#made from my messed up scraps on my typewriter

[stardustcrusader-art]

trying to collage again for the first time in years

[queenoftheblackpuddlexoxo]

I think my scrybe is going to be called Morgiana. As a reference to a character from the Arabian Nights and an archetypal character that she absolutely would have loved.

She’s a 7 foot tall Persian lady who just wants to mind her own business. She essentially stepped down as a scrybe, or in universe was scrapped as an idea since Leshy kinda made her redundant? She was sick of being challenged for her title and only wants to read and write good stories, and for people to stop messing up her library.

But her domain is an enormous library and if you click on the right books, you can find hidden card packs. All of her cards are based on story structures, character archetypes, and common literary devices. I’m thinking of making her card costs ink or ink ribbons as would be found in her typewriter. Like I said, none of it is concrete?? But I just love the idea of it because stories and fables and fairytales are some of my most favorite things, and they’re universal as technology or nature or magic.

[hopelikethemoon]

First Day Back (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: First Day Back Rating: PG Length: 2000 Warnings: None Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. Set after Josie’s birth. Sorry for the delay in updating, you can read about it here.  Summary: Reader’s maternity leave comes to an end. 

@grapemama​​​​​ @seawhisperer​​​​​ @huliabitch​​​​​ @beccaplaying​​​​​ @thewallpapergoesorido​​​​ @twomoonstwosuns​​​​​ @gooddaykate​​​​​ @livasaurasrex​​​​​ @ham4arrow​​​​​ @plexflexico​​​​ @readsalot73​​​​​ @hdlynn​​​​​ @lokiaddicted​​​​​ @randomness501​​​​​ @fioccodineveautunnale​​​​​  @roxypeanut​​​​​ @snivellusim​​​​​ @lukesrighthand​​​​​ @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts​​​​​@ ​​​​​@awesomefandomsunited​​​​​​​​​​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​​​​ @exrebelshocktrooper​​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​​​​​ @ah-callie​​​​​ @swhiskeys​​​​​ @exrebelshocktrooper​​​​​ @u-wakatoshii​ @space-floozy​​​​ @cable-kenobi @cool-ultra-nerd​​​ @himbopoes​​​​​ @findhimfives​​​​​ @pedrosdoll​​​​​ @frietiemeloen​​​​ @arrowswithwifi​​​​​  @cinewhore​@random066​​​​​ @uncomicalhumour​​​​​ @heather-lynn​​​​ @domino-oh-damn​​​ @cyarikaaa​​​​​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​​​​​ @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl​​​​ @yabby-girl​​​​ @xqueenofthecraziesx​​​​ @punkass-potato​​​​ @coredrive​​​​ @pascalesque​​​​ @theduchessofkirkcaldy​​​​ @queenquazar​​​​​ @sabinemorans​​​​​ @buckstaposition​​​​​ @holkaskrosnou​​​​​ @yespolkadotkitty​​​​​@seeking-a-great–perhaps @kochamcie​​​​​ @jaime1110​​​​​ @katlikeme​

Going back to work after weeks of maternity leave was an adjustment. Leaving Josie across the hall with the kind older woman who had been your neighbor since moving to Colombia was easier than expected. At least it was, right up until the moment you sat down at your desk and realized it would be eight hours until you saw her again. 

Javier didn’t make it any easier. You had gotten too comfortable with him lately — which was easy to do, considering he frequently spent the night at your apartment and you had gotten used to waking up in his arms. But it also meant you were off your game. 

Your hopes that he would be on assignment when you started back in the office were quickly dashed when plans fell through and Javier was stuck at his desk across from you. 

Before Josie was born, you had gotten good at masking your emotions and framing your interactions with work-appropriate distance. Now you felt like every look set off a neon sign above your heads announcing what you were hiding. 

Javier was shit at hiding his soft smiles and lingering looks. The kind that made your cheeks warm and your heart flutter. 

“Welcome back.” Chris said flatly as he strolled into the office and threw his briefcase down on his desk. 

“You’re late.” Javier stated as he fed a new piece of paper into the typewriter. 

“Flat tire.” 

“Pissed anyone off lately?” You quipped, shuffling through a stack of files on your desk. 

“Oh, fuck off.” Chris sneered and muttered. “As if this day couldn’t get any worse.”

You snorted, “Happy to be of service.” Ever since Chris had been assigned to the office, you had butted heads with him. Before Josie, in those three awkward months before you told Javier about your pregnancy, things had been okay. 

It was clear Chris hated you, simply because you were a woman who had the job he wanted, but the depths of his hatred became more apparent when the news broke about your pregnancy and your job — as far as you knew — wasn’t up for grabs.

“Peña, how was your weekend?” 

Javier pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he looked up from typing. “Yeah.” He shrugged a shoulder. “How was yours?”

“Took my lady friend on a little trip.” Chris boasted as he sank down in his chair, stretching his arms out before tucking his hands behind his head. “You get any action, man?”

You focused on the form you were filling out to get your firearm certification approved again. 

“You know how it is,” Javier said vaguely as he shook a packet of cigarettes and tapped it against his palm. “I’ve been working a new informant.”

You knew it was a lie, but it didn’t change the fact that it didn’t sit well with you. Javier had been with you and Josie all weekend. The most action he’d gotten was when you both fell asleep on the sofa at noon because your daughter had decided to stay up the night before. 

There was no new informant, but your brain still came at you with — “What if there was?” 

“You’re a lucky bastard, Peña.” Chris drummed his fingers against the top of his desk, “I don’t seem to have the way with women that you do.”

“I wonder why.” You muttered as you signed your name on the bottom of the form and tucked it back into the folder as you stood up. “Anyone got any other forms that need to be processed? I’m taking this down to Betty.”

“I didn’t know you came back to be our assistant. Maybe this day isn’t fucked after all.” Chris smirked at you as he shuffled through his mess of a desk and tossed a file on top. “There.” 

You offered him a tight-lipped smile as you snatched it up, before turning towards a Javier. “Got anything?”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth as he tucked a cigarette behind his ear. “I’ve got shit to take her before a meeting with the director. I’ll walk with you and catch you up on what you’ve missed.”

“Alright.” You tilted your head to the side as you met his gaze, keeping your expression as impassive as possible. “Hopefully I haven’t missed too much.”

“Same old, same old.” Javier pursed his lips as he got his files together and stood. “It’s nice to have you back in the office. Chris is shit company.”

“You know you love me, Peña.” Chris chided, already focused on whatever work he had piled up on his desk. 

“It’s good to be back.” You said casually, holding the folder against your chest as you walked along beside him. “You didn’t have to come with me.” 

Javier’s fingers curled around your elbow, making you stop now that you were out of earshot, “You know that there’s no informant. Right?” 

You blinked at him, pulling your arm out of his grasp. “Unless she’s hiding under my bed, I didn’t think there was anyone else.” You looked back down the hallway towards where the desks were, before looking back at him. “It’s fine, Javi.”

“Keeping this charade up—“

“Not now.” You scolded him, before starting back in the direction of Betty’s office. He was quick to catch up with you, falling into step beside you. “I just meant that I’ve had to keep up appearances here. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s an adjustment.”

You nodded your head in agreement. “The last year has been an adjustment. But we’re doing what we can.” You held out your hand, “I’ll take the files to Betty for you.” 

Javier smirked at you, “Didn't need to take anything to her.” He told you as he sat the empty folder in your hand and used it as an excuse to brush his fingers over the back of your hand. “But I do have a meeting with the director,” He glanced at his watch. “In ten minutes.”

“See you later?” You questioned with a hopeful smile. 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” A faint smile crossed his lips, before he continued down the hall and around the corner towards the director’s office. 

 ——

 You hadn’t anticipated just how relieved you were to have Josie back in your arms after work. Luciana regaled you with details about the day — nap times, feedings, how curious Josie was about her nephew that she also watched. You had missed all of that and there was no way to get that time back. 

It helped put into perspective how Javier felt. He’d missed out on so much — during your pregnancy, during the birth, in the days and weeks that followed. You missed part of a day and you felt guilty over it. 

But you knew better than to expect that he’d ever talk about it. He tiptoed around the more difficult topics and you didn’t hold that against him. Your entire relationship was difficult and you didn’t see a path forward that made it easier.

Javier was stuck in a weird sort of limbo where he lived two very different lives. 

You cradled Josie against your chest as you peered through the peephole, before pulling open the door to let Javier in.

“There’s my girls,” He said warmly as he smiled at you, before looking towards Josie. “How did she do?”

“Luciana told me she was a dream to watch.” You offered, kissing the top of her head as she cooed softly. “I think we missed her more than she missed us.”

