that he believed Mr. Malfoy was using his Animagus form not to grab drinks in Knockturn Alley – which, if we think about it, is a relatively flimsy excuse – but rather to attend some underground meeting of wizards, several of You-Know-Who’s former followers, who were attempting to revive the Dark Arts.”
A murmur broke through the Wizengamot as Draco saw red. His hands twitched, and his throat closed as he stared at Matthews. He was afraid if he opened his mouth that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from yelling in protest. He could only imagine the glee on Theo’s face as he lied.
Harry stepped forward, moving in front of Draco and ran a hand through his hair, sending it every which direction. “Impossible. I presided over our conversations with Mr. Nott, and he never said any such thing.”
“After you stepped forward saying you were going to represent Mr. Malfoy, I asked Freya to conduct interviews of our own to ensure we had the complete story. Mr. Nott told us that he could tell you were biased toward the defendant and did not feel comfortable trusting you with this information.”
“Mr. Nott also told us that he had no idea of Mr. Malfoy’s whereabouts.”
“Did he know that Mr. Malfoy was at your residence?” Freya asked. She smiled coldly as both Harry and Draco looked at her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Mr. Nott did not, in fact, know of Mr. Malfoy’s whereabouts.”
“He was the one who cursed Mr. Malfoy in the first place! He had his wand. He knew where it took place, and when we questioned him about the altercation in front of the bar, he told us that it was Mr. Malfoy casting that spell in an attempt to hurt him.” Harry’s voice rose steadily as he spoke. “I don’t think I can name a single more unreliable witness.” The murmurs among the Wizengamot grew, and Draco’s eyes darted around, watching as people observed him, half with curiosity, half with disgust.
“Oh, I can,” she cut back, her eyes narrowing.
“Mr. Matthews. Ms. Tyndall. Both of you know better than to use a witness that has lied under oath,” Kingsley said.
“Fine,” Freya said. “But we should still consider what he said as a possibility. If Mr. Malfoy has been practicing the Dark Arts under our noses, I believe we’d all want to know.”
“Those are very serious claims,” Kingsley said. “And unless you have evidence –”
“What about his years at Hogwarts, tormenting other Muggle-born students? His hand in Albus Dumbledore’s death? I refuse to believe a boy like that would simply use transfiguration to grab himself a drink, in Knockturn Alley of all places!” Freya scoffed.
“If you are questioning his character, I am happy to call forth our first character witness,” Harry said. He turned to look at Draco. Draco wasn’t sure what it was, but the moment Harry looked at him, the anger on his face melted away. Instead, it was replaced by a calm, resolute look, and he offered Draco a fleeting smile before turning back around. “I’d like to call Hermione Granger.”
The doors to the courtroom swung open, and Hermione stepped in. She had changed from her work robes into dress robes and had since put up her hair. The worry flooding Draco began to ebb away, at least a little. This they had well-rehearsed, and there was only so much margin for Freya or Matthews to manipulate Hermione’s words. If nothing else, she was too clever to let them.
“Ms. Granger, can you please state your relationship with Mr. Malfoy,” Harry asked.
“Now or prior to the past few weeks?” Hermione asked.
“What was your relationship with him up until a few weeks ago?”
“Strained, I suppose is the nicest way of putting it. Mr. Malfoy was not particularly kind to me while we were at Hogwarts.”
“In which ways?”
“Well, it was clear he had grown up in a certain type of Pureblood family. He had been brought up to believe that Muggle-born magic folk were inferior to others.”
“How so?”
This was a script Draco knew well. He knew what Hermione was going to say emphasized his past for what it was – his past. Still, no matter how many times he heard it, the brutal honesty of it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“Mr. Malfoy general went out of his way to call me names, to insult me, and to try to get me in trouble.” Hermione ran a hand down her robes, smoothing them out. “He made it clear that he did not think I had a place at Hogwarts.
“And when would you say this changed?”