Javier’s hands went to his hips as he nodded his head, “Good.” He scrapped his teeth over his bottom lip as his gaze darted back to meet your eyes. “How are you?”

“Tired.” You shrugged, before walking towards the sofa. “But I’m so glad that I’m back at work. I missed it.”

“It was nice to look across the office and see you sitting there,” Javier drawled out as he pulled off his leather jacket, draping it over the back of the sofa before he sat down beside you. 

“My firearms certification got approved.” You told him as you readjusted Josie in your arms so she could see Javier better. “I’ve got the course on Friday. I’m hoping that it means I have a chance to get back in the field… with you.” 

Javier’s lips drew upwards at the corners, “Yeah?”

“It’s one step in the right direction, at least.” You shrugged. “You wanna hold her?” He nodded and you shifted so you could settle her into his arms. “I think she missed you more than me.”

Javier chuckled, “I don’t know about that, baby.”

You grinned at him, “Look at the way she’s looking at you.” You pointed out, watching as Josie looked up at him with a wide-eyed and marveling gaze. “And I seem to remember the way she was always kicking when you were around.” 

He brushed his knuckles against her cheek gently, “Think we might have a daddy’s girl on our hands?”

“I know we do.” You slid your hand under his arm, curling your fingers around his arm at the elbow as you leaned against him and rested your head on his shoulder. “Are you staying tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

You squeezed his arm three short times, “Yes.” 

Javier turned his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t be here tomorrow night. I’ve got a lead to work outside of the city. I could swing by, but it would be late.”

“Javier?”

“Hmm?”

You played with the soft hair that curled around his ear, “I trust you.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up, baby.” Javier admitted. “This shit isn’t easy, but it’s worth it.” He exhaled heavily as he stared down at Josie as she curled her fingers around his thumb and tried to suck on it. 

“I know.” You pressed your lips against the curve of his shoulder and let them linger there as you sighed. “But work comes first.”

Javier’s brows drew together, his lips moving like he meant to say something more than a simple, “Yeah.” 

You trailed your fingers back towards the nape of his neck, ruffling the hair there as you watched his face. “I don’t mind if you show up late.”

“I don’t want to wake you up.”

“I’m getting pretty good at surviving on limited sleep.” You whispered, nodding your head towards Josie as she was slowly batting her eyes up at both of you. “I should feed her and get her down for the night.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he hesitated for just a fraction of a second before nodding. “I’ll go grab my bag out of the car.”

“Alright,” You said softly as you ran your hand down his arm and squeezed. “We’ll be waiting for you.” You promised as you took Josie from him. 

Javier rested his hand on your leg, giving it three squeezes before he hauled himself off the sofa. “We’re good, right?”

“Javi,” You shook your head incredulously. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

He shrugged, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m gonna go grab my bags.” 

You chewed on your bottom lip as you watched him walk away, your heart aching just a little at how uncertain he still was in your relationship. You couldn’t blame him — you felt the same way most of the time, you just tried to ignore it. 

Going back to work would be an adjustment. Figuring out how to navigate the duality of your relationship — professional and private — would be a challenge. But it was worth it. 

[kimekaim]

From Anonymous, to You (Chapter 1)

"I have a delivery for Miss Julia Drossel! Is anyone home?" I persistently knocked on the door. Spring had truly started to show it's colors. Even though I was one of the busier gentlemen those days, I didn't quite mind waiting in front of a beautiful garden under an even more beautiful sky. The red-brick buildings that lined up along the clean stone road were a new and unusual sight for me, but I'd grown very fond of them. The joint melody produced by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of sparrows was suddenly disturbed by panicked footsteps originating from beyond the door. "Just a moment!", a raspy voice echoed from inside the house. As the footsteps got louder, I started hearing panting. "Seems they've realized I've been kept waiting long enough", I thought. The door opened to an expected sight. "I apologize for the wait. Please, do come inside!”, a woman gestured me to enter with a smile. I was not surprised at her appearance. Usually when you hear the word "Novel writer", a person sporting unkempt hair, and oversized clothes comes to mind. You imagine their burdened eyes having thick glasses over them and bags beneath them, practically begging to get some rest. A weak and exhausted appearance is not out of the picture either. This woman—my client, fulfilled all those generalizations. Even though I was the one who had waited, I felt bad for making this poor little creature run and sweat on her way to the door. I dropped my delivery at the entrance as she led the way and I followed. She took small, quick steps, like a child. I could see her messy auburn hair bouncing up and down as she hurriedly made her way to her sitting room. Judging from the crashing and rustling I heard as I was waiting outside, and the fact that her sitting room was oddly cleaner in contrast to the rest of the house, I deduced that she had quickly cleaned up her room while she kept me waiting outside. The room consisted of a dining table, and another, smaller table surrounded by some couches. Dozens of pages were littered all over the small table, accompanied by a typewriter. Miss Drossel extended her hand towards the nearest couch. "Please sit, I'll be right back with some tea", she said as she left the room, her voice having cleared up, her panting subsided. As I took the seat, my eyes scanned the room. The floorwork was intricate, the room was decorated with quite a few cabinets, each housing decorative utensils. The room contained a fireplace and multiple windows. Each window was covered with vines, and the room took on a green-and-yellow hue as the sunlight passed through the vines and illuminated the walls. My attention soon shifted to the object closest to me. The Underwood No. 4 desktop manual typewriter. It was manufactured in 1915 by the Underwood Typewriter company and quickly became the industry standard. It's been called the "Weapon of choice for working class women", though, it was also the preferred weapon of some men, including me. Next, my eyes fell on the unavoidable mess in front of me. Dozens of dozens of typed papers accompanied by even more crumpled up scraps lay on the table. I had started reading them before I even realized it. My curiosity was to be blamed, for the name Julia Drossel had been known to me for some time and enticed profound interest. She was a newly emerged author who had taken the literature world by storm. While other authors wrote stories with the themes of war, love, and honour, Miss Drossel wrote stories which were completely in the realm of fantasy, filled with fearsome, fire-breathing dragons, heroes, princesses, and monsters of every type. She had provided people with fresh, underused themes and she had recieved universal acclaim in return. That's not all of what contributed to her fame, she was apparently an eccentric figure, preferring to stay in seclusion instead of interacting with her fans. Moreover, she was awful when it came to meeting deadlines, and the general consensus was that she was abysmal at work management. Seeing her slovenly appearance and hearing her drop utensils in the kitchen when faced with the simple task of preparing tea did good to convince me of the truth of these rumors. Miss Drossel soon returned with two cups of tea, and let out a breath of relief as she finally sat down and got a chance to relax. "Forgive me for taking too long, writing has left me feeling more exhausted than usual these days", she remarked as she took a sip. "It's nothing. Thank you for the tea." "You are Mr. Eberfreya of the postal company, correct?" "Yes, madame. I take it that I'm to be tasked with assisting you in writing your novella?" Upon hearing those words, her expression drowned. I could empathize. I wondered if it was her frustration and lack of progress that drove her to request a typist. "Yes, that is correct. My work has slowed down to a halt since the past week, so I'm in rough waters right now." It was just as I had deduced. "I'm assuming that you need an extra pair of hands in order to be able to meet your deadline, ma'am?" I questioned. “I wish that were the case, but no, that’s not it. I…..need you to ghost-write for me”. That was strike two. My deductions proved correct twice in a row, but I still found it hard to believe what I was hearing. My deductions were but a hunch, a mere feeling that I followed. This was the last request I had expected to receive from an author of this caliber, who had proven their skill with the pen time and time again. I did a poor job at hiding my surprise. Miss Drossel must have expected a reaction. She gazed down at the floor in slight embarrassment upon witnessing my noticeably open jaw and widened eyes. “Ye—Yes of course! Please instruct me and I shall put your feelings into words.” The words came pouring out of my mouth, which was forming an awkward smile. I wanted to end this uncomfortable silence as soon as possible. The timid lady in front of me took a sip of tea and turned her head towards her window, sporting a dreaming expression as she gazed outside. The collective chirping of birds and clicking of insects coming from outside combined with the yellow and green hue of her meticulous sitting room created quite the memorable ambience as we sat there in complete silence. “My feelings....... I want to write a story that’s capable of pulling tears, touching hearts, being empathized with, and bringing forth a change of heart in every soul that reads it.” “Got it. You want to write a fantasy story with a greater focus on emotion rather than action this time.” “No.” She snapped back. She hunched forward, resting her elbows on the table. She made a stern face. This clumsy and petite young woman had an admirable seriousness when it came to her work. “I want to write a story that will leave its mark on the readers’ hearts for years to come. Such an effect can never be achieved through a fantasy story. People read those stories because the charisma of the heroic protagonist compels them to. They read it for the thrill they get when they see the twists and turns that the hero faces throughout his adventures. They read it because they crave action. Such stories carry no emotional weight. I have learned that because I have failed to achieve that effect.” And I agreed. But what was she going towards here? “This time…. I want to write a story that embraces realism. I cannot reach the hearts of my readers through the charming princes I write, or the shining knights I conjure. If I hope to capture their hearts, I must write stories that relate to them. I must create characters that they can empathize with.” Miss Drossel sat back on her couch, and continued, “Empathy……Empathy is what I want to write about. Do you know what the meaning of empathy is, Eberfreya?” “I think…. Empathy is when you acknowledge the pain that others are going through”, I answered. Pardon me for not being the most well-spoken person in the room. “Correct, but that’s not all there is to it. A wise man once said, ‘Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself.’ The word empathy not only refers to acknowledging the pain of others, but also putting yourself in their shoes. You try to imagine yourself as that person, going through the same pain”. “In other words, Eberfreya. Empathy is the mother of understanding. And understanding breeds kindness. What do you do when you see a weak-looking cat outside your house?” I went into deep thought. What would I do if faced with such a situation? I would obviously be annoyed if I saw a malnourished feline waiting for me at the door. What was I supposed to do? Upon seeing me perplexed at this simple question, Miss Drossel opened her mouth to reveal the answer. I could spot some concern on her face. “Feed it, perhaps?” I quickly spoke. I had never fed a cat before, nor had I even had the notion of doing so. Thinking of cats and what to do with them, I was reminded of my boss. An obvious cat enthusiast, he would order separate milk bottles daily, reserved solely for the neighborhood cats. He had made it so that the company employees and the cats shared the same lunch break. Everyday at 2pm, while we ate our lunches inside, he would step outside and enjoy his time with the cats as they feasted. Remembering him was what enabled me to finally answer the Miss’ question. “E-Exactly! You would feed the cat because you’d deduce from it’s thin stature that it’s probably not been getting enough food. That is empathy. You imagine yourself as the cat, and you think about what you want if you were starving like that cat. That allows you to gain an understanding of that cat’s situation. That in turn, gives way to kindness on your part.” The lady conversing with me was making a dumbfounded expression. Perhaps she expected me to be educated in this matter. I was quite the opposite. “I...I see” My face was like that of a toddler trying to understand a difficult concept. Empathy led to understanding, which made acts of kindness inevitable. I need just imagine myself as another being, another soul, and I would become capable of kindness. That was all I understood from this schooling I had just received. Perhaps being kind was not the arduous task I thought it was. “I have written my fair share of fantasy. My readers will never truly empathize with characters which do not trudge paths which are similar to their own. My readers must have characters which are comparable to themselves. My characters must be human, like my readers. My story must be realistic enough that one may even be forgiven for mistaking it for non-fiction.” I had already figured out what she was trying to say. People who will be flipping through the pages of Miss Drossel’s next work would be anticipating excitement and action, yet all they will receive will be constant, merciless pulls on the strings of their hearts. Miss Drossel desired to put something new in store for her loyal fans this time.

After taking her last sip of tea, Miss Drossel decided to the beat around the bush no longer.

“Eberfreya, You are to assist me in creating a modern spectacle. This year, the imagination of the common man shall not be dominated by archaic tales and folklore, as it has been for so long, rather, we shall breathe new life into the world of words and expose the literary masses to new and foreign wonders.” “Well then, madame”, I spoke as I removed my leather gloves. “May we shake on it for good fortune in our upcoming endeavor?” Perhaps pleased with my quick uptake on the task at hand, the Miss responded with a smile as we both reached forward. Our hands met in agreement above the typewriter and hundreds of blank papers waiting to be filled, two weapons powerful enough to bring about a cultural revolution. Two stories interwined Prologues unknown, Epilogues unknown Their past was nothing but a disheveled thread of fate Will it unravel, will it become known?

[yoireverse]

a night in

((hello all!!! wonderful to be back. hope you all enjoy this installment of the series, are continuing to enjoy the reverse AU!! ♥♥♥ i took a poll to see what ppl wanted to see, and this was the result! enjoy~~

happy 2k on the blog!!! thanks for joining us, everybody! ♥ :’O))

summary: Usually, Yuuri has a very strict menu for himself and Victor to adhere to. It's mostly for his own benefit, because he's constantly concerned about staying in shape, what with his decision to come out of retirement and all. Still, he and Victor hadn't spent a lot of time together in December because of skating competitions. He sends Victor on an errand to get him out of the house and rolls up his sleeves. Yuuri is going to stun his fiancé today. word count: 1.5k rating: t ✮read on ao3 | ✮reverse fics | ✮reverse art →my personal tumblr | →em’s art blog

Generally, Yuuri makes both of them lots of vegetables, fruits, and scatters nuts and odd protein-filled meats and beans into the menu whenever he can. Victor doesn't find all of the meals delectable, even if Yuuri is obviously talented, but this what they have to do to get their proper nutrition.

Their careers depend on them taking care of their bodies, and both of them are admittedly a little obsessive about it. That doesn’t mean they can’t take breaks - that Victor can’t enjoy ice cream on some weekends, and that Yuuri can’t dig into a whopping steak every once in a while - but they do try to eat clean.

Still.

“Victor,” Yuuri keeps his voice fairly low while he’s washing dishes from breakfast. “Could you head over to Mila’s place for me, please?”

The silver-haired man sits up on the couch, hair spilling in his bleary blue eyes. “You want me to go now?” The sun is barely up, and even though Victor is characteristically the happy morning person in their relationship, even he doesn’t feel like socializing at six a.m. when the sun has barely risen. “Is it urgent?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri insists, taking his hands out of soap water to wipe them on his stained apron. “Sorry to ask, but I asked her to get something specific for me, and it’s going to be a little heavy. Can you help her bring it back to our place?”

Victor raises a brow, more than a little curious about whatever Yuuri could be alluding to. “What are you going to do?”

“The chores,” the older man clicks his tongue and Victor is appropriately cowed by the words. He’d skimped on cleaning the bathroom, his usual responsibility, because he’d had leg cramps like mad the night previous. “If you’re alright with that?”

“Yeah,” Victor answers quietly, hanging his head. He gathers his belongings before waving to his coach, and Yuuri puts a hand to his chest, slowly exhaling.

He could tell by the suspicious glint in Victor’s eyes that he’d almost been caught. Yuuri waits for ten minutes until he’s sure that Victor is far from the apartment to hurry down to the grocery store.

Yuuri had jauntily sent Mila a text, asking her to get some crotchety old typewriter from an antique market and that he was going to send Victor over to pick it up. He’s entrusted her with keeping his fiancé busy while he makes an early dinner for the two of them on their day off, trying his best to seem romantic.

It’s not his specialty. Truthfully, a year ago, he’d never even considered dating seriously, but now? He wants to do something kind and sappy for Victor.

They hadn’t been spending a lot of time together since Yuuri had been working on going back into the competitive circuit, so today, he’s going to cook for the younger man.

Specifically, he’s going to make all of his favorite dishes, with recipes handed down from his mother.

He’s determined to wow Victor with his technical prowess in the kitchen.

//

Mila texts Yuuri at three o’clock to let the man know that she can’t stall Victor a moment longer and that he’s on his way home. It’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but Yuuri is pretty much finished by the time the text arrives, so he heads for the bathroom.

After he takes a shower, he shies away from using the hair gel, as is his reflex. Today is special. He’s just going to comb his locks, which are frankly getting a bit long for his tastes, and wear one of the nicer outfits that Victor had picked out for him.

Yukachin licks at Yuuri’s damp heels and the man hisses at the dog, trying to slip into a pair of dark slim-fit jeans and cursing all the while. Victor comes home, rattles around in the landing with the typewriter, among other things, and is floored to find that Yuuri has a candle lit in the room. Mila quickly waves goodbye before Victor can utter a word, finding the brunette seated at the table, smiling softly.

“I, this, huh?” Victor blinks for a moment, a flush creeping onto his cheeks. “Mila didn’t even say hi to you - wait,” after a pause, he scowls. “Did you plan this? She dragged me all over the city to find this, and made me look at pictures of Sara for an hour, trying to stop me from taking the train back while lugging this. We even bought new clothes.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri shrugs, nervously fiddling with his hands. “I’m sure you’re tired. Do you want to eat?”