“By the end of our Sixth year, he seemed to realize that he was in over his head. His father had been linked to Voldemort –” People shifted at the name. “— by the end of our Fifth year, and as a compromise of sorts – from what I understand – he had agreed to take the Dark Mark.”
“Over his head doesn’t necessarily mean that he had changed his opinion on Muggle-borns.”
“No, it does not.” Hermione glanced over at Draco. “I don’t think I can answer for him when those opinions changed, but when we were captured by Snatchers during the war, we were taken to the Malfoy Manor, which had since been taken over by Voldemort. He had an opportunity to turn us in, and he chose not to. It would have been an easy way to get back into Voldemort’s good graces and to have us – well, I suppose to put it kindly – eliminated. But he chose not to. He lied.”
“That was several years ago?”
“Correct. It was during the war.”
“So, since then, you haven’t had much interaction with him?”
“Only recently.”
“And how would you characterize him?” Harry straightened his back, and Draco felt the painful knot in his stomach ease up a little more.
“Remorseful. Gentle. Definitely not the boy I knew. I’m not on my way to becoming friends with him, but had he been this way when we met, I am sure we would have been.”
“That’ll be all,” Harry said.
Matthews wasted no time in jumping in. He must have sensed that the resolve of certain people within the room was fading. Had Draco not been petrified and had he not heard it rehearsed before, he was certain he would have felt touched by Hermione’s words. Rehearsed or not, he knew they were sincere.
“How long have you been friends with Mr. Potter?” Matthews asked.
“Since we were eleven.”
“You, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Potter have even been characterized as best friends in articles and books.” He pressed his lips together.
“Yes.”
“There’s very little you wouldn’t be willing to do for Mr. Potter, then, I’m sure.” He chuckled, but it was devoid of any mirth.
“I would never lie, Mr. Matthews,” Hermione said, her voice still, “and frankly, I don’t appreciate that type of insinuation. It’s offensive.”
“I am certain you have your biases nonetheless. If Mr. Potter tells you that Mr. Malfoy can be trusted, naturally, you’d believe him.” Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but he interrupted her before she could. “I have friends whose word I would trust over all else as well.”
“I trust him. I don’t think he has any reason to lie in this matter. But I have always approached his claims with healthy skepticism.” As Hermione took a steadying breath, Matthews opened his mouth, but this time, Hermione cut him off before he could interrupt her. “More importantly, I am appalled that you think I would not tell you if I believed Mr. Malfoy was a serious threat to Muggle-borns. I understand that your family suffered losses in the war, Mr. Matthews. But this war was waged over people like me. People like me who were told that they not only didn’t deserve to be part of the wizarding world but didn’t deserve to live. If there was any part of me that believed that Mr. Malfoy could possibly be dangerous, I would not hesitate to inform you.”
For the first time, Matthews seemed stunned into silence. “Are there any further questions?” Kingsley asked after a moment. It was as if Draco could see the gears in Matthews’s head start moving as he tried to think of another question.
“No,” Freya responded. “I believe that’s it.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said. She turned on her heels, making the briefest of eye contact with Draco before walking out.
“If that’s all, we’d like to address the question of –” Matthews started, but Harry, clearly emboldened by his success with Hermione, stopped him.
“I’d like to call a second character witness. Neville Longbottom.”
Neville Longbottom? Draco furrowed his brow. Everything had been rehearsed over and over, yet no one had ever mentioned anything about Neville joining them. They had discussed other people, but Neville had never come up. All Draco wanted to do was to look to Harry for some explanation, but Harry wasn’t facing him, and even if he was, with all eyes on them, he wouldn’t be able to ask.
The doors opened, and Neville walked in. It was clear that he was making an active effort to keep his back straight and to appear calm, but he nonetheless looked more uncomfortable than anxious. He moved to the front of the court.
“Mr. Longbottom, will you state your relationship to the accused,” Harry said.
“Dra — err, Mr. Malfoy frequently tends to my parents. He is the primarily Healer for their ward.” Neville folded his hands in front of himself and looked around the court, making eye contact with several people.