Victor sucks in a deep breath, then really takes in the sights.

Yuuri looks truly beautiful, and the food is still warm. Steam is rising from most of the dishes, all of them foreign looking. They have a hodgepodge set of ceramics, some pieces bought and others donated to them by Lilia, Nikolai, and Mila. The older man has a worn out look himself, but he’s wearing a baby blue pinstriped shirt and dark washed jeans. His bangs are down, slightly curly from being improperly dried, and Victor’s mouth becomes dry.

“What’s...” The younger man coughs and continues, “What’s the occasion?”

“I just figured we hadn’t spent much time together,” Yuuri answers him, standing up with watery eyes. “Is this okay?”

“More than okay,” Victor says suddenly, taking long strides to bundle his coach in his arms and squeezing him until Yuuri complains of lack of air. Once he realizes that he’s suffocating the shorter man, Victor loosens his grasp and lets out a long sigh. “This looks fantastic, Yuuri. Thank you. I feel underdressed, though.”

“No, not at all,” Yuuri murmurs, flushing. “I just. Wanted to spend some time together, since we haven’t been able to lately. I hope you like Japanese. These are all home recipes.”

“Yes,” Victor says, holding Yuuri’s gaze in a meaningful way. “I love it.” He kisses the brunette on the forehead before rushing to take a seat. Instead of sitting across from Yuuri at the rectangular table, he moves his chair as close as he can to Yuuri, undoes his ponytail to let his hair fall and sighs with relief. Once he settles in, he moves his leg to play footsie with his coach and the older man gives Victor a half-hearted glare.

“Stop that,” Yuuri whispers, trying not to smile. “Eat your food.”

“What’re we having?”

“Ochazuke,” the older man easily pronounces the name of the dish, then moves on to explaining it before pointing to the others. “It’s like, rice, green tea, and seaweed, along with spices. Then, I made some squash, fried fish, something like potato salad, and I have some beer, if you’d like?”

“No,” Victor shakes his head. “We’ve got practice tomorrow, so I think I’ll stick to water. Once I start drinking, I can’t stop.”

“Same here.” Yuuri says, passing Victor a pair of chopsticks before pressing his hands together. As soon as they say their thanks, Yukachin pads around the table, begging for scraps, and both men have to ward her off carefully while they enjoy the food.

Victor eats it all with a happy flush, stuffing his cheeks. “All of this is amazing! I didn’t know you could cook like this.”

“Terrible for you, all of it,” the brunette replies fondly. “But hey. It’s our day off.”

They eat in relative quiet, Yuuri flicking his eyes from his food, to the panting poodle at his side and back to the beautiful man sitting at the table with him.

Victor wipes his mouth when he’s finished, lazily grinning at his partner. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing in particular,” Yuuri quips back and Victor rolls his eyes, standing up and putting a hand on the older man’s shoulders.

“So I’m nothing now, is that it?” Victor’s voice is tinny as he encourages his coach to stand up and leave the mess on the table behind. “I’ll clean everything up later, Yuuri. First, come here.”

“What is it, nerd?” Victor slowly walks Yuuri to a wall and puts a hand on Yuuri’s slightly chapped lips. Yuuri slowly smiles, breath coming quickly. “You been watching too many dramas?”

“Maybe just a few,” Victor breathes, letting his gorgeous eyes fall closed as he leans down. “Could I have a kiss?”

“Of course,” Yuuri answers him by putting his hands over Victor’s shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his sweater.

Their lips meet for several moments before they pull away, Victor’s hand cushioning Yuuri’s neck against the wall. In a daze, they slip out of the hold, both parties grinning like fools. Yuuri watches Victor clean up from the couch, still dazed that this is his life.

Before things can be truly peaceful, Victor whispers, “I’m still mad about the typewriter, by the way.”

His fiancé chuckles and rubs Victor’s chin. “I’m sorry. I really do love antique typewriters, so I’ll probably get it fixed and use it.”

The mental picture of Yuuri hunching over the keys and smudging his fingers with ink is enticing, and it abates some of Victor’s irritation for the moment. Once he relaxes, sighing against Yuuri, he gives up the frustration entirely, enjoying the moment.

They feed Yukachin and cuddle in front of the television until it gets truly late, dozing off with fingers interlaced, gold bands warm on their hands.

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets: Everyone Lives

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero

Chapter Sixteen The Chamber of Secrets

Breakfast the next morning was a bit glum for Harry and Ron. Rumor of their escapade in the Forbidden Forest had spread quickly, thanks to Dean, Seamus, and Neville. At some point it got around that Harry and Ron had actually fought the monster in the Chamber of Secrets and won, which was unfortunately not true.

Harry picked at his eggs. He wasn’t upset about being caught, really. He’d already sort of expected he wasn’t going to get a Nimbus 2001 this year. It hadn’t been the best year as far as staying out of trouble went. And, anyway, Which Broomstick? had announced a new model coming out this summer. Reviews from early tests were already raving about it, and Harry was hoping he could convince Sirius to by him one. It wouldn’t be going against his parents — they’d only banned the Nimbus 2001. Sirius would totally buy him the new one. Sirius would understand about this whole mess.

Because Sirius understood it wasn’t about the trouble or the adventure. It was about not knowing. It was about being lied to and treated like a child. Maybe he was still a child, but he had also done a lot of things most children didn’t do. He’d snuck past a Cerberus. He’d survived a deadly chess match. He’d faced Voldemort and won. Twice. He was so wrapped up in this Chamber of Secrets mess that it was impossible for him to ignore it.

He only wished his and Ron’s trip into the Forbidden Forest had yielded more clues. It seemed like a near death experience with Aragog’s family was worth more than a few scraps of information about the Chamber.

“At least we confirmed that Hagrid wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin,” Harry said, trying to think of anything encouraging from their escapade.

“Which means we still have no clue who is. If it isn’t Malfoy or Hagrid, who is it?” Ron gingerly nibbled on his toast?

“Moaning Myrtle might know. We’ve just got to find a way to ask her. But with the teachers escorting us to all our classes….”

Hedwig didn’t let him finish. She swooped down in front of him, dropping three letters. Harry already knew the contents of each one.

The first one was the thickest, with his name written in his Dad’s hand: sharp lines, with a slight lean to them. He set it aside. The second was addressed in Remus’s perfectly neat letters, so clean they could’ve been written on a Muggle typewriter. Harry debated on opening this one, or the one with Sirius’s loopy handwriting on it.

Harry decided to save Sirius’s for last and opened Remus’s.

Dear Harry,

I’m sure you’ve heard enough from your mother and father, so I won’t waste a lot of time on it, but it needs to be said: You should not be running off into danger especially at a time like this.

I’m very glad you’re safe, and your father is too, even if he doesn’t say it. But you need to be careful. There are so many people in this world who care about you and want to look after you. There is nothing wrong with letting them.

Love, Uncle Remus

Harry had heard enough arguments between his parents, Sirius, and Remus to know that Remus’s advice was a lot like the cauldron calling the Bludger black. Or maybe just a hard-learned lesson. Either way, it made the rest of the letter harder to swallow.

He still didn’t feel ready to read his father’s, so instead he opened Sirius’s.

Dear Harry,

Sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest? Giant spiders? I’m surprised Ron made it out without getting a heart attack. And your mum flying a Nimbus 2001! Hah!

But seriously, you ought to be careful. There’s something dangerous in Hogwarts and you could get hurt. I know grown-ups are annoying — I fought with a fair few myself when I was your age — but we do mean well. It’s not that we don’t think you’re capable, but we don’t want to see you hurt. You do your job and be a kid and play Quidditch and throw hexes at bullies and sneak around secret passages, but please stay safe.

Love, Sirius

Harry was a little irritated that Sirius had the nerve to scold him, even if it was only a little. He still wasn’t sure he was ready for his father’s letter. It must’ve been bad if Sirius and Remus both had to admonish him to be careful.

But before he could open his father’s letter, an old gray owl crashed into the table and a red envelope tumbled onto Ron’s plate.

Ron picked the letter up then dropped it like it was made of hot sealing wax.

“What is it?” Dean asked, leaning over.

Neville choked on his potatoes. “That’s a Howler! You’d better open it. My mum ignored one from Gran once. The kitchen floor is still black from it.”

The letter was starting to smoke and Neville urged him to hurry. With shaky hands Ron pulled back the wax.

Neville, Ron, Harry, and Seamus all stuffed their fingers in their ears. Dean was a second too late.

The roar that filled the hall was deafening. Dust crumbled from the sky above them and into their eggs. Stuffing their ears did nothing to keep Mrs. Weasley’s shrill voice from drilling into their skulls.

“— RUNNING OFF INTO THE FOREST AT A TIME LIKE THIS! YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT! I’M SURPRISED YOU WEREN’T EXPELLED FOR A STUNT LIKE THAT! YOUR FATHER AND I NEARLY HAD A HEART ATTACK WHEN WE GOT THE LETTER FROM MCGONAGALL LAST NIGHT. WE DID NOT BRING YOU UP TO BE THIS RECKLESS. YOU AND HARRY COULD HAVE DIED —”

Students from all tables were now looking over to see which of them had received the howler. Ron was so low in his seat that his head was barely visible above the table. Harry felt a little embarrassed his name was in it, but at least the Howler wasn’t for him.

“— I’VE HALF A MIND TO BRING YOU STRAIGHT HOME! YOU’RE LUCKY YOU’VE ONLY GOT FINALS LEFT YOUNG MAN, AND IF YOU GET SO MUCH AS AN ‘ACCEPTABLE’ ON ANY EXAMS YOU’LL BE GROUNDED FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER.”

With that, the letter burst into flames and the ashes settled on Ron’s breakfast. For a half of a minute, Harry wondered if it was going to put itself back together and start over, like Fawkes, but it remained silent in the hall. Until Fred and George started an applause that rumbled through the entire Great Hall.

This made Harry feel even worse, because even though the students were cheering, he could feel Professor McGonagall and his mother’s eyes on him, clearly unhappy their peers were praising their misadventure.

Still, Harry thought that after enduring that letter, he could endure anything his father had to say.

He pulled open the parchment flap and began to read the first of three pages.

Dear Harry,

I received letters from both your mother and Professor McGonagall last night. I’m terribly disappointed you thought to run off like that, and I was terrified for your safety. I really wish your mother would start her letters with, “Harry’s fine, but…” instead of just launching into the horrific parts and telling me you’re alright at the end.

I know you’re upset we’re not telling you everything. I know it isn’t easy when adults keep things from you. You’re twelve, and incredibly talented for your age. You’ve done so many amazing things and proven yourself to be a clever, talented, and brave wizard. Truthfully, your mother and I are just very afraid to let you go.

We love you so much, Harry, and we want you to be safe and grow up and have a wonderful future with friends and family. I know you feel like nothing can hurt you — the downside of being ‘The Boy Who Lived’ I suppose — but you’re only human. Acromantula can kill you. So can a lot of other things in the Forbidden Forest. It isn’t smart and it isn’t safe to wander around in there, especially when there’s a monster going around petrifying students.

And I know it’s especially hard to do nothing when your friends are hurt. That might be one of the hardest things in the world.

I remember when your mother and I went into hiding. It was shortly after she got pregnant with you, actually, and it was the hardest time in my life. I had to sit back and do nothing while Sirius, Remus, Peter, Marlene and all my friends got to go off and fight Voldemort. But your mother and I could do nothing. We had to “stay safe.”

And it got harder when people started getting hurt. We don’t like to talk about how awful the war really was, not because we don’t think you can handle it, but because it isn’t easy for us. I still remember when Peter brought us the news that Marlene and her family had died. Or when Emmeline wrote to me that the Bones family had been killed. Or when we heard about Benjy Fenwick. I remember being so hurt and so angry I wanted to do something. But your mother and I couldn’t, because we had to keep you safe. We had to stay in hiding. Eventually we went so deep into hiding we couldn’t even see Remus. It was only Peter, Sirius, and Dumbledore who knew where we were. There was nothing I could do to help my friends and that was the hardest part.

Sometimes the sacrifices we have to make seem like the wrong ones. I know you want to help Hermione, but please trust us to help Hermione. Keeping yourself safe is the best thing you and Ron can do for her.

Love, Dad

Harry was speechless. He had expected a scolding like the one Mrs. Weasley had given Ron, but it hadn’t been a scolding at all. His father had been more understanding than Sirius. More than even Remus, really. Maybe Sirius and Remus couldn’t relate to his inability to help Hermione the way his dad could.

Ron nudged his shoulder. “Harry, we’re going to be late for Transfiguration.”

Harry adjusted his glasses. “Oh, I’m coming.” He glanced up at the teacher’s table and saw his mother making her way to the door. “Just a sec.”

He ran around the Gryffindor table and caught her just as she reached the exit. He didn’t say anything at first. He only threw his arms around her and buried his face into her shoulder. He didn’t care if anyone was looking. He didn’t care if Malfoy saw. He did try not to cry, but he couldn’t help himself. He hiccoughed just once.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” he said.

She hugged him back as tightly as he hugged her. “I’m just glad you’re safe. I take it this wasn’t Mrs. Weasley’s scolding that made you apologize?”

“No — Dad. He told me about — about being in hiding and —” He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that made him care so much all of a sudden. He didn’t know how to put it into words.

His mother stared at him, and he wasn’t sure if he was reading her expression right. She looked like she was going to cry too.

But she didn’t. She leaned down just a bit to kiss his forehead. “Your father and I love you, very much. Now you’re going to make me late for class and Percy’ll have to find me and give me a detention. Go on, don’t be late.”

Harry laughed and let her go. He wiped his eyes dry and nodded. “Okay. I — Mum, I love you too.”

She smiled, and then she went upstairs to her classroom. Harry hurried off to Transfiguration. He slid into his seat just as Professor McGonagall began to remind them that final exams were coming in just two weeks.

“Exams?” howled Seamus Finnigan. “We’re still getting exams?”

Neville Longbottom accidentally vanished the table leg of his desk in a panic.

“The whole point of keeping the school open at this time is for you to receive your education.” She repaired Neville’s desk. “The exams will therefore take place as usual, and I trust you all are studying hard.”

Harry had no idea how they were going to study without Hermione.

Ron leaned over and whispered to Harry, “Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” Ron gestured to his wand, which was whistling like a kettle on the stove.

He and Ron did their best to study. It was very odd without Hermione, and all the Gryffindors in their year noticed the difference. Dean was asking Neville to go over the difference between Fluxweed and flaxseed, which wasn’t helpful because Neville didn’t know what flaxseed was. Seamus was begging Parvati to share Padma’s Potions notes, and Harry and Ron were trying desperately to piece together the last eight months of History of Magic.

On Friday at breakfast, Professor McGonagall announced to the school that she had important news for everyone.

“Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who have been Petrified. I need hardly remind you all that one of them may well be able to tell us who attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with us catching our culprit.”

The entire room erupted into applause and cheering, except for, Harry noticed, Draco Malfoy.

Ron nudged his shoulder. “It won’t matter that we didn’t get a chance to talk to Moaning Myrtle! When Hermione wakes up, she’ll have all the answers! Mind you, she’ll go crazy when she finds out we have exams in a week and she hasn’t studied at all. Might be kinder to leave her alone until they’re all over.”

Harry was going to agree, and point out how displeased Draco looked, when Ginny suddenly sat between them. She did not make eye contact with either of them; instead, she was focused on her hands in her lap.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.

Ginny didn’t say anything. She looked odd, rocking back and forth and chewing her lip. She reminded Harry a little of Dobby, when Dobby was about to say something he shouldn’t.

“Come on, spit it out,” Ron said.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” she finally said, without looking up at either of them.

“What?” asked Ron.

Ginny couldn’t seem to find the words.

Harry leaned close and whispered, so no one else could hear him, “Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have you seen something?”

Ginny drew in a deep breath and Harry was so sure she was going to say something important when Percy Weasley suddenly appeared.

“All finished eating, Ginny? I’ll take that seat if you don’t mind.”

Ginny disappeared faster than Scabbers before a Transfiguration exam.

“Percy!” Ron said. “She was about to tell us something important!”

Percy suddenly looked very uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than Harry had ever seen him in his life.

“I’m sure it was nothing,” he said, and quickly took a sip of his tea.

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Harry, though he’d been put off from investigating the Chamber both by studying and trying to make up for his venture into the Forest to his parents, felt reinvigorated to search after Ginny’s near-confession.

He took advantage of his mother’s distraction as Gilderoy Lockhart paraded his way into their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. “Let’s try to talk to Moaning Myrtle,” he whispered to Ron.

“But Hermione will be awake tonight,” Ron whispered back.

“It can’t hurt,” Harry said.

Ron frowned, then shrugged his shoulders.

The rest of the class was mostly Lily and Lockhart arguing over whether or not centaurs and unicorns could be fought with the same spells. Lily insisted it was irrelevant because one should never need to fight either, but if it was relevant, the spells had to be different. Lockhart insisted you should fight both and with the same spells. About five minutes before the end of class, Lavender Brown raised her hand and said, “Which one will be on the exam?”