“This isn’t how the two of you met, however?”
“No, it is not. We met at Hogwarts.” Neville chuckled nervously.
“Judging by your laugh I’d say you two did not have the best relationship.” Draco looked away from Neville. In the times that they had interacted, it had never come come up, even if he had frequently thought of it. “Mr. Malfoy, as everyone is well aware, used to be a certain way and hold certain beliefs. We went over this just before you with Ms. Granger. But I was wondering when you first interacted with Mr. Malfoy after your time at school.”
“We first interacted at St. Mungo’s four years ago, almost immediately after Mr. Malfoy began working there,” Neville said.
“And this was because of your parents.”
“Yes, they’re patients there.” Neville’s cheeks turned pink, and Draco felt a wave of pity. He had seen first-hand how hard this was for Neville. “There was an incident in the First Wizarding War.”
“And since you’ve known Mr. Malfoy at St. Mungo’s, how would you characterize him?”
Neville paused, clearly trying to find the right words. “Distant. Guarded. But very kind too. You’d never know it, though. I don’t think he wants you to.”
Draco had no clue Neville felt that way towards him, and his warm words caught him off-guard. Tears welled in his eyes, and he did his best to push them back.
“Can you elaborate on that?” Harry asked.
“Well, for example, two years ago was the first year I couldn’t spend Christmas with my parents. I had to stay at Hogwarts, and I felt incredibly guilty. I decided to leave the next morning and met with Ms. Edevane, and—"
“Who is that?”
“The head Healer on staff. And she told me that Mr. Malfoy had spent the entire afternoon and evening with them. I don’t think Mr. Malfoy would have ever told me himself that he did that.”
Draco’s cheeks flushed. He wanted to object. If he had just been Neville there and not a whole court, he would have. He had signed up for the Christmas shift as it was. It had only been his job. But it wasn’t his turn to speak, and Draco knew better than to interrupt.
“Thank you, Mr. Longbottom,” Harry said.
“Any further questions?” Kingsley asked, turning to look at Freya. She must have decided that there was little she could get out of Neville that she wanted because she did not hesitate before responding.
“That’ll be it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Longbottom,” Kingsley said, and Neville, after throwing Draco one final glance, walked out.
Once the doors had shut behind them, Freya spoke up again. “So both of the character witnesses you called are long-time friends of yours, Mr. Potter?”
“If you’d like, I could call Ms. Edevane, who Neville mentioned, to the stand. She graciously offered, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.” Harry tilted his head slightly and looked at Freya as if challenging her to test him.
As much as he didn’t want to rely on hope, it was obvious that Harry was beginning to feel more comfortable with where they were. Draco too had to admit that as far as he could tell, it was looking positive.
“That’s not necessary,” Freya muttered.
“Fine, presuming Mr. Malfoy’s character and motivations aren’t under scrutiny, he still broke a law, and under paragraph F, section three, the Decree for the Registration of Animagi states that ‘any witch or wizard who does not comply with these guidelines can be sentenced to up to one year in Azkaban!’” Matthews said. The witch to his right jumped and looked at him in concern as his volume steadily rose.
“What came of Rita Skeeter when she was discovered after the Second Wizarding War?” Harry asked.
“What do you mean?”
“She was unregistered, and yet it was never a question with her. Even though she’d been unregistered for decades. If we are going to administer punishments for these trespasses, we have to do it equally, don’t we?”
The final piece fell into place. That had been the crux of their argument when they had planned it out. Judging by the faces that Draco looked up at, it had landed.
“It seems we should take this to a vote,” Kingsley said. “Unless you have more evidence,” he said to Matthews. Matthews shook his head. “Then let’s vote. Those in favor of sentencing Mr. Malfoy, please raise your hands.”
This was it. This was the moment he’d replayed in his head since Theo had cursed him. Draco could barely watch. His stomach clenched, and he felt suddenly and strangely dizzy. But after what couldn’t have been more than fifteen hands — Matthews and Freya included — people stopped raising them. Kingsley glanced around. “I’d say we’ve reached a decision then.”