In a huff, Lily dismissed them five minutes early and told Lockhart to escort them to History of Magic.

“Why should I —”

“Because I have a class to prepare for!” she shouted at him. “Get out, please.”

Lockhart sniffed and held the door open for the students.

About halfway down the hall, Harry said, “You know, you really don’t need to escort us.”

Ron jumped in. “Yeah, you know Hagrid’s gone, so there isn’t even really a monster to protect us against, right?”

“My thoughts exactly, boys, but Professor Potter is quite insistent.”

“She’s alright,” Harry said. “My dad handles her pretty easily. She just needs a firm talking to sometimes. You can’t back down with her is all. Don’t waste your time walking us to class. Go tell her exactly what you think of her.”

Lockhart considered this. “Alright, I think I will.”

As soon as Lockhart was out of earshot, Ron doubled over in laughter. “Your mum’s going to kill him.”

Harry nodded. “And we won’t miss him at all. Come on.” He and Ron slipped down a side passage and headed for Myrtle’s bathroom. They didn’t make it very far before they were caught by Professor McGonagall.

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?”

Harry knew if they said they were investigating the Chamber, they’d likely be expelled on the spot. He’d never fly a broom again.

“We — We were — we are —” Ron stammered.

“Hermione,” Harry said quickly. “We’re going to see Hermione. We hadn’t seen her in a while, and we just thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready, and, um, not to worry.”

Professor McGonagall’s entire posture changed. Her voice became soft and Harry thought her eyes were glistening with tears. “Of course. Of course, I’m so sorry, I should have realized this has been hardest on friends. Go along, and tell Madam Pomfrey you have my permission.”

They quickly headed towards the infirmary and Ron whispered, “Blimey. That was the best story you’ve ever come up with.”

It was clever, but now they had no choice but to go to the infirmary to visit Hermione.

Madam Pomfrey was not very happy to see them, even when they told her Professor McGonagall had given them permission.

“There’s just no point in talking to a Petrified person,” she said, but let them in anyway.

There really didn’t seem to be any point to being there. Hermione was completely still. They would’ve had a better time talking to one of the castle’s suits of armor.

Ron looked down at her sadly. “Do you really think she saw who attacked them? What if they just snuck up on her?”

Harry wasn’t really listening. He noticed a piece of paper clenched in Hermione’s hand and pointed it out to Ron.

“Can you get it out?” Ron asked. Ron looked around for Madam Pomfrey and carefully shielded Harry from her view while Harry tried to pull the piece of paper out.

It was tightly wedged in Hermione’s fist and Harry had to be careful not to tear it. Eventually, he managed to get the paper out. It looked like an old sheet from a book. Harry was a bit shocked Hermione would tear a page out of a library book. It must’ve been important.

“What’s it say?” Ron asked.

Harry read it quickly.

“A basilisk,” he whispered. “That’s what the monster is. That’s why I’m the only one who can hear it. It’s a snake.”

“A basilisk?” Ron gulped. “Those things are huge, aren’t they? I thought they weren’t real.”

“They kill just with a stare,” Harry breathed. “That’s why Hermione and Penelope had the mirror. So they could look around corners. Justin saw it through Nearly Headless Nick. And Colin looked through his camera. And Mrs. Norris…. the floor! The floor was flooded from Moaning Myrtle. She must’ve only seen the basilisk’s reflection.”

Ron took the paper from Harry. “Even spiders are terrified of it. That’s why they’re all leaving the castle.”

“And a rooster’s crow is fatal to it. Hagrid mentioned something was killing the roosters.” Harry was immediately wondering where they could get their hands on a rooster to make it crow. He didn’t know how else you fought a basilisk.

“But how’s no one seen it? A giant basilisk roaming the school? You’d think someone would’ve spotted its tail.”

Harry pointed to Hermione’s handwriting in the margins of the paper. “The pipes. Remember Aragog told us Moaning Myrtle died in a bathroom? I’ll bet you anything that’s where the Chamber of Secrets is.”

“We need to tell Professor McGonagall,” Ron said.

Harry nodded, and they headed towards the staffroom. They weren’t sure if she would be in there yet, but she had to show up there by lunch time.

It was empty when they arrived, but they went in anyway, thinking it would be better to be caught in the staffroom than waiting in the hallway outside of it.

But instead of a teacher arriving, Professor McGonagall’s voice carried through the castle.

“All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staffroom. Immediately, please.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

“Another attack?” Harry asked.

“What’ll we do? Should we go back to the dormitory?”

Harry looked around the staffroom. “Quick, let’s hide in this wardrobe. Let’s hear what happened, then tell them what we know.”

Harry and Ron quickly climbed into the closet and listened as the halls filled with students and teachers filtered into the staffroom. Harry pulled back a velvet robe that smelled like Doxy so he could see out. Some professors looked confused. Some looked scared. None seemed to know what had happened.

Finally, Professor McGonagall arrived.

“It has happened,” she told the professors. “A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.”

Snape’s voice was cold and thin. “How can you be sure?”

“The Heir of Slytherin left another message. Right underneath the first one. ‘Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.’”

Professor Flitwick burst into tears.

“Which student?” Lily asked. Her voice sounded dry, like the time Harry had come home from the zoo with Sirius and she’d heard about him being a Parseltongue.

“Ginny Weasley.”

Ron sank down to the floor of the wardrobe. Harry reached into his pocket and gripped his wand.

He felt angry and hurt. If his mother had just told him the monster was a basilisk, they wouldn’t have wasted time. He could’ve told her what he knew about Moaning Myrtle. Maybe they would have found the Chamber faster. Maybe they could’ve saved Ginny. But his mother hadn’t told him, and now Ginny was gone.

“We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow,” said Professor McGonagall. “This is the end of Hogwarts.”

The staffroom door banged open again. Harry, for a brief moment, thought it was Dumbledore, returned to save the day.

But it was only Lockhart, holding a cloth against his nose. “So sorry. Had a bit of an accident with a pixie. What have I missed?” he asked.

Lily looked like she was going to reach out and strangle him. Her face was nearly as red as her hair.

But Snape stepped forward first. “Just the man,” he said. “The very man. A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last.”

Lockhart’s face went white and he lowered his handkerchief enough to reveal something black oozing from the bridge of his nose.

“That’s right, Gilderoy,” Professor Sprout said sweetly. “Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?”

“Yes,” Professor Flitwick said quickly, “didn’t you tell me you were already planning the title of your next book? Banishing a Basilisk, I believe it was.”

“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested,” said Snape. “Didn’t you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should’ve been given a free rein from the first?”

Lockhart stared at each of the Professors — except for Lily, who he very carefully avoided.

“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood —”

“We’ll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We’ll make sure everyone is out of your way. You’ll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last.”

Lockhart looked among the teachers one more time for support, but found none. “V-very well. I — I truly, truly wish I could help, but you see, with my nose in this shape —”

“Madam Pomfrey will be more than happy to fix it, I’m sure,” Professor McGonagall said. “Or we have two teachers skilled in the Dark Arts who’d be more than happy to help if you find yourself not up to task.”

Lockhart seemed to shrink at the thought of letting Lily near his nose. “I’ll just — get ready in my office, then.”

And he left.

McGonagall took a deep breath and turned to face the teachers. “Right, that’s got him from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. The rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories. Lily, will you speak to Gryffindor House for me? I will need to make arrangements with the Hogsmeade train station and write to Molly and Arthur Weasley.”

As soon as the teachers were gone, Harry and Ron stepped out of the closet.

“We should hurry back before my mum catches us,” Harry said.

“I think we should go see Lockhart,” Ron said.

“What? Why? He can’t actually do anything.”

“He’s going to the Chamber, isn’t he? He knows where it is, but we can tell him about Moaning Myrtle. Maybe she knows something that can help.”

Harry weighed getting caught by his mother against helping Ginny. He remembered what his dad had said, about how sometimes the best thing was to do nothing. But Harry was angry, because he thought this could have been prevented if he had only been told about the basilisk sooner. So he nodded.

“Let’s go help Lockhart. He’s going to need all the help he can get, anyway.”

Harry and Ron ran to Gilderoy Lockhart’s office, down the hall from his mother’s. At least he didn’t have to be worried she was in there.

They knocked on Gilderoy Lockhart’s door.

He opened it the tiniest crack. “Oh, Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley —” He pulled the door back a bit. “I’m rather busy at the moment, if you would be quick —”

“We’ve got information,” Harry said. “We think it will help you.”