Before he had a chance to sink into a wave of relief, Matthews spoke again. “So he should just be pardoned? He was under watch. He was given explicit warnings by the Ministry to be on his best behavior. We can argue whether Rita Skeeter should have been punished if you want, but Mr. Malfoy clearly violates the terms of his pardoning. If not for breaking the Decree, for breaking his pardon, he deserves punishment!”
The floor fell underneath him. He had been so sure that was it. Of course it wasn’t, and Draco was already kicking himself for underestimating Matthews.
“I don’t understand what you want,” Harry said, the hard tone back in his voice.
“I want everyone to take a vote to decide if they believe Mr. Malfoy deserves some punishment, even if it isn’t Azkaban.”
Harry’s mouth opened and closed, and Draco could tell this was not a scenario he had planned for. He let out a small huff and nodded once. “Fine.”
“A vote then. Those in favor of a punishment — to be decided — outside of Azkaban, please raise your hand.” Kingsley sounded wary, but there was little he could do from his position presiding over the trial.
This time there were more hands. Draco counted as he saw them, first ten, then twenty, then—
“Twenty-eight to twenty-four in favor of a punishment.”
Draco wanted to collapse in his chair. It seemed wildly unfair. They’d been so close to getting free. Matthews, who had looked defeated only moments earlier, began to smirk again.
“Since it was your idea to call for a vote, I believe we should ask you if you had any suggestions for a punishment you see fit,” Kingsley asked. Draco’s gaze moved to Harry, and he saw Harry bracing himself for the worst as well.
Matthews pursed his lips together, contemplating, but Freya spoke first. “Might I suggest a year of house arrest.” She glanced over at Matthews, clearly aiming for his approval, and, after a moment, he granted it in the form of a terse nod.
Harry looked back at Draco as well. It was obvious he wanted to fight it just from the look of determination on his face, but Draco couldn’t stomach anymore of this. He had been so certain he was going to wind up in Azkaban. If house arrest was the worst they could do, he would make it work. “I’ll take it,” he said
Kingsley looked momentarily surprised as well but quickly recovered. “I believe we can adjourn then. We will schedule a follow-up meeting with Mr. Malfoy to discuss the terms of his house arrest.”
Draco sat in shock as the room cleared out. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he felt an odd floating sensation across his body. This was it. He was free. No Azkaban. He covered his mouth as he let out a choked laugh and turned to face Harry.
“I could have probably gotten you a lighter sentence. I don’t know why you didn’t let me.”
The giddiness was unstoppable though, even with Harry’s furrowed brow and frown. Draco couldn’t find it in him to be upset. Instead, he walked over to Harry.
“No really,” Harry insisted. “I wish you’d let me try to —“
Draco acted before he could entirely process what he was doing. Reaching up, he wound one hand into Harry’s hair and leaned down, pressing their lips together. He felt Harry tense up, but just as he was about to pull away, the gravity of his actions settling in, Harry reached a hand up as well and cupped Draco’s cheek.
Harry deepened the kiss, his lips parting as he let out a soft moan. Everything was clicking into place for Draco. He supposed it has never really been that far out of reach. After all, he had woken up this morning with Harry in his bed. And now —
Now he closed his eyes, smiling against Harry’s lips as he imagined his indignant scoff when he inevitably recommended him some chapstick to try out. Not that he cared that Harry’s lips were dry. After all, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Harry bit his lips constantly. A thrill went through him as he realized that there were many things he was sure he didn’t know about Harry that he was going to find out soon enough.
Draco let the scent of Harry’s cologne wash over him as he nipped at Harry’s lower lip, and his breath hitched. His hand loosened from Harry’s hair and moved down along his jawline, and Harry shivered under his touch. His stomach flipped as Harry lifted another hand and placed it on the small of his back, pulling him closer.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing a bit deeper, it struck Draco that they were still in the empty court room, and he beamed. “You did it. You really fucking did it!”