“Er — well, it’s not terribly —” Lockhart hesitated, then opened the door. “I mean, well, alright.”

He let them into his office.

It was completely torn apart. His trunks lay open on the floor, colorful robes hastily stuffed into them. Books were tossed haphazardly into their own trunk. The portraits of Lockhart were stuffed into a box.

“You’re… leaving?” Harry said.

“Er, well, yes. Urgent call. Unavoidable. Got to go.”

“But — my sister!” Ron said.

“Well, as to that — most unfortunate. No one regrets more than I —”

Harry tightened his hands into fists. He’d been willing to accept that Lockhart was not as good a wizard as his mum, but to accept that Lockhart was a complete coward was not an option. “You can’t go now! You spend all year bragging over my mum’s classes about the great things you did in your books —”

“Books can be misleading.”

“You wrote them!”

Lockhart sighed. “Do use your common sense. My books wouldn’t have sold half as well if people didn’t think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did save a village from werewolves. He’d look dreadful on the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch who banished the Bandon Banshee had a harelip. I mean, come on —”

“So you’ve just been taking credit for what a load of other people have done?” Harry was shocked, but also, that explained a lot of Lockhart’s absolute incompetence in the classroom.

“It’s not nearly as simple as that. There was work involved. I had to track these people down, hear their stories, ask them all the gritty details. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so they wouldn’t remember doing it. If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, it’s been a lot of work, Harry. If you want fame, you have to be prepared for a long hard slog.”

He closed his trunks and took out his wand. “Now, the only thing left is to put a Memory Charm on you boys. Can’t have you blabbing my secret everywhere. I’d never sell —”

“Expelliarmus!” Harry said quickly.

Lockhart fell backwards and his wand went flying. Ron jumped and caught it, then threw it out the open window. The same way the pixies had with his.

Harry kept his wand pointed at Lockhart. “Too bad Snape and my Mum actually know a thing or two about Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“What d’you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I don’t know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There’s nothing I can do.”

“You’re in luck,” Harry said, and pulled Lockhart to his feet. “We think we know where it is. Let’s go.”

Harry and Ron led Lockhart out of his office and down to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Harry wondered if his mother noticed he was not in the Common Room yet. He could go get her now, but he was afraid to waste any time. They needed to get to Ginny first. And even if Lockhart was a coward, he was technically an adult.

When they arrived at Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, she was perched on the tank of her usual toilet.

“Oh, it’s you. What do you want? Come to throw another book at me?”

“Actually,” Harry said, “we were wondering how you died.”

Moaning Myrtle looked as if someone had just given her a box of Chocolate Frogs for Christmas. “Ooh, it was dreadful.” She floated off the toilet and swooped over towards them. “It was right in this very stall. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny, in a different language. But it was a boy’s voice, so I unlocked the door to tell him to go away and then — That’s when I died.”

“How?” Harry asked.

“No idea. I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. And then everything sort of stopped. But I was determined to stay and haunt Olive Hornby. Oh, was she sorry she’d ever laughed at my glasses.”

“Where did you see the eyes?”

“Over there,” she pointed towards the sink just behind Harry.

Harry and Ron quickly began to examine it, though Lockhart lingered behind. Finally, Harry found a small snake etched on one of the copper taps. He turned the knob and nothing happened.

“Try Parseltongue,” Ron suggested.

Harry had to concentrate very hard. It was easy to speak Parseltongue to a snake, a living snake. But he wasn’t actually positive how to translate the words he wanted to say. They just sort of did it themselves. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and told the sink to open up.

The sink sank down into the floor, revealing a huge pipe that slid down into inky blackness.

“I’m going down there,” Harry said, far more confident than he felt. He had to save Ginny.

“I’m going too,” Ron said. He tightened his grip on his wand, though Harry wasn’t sure it would do him much good.

“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” Lockhart said.

Harry leveled his wand at him. “You’re going in first.”

“Now, boys, what good will it do?”

But Harry jabbed him forward and Ron pushed him into the Chamber.

Harry went down next. The pipe was slimy and seemed to go on forever. He heard Ron yelling behind him. Eventually, the pipe leveled out, and he landed on a damp, dark, stone floor. It was cold, wherever they were. Ron came out right after him.

“I bet it’s under the lake,” Ron said, and squinted at the shiny black walls.

“Lumos,” Harry said, and they started down the tunnel because it seemed there was no way to go back.

“Remember,” Harry said, “if you see something move, close your eyes.”

But they saw nothing. The tunnel was dead quiet. The only sound was the crunch of a single rat skull under Ron’s boot.

Ron grabbed Harry’s shoulder suddenly. “Up there,” he whispered, “can you see it?”

It looked like the huge curved body of the snake, but it wasn’t moving. Harry stepped closer and realized the snake had shed its skin here. The snake itself had to be enormous to leave behind something this big.

Lockhart collapsed behind them.

“Oh, get up,” Ron said.

Lockhart did, then dived at Ron, wresting his wand from him.

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body. Say goodbye to your memories.”

He raised Ron’s wand, and before Harry could shout a counter spell, Lockhart said, “Obliviate!”

There was an explosion that forced Lockhart backwards. The Chamber rumbled. Harry dived out of the way of falling bits of ceiling. When the dust settled and his lungs cleared, he found he was alone.

“Ron! Ron are you alright!”

“I’m here,” Ron shouted back. It came from the other side of a wall of rubble. “Lockhart got blasted by my wand, though…. What now? We can’t get through.”

“Wait here,” Harry called back. He looked at the rubble and the ceiling. There didn’t seem to be any easy way to get through safely. At least none that he knew of. “If… If I’m not back in an hour….”

Ron didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he said, ��I’ll try to make a pathway, so you and Ginny can get back…. And Harry —”

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Harry said, and plunged ahead.

The tunnel went on for a lot longer. Harry thought about his father’s letter, and Remus’s letter, and Sirius’s letter. He thought about the hug he’d given his mother just a few days ago, and how he’d apologized. He wanted to be angry, to think that if only she had apologized back, maybe Ginny wouldn’t have been taken and maybe he wouldn’t be stuck down here. But mostly he just felt sad, and a little scared, and he thought maybe he would’ve liked to have his mother come down here with him instead of Gilderoy Lockhart.

But he was alone as he approached a door engraved with emerald snakes. This was it. “Open,” he whispered in a faint low hiss, and the door to the Chamber of Secrets swung open.

[sociologyontherock]

An Anthropologist Builds a Tree House in Maddox Cove

Jean Briggs interviewed by Stephen Harold Riggins

 EDITOR’S NOTE: From the time the first sociologist began teaching at Memorial, in 1956, anthropology and sociology have been closely associated. Personally, I hope we once again form a joint department. Our first sociologist created Memorial’s earliest anthropology course; our first anthropologist was appointed to teach primarily sociology. Some anthropologists and sociologists have been close friends. Anthropologist Jean Briggs (1929-2016) counted sociologists among her friends. She specialized in psychological anthropology and linguistics. Her best-known publication, Never in Anger: Portrait of an Eskimo Family was based on her Harvard PhD thesis. By academic standards, it was a best-seller.

From 1963 to 1965, Briggs spent 17 months living in one of the most isolated communities in Nunavut in a tent in the summer and an igloo in the winter. Even by the standards of anthropologists, who as a rule seek out isolated communities, this was a bleak location. There was no privacy in a community of – at most – three dozen people. The nearest settlement was one and a half weeks to two weeks away – by dog sled. Food included raw fish. Insects swarmed in the summer. Between the end of April and mid-July during one year of her ethnographic studies the camp moved 13 times due to the shifting abundance of fish and thawing ground. The sound of a typewriter could disturb people in an igloo. In extreme cold the keys did not always work.

In October 2014, I interviewed Briggs about the construction of her home outside St. John’s in order to learn about her personality and the community she formed with other MUN professors. Briggs was a very unique person but constructing her home was a group project. Not every volunteer worker is mentioned in this interview. Bob Hill, for example, also helped out. “I built the home I call ‘The Tree House’ in the early 1970s,” Jean said, “and I lived there by myself until my late 70s.”

 I wanted to live in a beautiful place. St. John’s is a very nice place to live, but I loathe cities. A beautiful place meant in the woods, by the coast, any place where houses were not visible. I loathe the sight of other people’s houses. I am only undepressed when I am in a beautiful place. So I found, with some help from sympathetic colleagues, this spot on a hill in Maddox Cove. Larry Smith was a MUN linguist who lived nearby at the end of what is now Shore Lane. Larry showed me the location for The Tree House. It has a spectacular view of the Maddox Cove Harbour. The site is surrounded by trees on three sides. There were also trees in front but they were not thick. A stream runs behind the house at some little distance. It comes from springs up in the hills, via a beaver dam, also up in the hills.