Harry looked as if he wanted to say something, but he decided better in the end and just leaned forward, kissing Draco again.
- - -
Chapter Nine
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today I went to the doctor to get an ultrasound and potential mammogram done on my left breast. as i repeated many times today and in the last few weeks, my left breast has felt swollen and tender in my luteal phase - unlike any pain or tenderness i had felt before. while i typically have tender breast around my period - think feeling very full and luscious, something randomly grazes your nipple and it feels more sensitive than usual (its noticeable now), and running down the stairs braless suddenly makes you feel like you need to hold them tight to your chest to make it to the bottom floor - anyhow. while this is all typical, the last two cycles included me feeling like my left breast was going to fall right off of my body. i would complain about it often, and i thought about the pain a lot and it made me want to just lay down and hold my breast, nothing was comfortable because i dont have proper bras for pain (now i kind of do).
so i felt this pain and then mentioned it at my last physical. the doctor said to come back if it hurt again (by then the pain had subsided due to my period coming). i asked what will you do if it hurts again and i come back. she says a breast exam, so i ask if we can just do that right now. she agrees but feels nothing abnormal to her. the pain returns next cycle in the same spot, so i schedule an appointment with that same doctor. I end up getting my period the day of the appointment and cannot make it. they say no appointments until january! wow. so i schedule with my gynecologist the next monday. before then, i take a bath and feel my breasts. i do feel a painful, swollen feeling lump to the left of my left nipple. i get very upset about this naturally.
i go to the gynecologist. she is very sweet and also feels what i felt. the pain was much less dramatic by that day, but she did feel the spot. i remember asking a lot of questions and she answered all that she could. she said it could just be normal cycle changes. i was getting really specific about hormones and she did not know the answer. she sent me for an ultrasound so that was today.
i went, they did the ultrasound and the technician, as my gynecologist had said, i had fybrocystic tissue. she said it changes texture as you age and that god makes all boob differently. i dont feel weird about her touching me at all, its fine. she says the doctor says everything looks normal and that i can get dressed and leave.
that... was not going to happen. i start asking some questions and as the technician is trying to draw tissue on paper for me, she goes to get the doctor. the doctor says that really we cant know what the thing on my breast is because it changes with my cycle. it could be fybrocistic tissue just getting more dense/swollen/whateveridontunderstand which happens with hormonal fluctuation. Or a cyst? But cannot know until it comes back. But they essentially said its all fine and i shouldnt worry.
But basically she is saying that at the rate of cancer at my age, I shouldn't get tested for these things because it costs too much money. She also said that I should do self breast exams day 7 of my period. She also said her society of doctors no longer recommends patients do breast exams because many people just feel their breast anatomy for the first time and think there are bad lumps because they are not used to the physical structure underneath breasts. so the ignorance leads to tests that people cannot afford. just come get mammograms when you turn 40. she said her friend asked her if she should get a baseline one at 35 and she said no. i asked why and she said necessary radiation, cost, and stress.
this was all very confusing because i feel like we were weighing financial and convenience risks against legitimate health concerns. like i clearly need to know my anatomy more (which she did recommend), but the main focus was on not wasting time and money on doing breasts testing. i wonder how breast care is in other countries. apparently 1 in 8 women get breast cancer in their lives. and there's a gene you can test for that i want to.
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Gold dips as buck enhances
Gold dropped as well as was heading for a weekly dip on Friday as a stronger buck, firmer yields as well as equity markets chipped away at its allure.
The spot gold price resolve at $1801.33 an ounce, place silver settle at $25.163 an ounce.
Bullion has dropped 0.7% today after briefly moving toward last week's one-month optimal, as anxieties over climbing Delta variant COVID-19 cases have actually alleviated, prompting financiers to move out of the safe-haven property as danger hunger returned.
" The spot gold market is seeking out a fresh essential chauffeur and also there actually isn't one," stated Jim Wyckoff, senior expert with Kitco Metals, keeping in mind weak actual returns as well as an enter COVID-19 instances were not enough to relocate costs higher.
" Technical investors are taking over as a result of the absence of fundamentals as well as gold's near-term technical position has actually turned adverse, inviting some investors to short the market," Wyckoff included.
Heaping pressure on the metal was a more powerful buck index that held close to a 3-1/2- month peak and firmer benchmark US Treasury yields. Higher returns often tend to weigh on gold, which pays no passion as it converts into a raised opportunity price of holding the steel.
Market focus now resorts to next week's U.S. Federal Reserve meeting after the European Central Bank on Thursday pledged to maintain rate of interest at record lows for some time.
" Global gold prices have actually located excellent support from the physical market on the drawback, but have actually battled to gain momentum as speculative positioning continues to be light," stated Suki Cooper, expert at Standard Chartered.
Holdings in New York's SPDR Gold Trust, the biggest gold-backed exchange-traded fund (ETF), were at their least expensive in greater than two months on Thursday.
UNITED STATE dollar blog posts second week of gains.
The U.S. dollar on Friday scratched a 2nd week of gains after an unpredictable few days when currencies moved with shifting danger appetite, with the market's emphasis now on next week's Federal Reserve meeting.
Some analysts asked yourself, however, whether the dollar's recent rally may be losing momentum.
The U.S. dollar index, which measures the paper money against a basket of 6 significant money, was somewhat higher on the day at 92.894. For the week, it was up 0.1%, after increasing 0.6% previously.
Yet that was off a 3-1/2- month high of 93.194 hit on Wednesday, bolstered by solid Wall Street earnings that assisted investors restore some confidence in the midst of concerns that the Delta coronavirus version might derail the worldwide healing.
Threat cravings continued to be high on Friday, with the rise in U.S. stocks, the sell-off in Treasuries, the gains in the majority of asset currencies, as well as the paper money coming off its peaks.
" Medium-term oscillators as well as energy are in sync on the benefit suggesting possibility greater highs ahead, such as 94.30-94.72 (on the dollar index)," said Dave Rosenberg, chief financial expert and strategist, at Rosenberg Research.
He additionally pointed out the possibility of a "Golden Cross" in the buck index, a graph pattern in which the 50-day moving typical crosses above the 200-day relocating standard, a bullish signal.
" Overall, the buck( index) leans toward more upside which might add to recent stress in global commodity prices as well as various other currencies. Assistance is at 92.00-91.50," claimed Rosenberg.
Much in July, the buck has actually gained 0.6%, after increasing 2.8% in June.
Erik Nelson, macro planner, at Wells Fargo Securities in New York, however, was not persuaded the buck can hold its gains in the coming weeks offered the decline in U.S. yields.
" The dollar looks worn out specifically after the rally of the last couple of weeks," stated "It seems to be running out of steam both from a fundamental and technical perspective.".
Financiers' following major focus is the Fed's two-day policy meeting following week. Considering that the June 16 meeting, when Fed authorities went down a reference to the coronavirus as a weight on the economic situation, instances have climbed.
Several economic experts still anticipate the meeting to advancement conversations for a tapering of stimulation.
Against the safe-harbor yen, the dollar increased 0.3% to 110.53 yen.
The euro was level at $1.1770, showing little response to the getting supervisor surveys coming out of France, Germany as well as the euro area as a whole.
Euro area business activity increased at its fastest month-to-month speed in over twenty years in July as the loosening of more COVID-19 constraints supercharged solutions, but concerns of an additional wave of infections struck organization confidence.
Oil steadies on forecasts for tight materials.
Crude oil prices were bit transformed on Friday and also Brent got on track to finish the week higher after a solid healing from Monday's steep slide, underpinned by assumptions that supply will stay tight with the year.
The cost of oil and also other riskier assets toppled at the beginning of the week on problem over the influence on the economic climate as well as unrefined need from surging situations of the COVID-19 Delta version in the United States, Britain, Japan as well as elsewhere.