 You had to park the car on Shore Lane and walk some distance on a path to reach the house which was located on a cliff. Only idiots would slip off the cliff into the ocean or someone who was demonstrating that it could be done. One man showed a Basque priest that is was possible to slide off the cliff and he almost did. I suddenly realize there are exceptions to what I just said. One was made by me. Before I built a fence along the worst gulch that sloped down from the path I slipped off the path one icy night and onto the edge of the gulch. My attention and energy were all devoted to getting off the ice sheet. I was sort of creeping backwards holding on to tall grasses. Seamus, dear dog, did not understand at the beginning. He would paw at me when I was sliding off. His obedience was extremely useful. I said “no” and he stopped immediately. I crawled back on the path. I then built a fence along all the other gulch edges.

 Once I almost walked into a moose on the path because I was walking in the night without my flashlight. I was holding it but not using it. My feet knew the path. I heard a rustling in front to me. I thought it was a rapist. It was the most enormous hind quarters I had ever seen. If the moose had not gotten frightened, I would have been a dead chicken. He would have kicked if I had wandered into him by mistake. It was a male in rutting season. Several times I saw moose tracks on that path and on one occasion even saw a moose underneath my Tree House windows. I was on the second floor and saw the antlers.

 The Tree House was designed by a friend of mine in Boston, who had never visited Newfoundland. I described what I wanted and Carl drew it on a table napkin. He was not trained as an architect. He was trained as a city planner at MIT. I showed the napkin to a very good local carpenter named Frank Donovan. He built what was on the napkin with hand tools since there was no electricity until the house was nearly finished. He could have used electricity but he did not want to carry a generator to the site on his back. He built all his other houses with electric tools. It took three years to finish The Tree House. While he worked on three or four normal houses, he worked on my house in the intervals.

 Maddox Cove consisted then of only about four houses. It was hardly built up at all. I think four houses is not far off the mark. I wasn’t going to have electricity, but I went away on research to the Arctic while the house was under construction and the two people I left in charge of the building, geographer Mike Staveley and anthropologist Jeff Stiles, decided that I must have electricity. Without electricity I could not have a telephone, could not cook comfortably with a wood stove. It would have taken all of my time to cut the wood for cooking and so forth. I’m glad they put electricity in. It allowed me to have a telephone and then later a computer. Larry Smith was a creature of my own heart and he did not like ugly electric lines. So when he showed me the electric lines to The Tree House he was horrified because he had to look at the poles.

 But of course Staveley and Stiles couldn’t put in a road or plumbing or any of those things which I didn’t want anyway. The Tree House never had running water. I did not want running water. From the car, I carried water to the house in my knapsack. I used to carry everything I wanted or needed out to The Tree House in my enormous knapsack from the era of World War I. I found it in the attic of the old Halliday farmhouse where I lived on Elizabeth Avenue. The knapsack is just right for me. It has been rebuilt half a dozen times, but it has the same shape. I parked down the road opposite what is now “The Shoe,” my present little house on Shore Lane. The name “shoe” comes from the nursery rhyme “there was an old woman who lived in a shoe.” I didn’t have so many children I didn’t know what to do. I had too many papers instead.

 I wanted a house that incorporated all the spaces I had lived in and loved. My bed was a sleeping platform, seven feet by seven feet, in plywood. You probably thought it was a place for children to play. They did play there during my parties. They had a ball making a thorough mess of my bed. It was covered by a red Bedouin rug – beautiful – which was nearly destroyed by someone who broke in and smashed the second floor window and left glass splinters in the rug. There were adventures living in The Tree House.

 It was an open plan with a chimney in the middle. I carried the cement for the chimney. I did not want rooms. I wanted spaces with different qualities but no rooms. The living room was on one side and the kitchen on the other. They were connected, but not closed off, by two corridors. The first corridor had a wood box as a piece of furniture. I put all the liquor bottles on that for my parties. The other corridor was a book stack. I had bookshelves from floor to ceiling. I had intended to use that corridor as a winter living room in the Norwegian manner, what in Norwegian is called “teisestua” (a fireplace room). There were little alcoves or niches off the living room for a fireplace. There was a fireplace in that corridor. In fact there were five fireplaces in The Tree House.

 I knew I would not sit in any place that did not have a fireplace. Unfortunately because of the air flow, if I closed off the teisestua with a Bedouin hanging, the cold air blew straight in from the rest of the house and froze my feet.  One fireplace was in the kitchen, one in the living room, one in the teisestua. Two upstairs – one in front of the sleeping platform and one, which was used the most, in the reading area opposite the sleeping platform. The upstairs was built in a dumbbell shape. The widening out areas were the sleeping platform at one end and the sitting area at the other end where I actually lived most of the time. Between those two widenings was a long narrow corridor which was occupied by the stairs.

 On Craigmillar Avenue I found a bathtub (nice, old-fashioned claw-footed sort with elegant 19th century writing underneath its belly) during city clean-up week and stood guard over it till anthropologist Adrian Tanner could come with his truck and pick it up. I never used it as a bathtub but it held water very nicely. I bought the woodstove second-hand in St. John’s. I guess a caterpillar carried it near The Tree House and dumped it in a field, from which Newfoundland historian David Alexander carried it to the semi-finished house when he and other friends helped me move. He did not need to do that but he was afraid it would get wet in the rain. Later he blamed me for nearly wrecking his back.

 The lumber arrived on a caterpillar tractor. But because the carpenter had ordered less than he needed, Adrian Tanner and I had to carry some lumber on our shoulders with makeshift crampons made of scrap lumber with nails driven through it and fastened on our feet with rags. The path to the house was icy in places, snowy in places, muddy in places, and just generally a mess – as is usually a Newfoundland trail if you have been on one in any season except July.

 I also carried cement mix on my head which was a mistake because it ruined my neck. Cement was for the supports for The Tree House. It was supported on the front side because the ground was sloping. The first floor in front was five feet from the ground; on the back side it sat on the ground. I also dug the sand for the concrete foundation posts in a gravel pit on the Petty Harbour Road at three o’clock in the morning (hiding whenever a car drove by) in order to have it ready for the caterpillar to carry out to the site for the house at six a.m.

 I made a deal with Frank Donovan that I would lay the floors if he laid the ceiling. I laid the floors with the assistance of anthropologist George Park who helped me lay the subfloor with plywood and plastic. The boards were grooved. You just lay one next to the other and push one groove into the other. I can saw, and hammer, and nail, you know. I grew up doing that kind of thing. I have two brothers just slightly younger than me. We grew up making log cabins in the New Hampshire woods. My father had nothing to do with child rearing, but my mother was very adventurous and free-wheeling. She let us do pretty much what we wanted, knowing that if she said “stop,” we would stop. Training in obedience has its plus side.

 For years, the second floor of The Tree House was held up by jack posts until the chimney was finally built. It shook in every wind, and friends used to joke that I should sell tickets to people who wanted to sail to Europe. And when the chimney was finally built, the sand – not dug by me – lay on the living room floor for months while the Italian mason, the only mason I could find who would work out there, worked on four other accessible houses in the meantime. Finally, when I told the mason that I had to hold a reception for a member of the Norwegian Parliament that weekend, he said: “You can’t do that with the sand on the living room floor!” And he finally built the chimney and my five fireplaces. It was true that anthropologist Ottar Brox was a Member of Parliament, but he was also an old friend and hiking buddy of mine, a rugged Norwegian who grew up on a remote north Norwegian island where his father was a school teacher. He was a former member of the MUN Department of Sociology and Anthropology. Very useful it is to have friends who wear multiple hats! But my own multiple hats have caused no end of trouble.

 I had a big Collie dog named Seamus. I thought its name was Irish, but I discovered the name spelled slightly differently was Hebrew for temple guardian. Seamus was a lovely dog, like Lassie, gentle and so intelligent and obedient. He had his peculiarities. He was afraid of small dogs and he wouldn’t go for walks with anybody except his caretaker. Seamus did not like being left alone. Although he rarely went for walks with people other than me, he made an exception for Pat Doyle who lived at the end of Shore Lane. Seamus would spend the day in Pat’s front yard because Judy or Elsie who lived in the house fed him. From the Doyles’ yard Seamus recognized the sound of my car coming around the bay and ran to meet it. Then we would walk home together to The Tree House with his white tail waving in front of me and flashing in the light of the flashlight.