Brent crude oil progressed 31 cents, or 0.4%, to clear up at $74.10 after leaping 2.2% on Thursday. U.S. West Texas Intermediate (WTI) crude resolved 16 cents, or 0.2%, higher at $72.07 per barrel, having actually acquired 2.3% on Thursday.
U.S. crude oil futures were set to finish the week bit altered, having actually decreased in the previous two weeks. Brent is set to gain 0.4% on the week.
" The demand concerns showed to be exaggerated, which is why oil costs have considering that recovered. In spite of the growth in oil supply, the oil market will certainly stay a little undersupplied until completion of the year," Commerzbank stated in a note.
Demand growth is expected to surpass supply after Sunday's bargain between the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) and allies, collectively referred to as OPEC+, to include back 400,000 barrels per day (bpd) each month from August
.
ANZ Research experts said in a report that the marketplace was starting to pick up the 400,000 bpd increase will not suffice to keep the marketplace well balanced and also stocks in the United States as well as throughout OECD countries would remain to drop.
U.S. crude oil inventories rose by 2.1 million barrels last week, however supplies at the Cushing, Oklahoma distribution point for U.S. crude struck their most affordable since January 2020.
" We still believe the OPEC+ driven dip in crude and extract rates is an acquiring opportunity and also project Brent will certainly hit $100/barrel next year, with extracts tagging along for the trip," Bank of America claimed in a note.
Dow tops 35000 as stocks rise to documents.
U.S. equities increased Friday with the major averages hitting new records as they got over concerns concerning financial development from earlier in the week.
The Dow shut above 35,000 for the very first time ever before, increased 238.20 points, or 0.68%, to 35,061.55, obtaining for a 4th straight day..
The S&P 500 gained 1.01% to 4,411.79 and also the Nasdaq Composite climbed 1.04% to 14,836.99, both brand-new closing highs for the benchmarks.
Strong profits from technology stocks made investors hopeful ahead of reports next week from the largest names in the market. Twitter as well as Snap each jumped Thursday adhering to better-than-expected second-quarter earnings records. Twitter traded 3% higher, while Snap soared 24%.
" The Snap as well as Twitter outcomes are just a representation that digital marketing invest is coming back with a revenge," Frelinghuysen stated. "You're seeing that surge via right into Google as well as Facebook.".
Facebook acquired more than 5% on the arise from its social media sites rivals. Alphabet added 3%. Both report next week together with Apple, Microsoft as well as Amazon.
All three U.S. supply standards closed the week in the environment-friendly, recoiling from recently's losses and also Monday's sharp sell-off. The Dow went down more than 700 indicate begin the week as yields fell, unnerving equity capitalists regarding the economic situation.
The S&P 500 climbed 2% for the week and also the Nasdaq Composite included 2.8%. The Dow finished the week up 1%.
Toughness in technology shares likewise comes with the continued spread of the very contagious delta variation of Covid.
" We saw throughout the depths of the pandemic that tech supplies and their earnings stood up the best, so I assume a lot of capitalists are going back to the well, given we have a Covid revival," Yung-Yu Ma, chief financial investment planner at BMO Wealth Management, said. "Long term rates of interest coming down as long as they have also makes those stocks a lot more appealing.".
The U.S. stock market overall has been strengthened by a strong earnings reporting season, with almost a quarter of the S&P 500 having already reported. Of those companies, 88% have reported a favorable shock, according to FactSet. That would mark the highest percentage of reported shocks within the S&P because 2008 if that figure holds throughout the profits season.
Solid earnings from technology supplies made financiers hopeful in advance of records next week from the greatest names in the sector. Twitter traded 3% higher, while Snap fired up 24%.
Facebook got more than 5% on the results from its social media rivals. Both record next week along with Apple, Microsoft and Amazon.
Of those companies, 88% have reported a favorable surprise, according to FactSet.
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