#now he looks like he belongs in dream works trolls film

[seagull-scribbles]

Liminal art palette for Zor the Zeti pls

You did it, you got me to acknowledge the Zeti

[Ask meme here]

[yespolkadotkitty]

Found

a little one shot for my good friend @lokimostly

You finished up your sketch and tucked the notebook away in the pocket of your dress, then freshened up your lip balm. Everyone had come out to the set today for the end of filming party - not a wrap party per se, but a general “we’re done now, let’s kick loose” sort of deal.

You were beyond excited. As the lead costume designer, you got to work with a lot of the clothes and set of the film but you hadn’t had a proper chance to meet the actors wearing the outfits you had painstakingly designed. Crimson Peak had been over a year in the planning, writing and designing and you had spent many a night toiling over the costumes, wondering who was going to fill the shoes of the enigmatic Thomas Sharpe.

And you’d properly meet him tonight. You’d been allowed to go to some of the  cast’s fittings but there wasn’t usually much chance to talk. When you’d crossed paths, always too briefly, he seemed charming, funny, humble. It didn’t hurt that he looked like sin, all that curling black hair winding a path of his collar, his eyes bright in a face of planes and angles, his voice James Bond dipped in chocolate.

You anticipated tonight for another reason - the set would be dismantled and maybe you’d finally find your other little notebook full of sketches. You’d dropped it weeks ago during one fitting or another and you hoped the runners would find it for you. They knew to look for it.

Your assistant popped her head into your temporary office on set. “Everyone’s just about ready now.”

“Cool.” You thanked her and she led you into the big marquee that had been set up with a full buffet and plenty of chill space for the cast and crew to mingle and let their hair down. You saw a tin bath full of ice and beers and thought, hell yeah.

Pausing by the beer boat, you reached for a cold Corona when someone said your name. You’d recognise that voice anywhere. You’d heard it enough in your dreams.

He hadn’t bothered changing out of costume, and the high collar of his starched white shirt kissed his jaw, the ends billowing down into wide victorian sleeves. The open neck fed into a midnight black waistcoat - velvet. You knew because you’d selected the fabric yourself. It hugged his torso, leading to slim fitting black trousers that encased legs for days.

One errant curl of his hair, ever untameable, flopped over his forehead as he looked at you, the hint of a smile tugging at one side of his poet’s mouth.

“Hey, Tom.” You tried for casual, and thought you kinda succeeded.

“I believe I have something that belongs to you.” He reached into the pocket of his dress trousers, and in his hand was your little notebook; the one you’d lost weeks ago. He offered it. “I.. took the liberty of thumbing through it. These are incredible.”

“I, ah… thanks.” You had no idea what to say. When he looked at you like that with eyes the colour of the pacific at sunset, coherent thought was impossible. A blush crept up your neck as you released that almost all the drawings in that little notebook were of one person. And he stood before you.

“I’m flattered that I apparently made such a good subject,” he said shyly, dipping his head a little, and you realised that he truly had no idea how many pulses he’d set racing the world over. And how many more hearts would light up when they saw the movie you’d been working on. “You know…. I’d have sat for you. If you’d asked.”

Your stomach clutched. The party around you fell away as you held his gaze. Say something, dumbass. “I… You were busy.”

“I’m not busy now.”

And that was how you ended up walking back to his trailer on set, fingers laced together, your free hands holding chilled beers. You talked late into the night, about your art. About his childhood. About your crappy exes and his, laughing and commiserating. And when he cupped your face and kissed you deeply, as if he were drinking you like a fine wine, you closed your eyes and lived that beautiful dream.

********

Two years later, you both recounted the story for some Hollywood magazine or another as Tom officially announced his engagement to you. He’d proposed on a wild, rural cliff on the edge of the West Coast of Ireland, laughter and love and the promise of forever in his eyes, and an antique silver ring with a single set garnet in his hand. He’d found it in a tiny antique shop where you’d been trolling for vintage frames to mount your work.

He kept his house in London and you worked out of the US a lot. But you were happy together. The thought of a life, children, and a future with him made you giddy.

And he still kept the Thomas Sharpe costume for the occasional very enjoyable night in.

But you didn’t tell the press about any of that. Your love was the secret you'd found together, and you'd keep it wrapped up tightly, shielding it from the sunlight, ensuring it stayed a bright crimson forever.

[antoine-roquentin]

Sixth Tone: What makes Chinese livestreaming different from other forms of online entertainment, and what kind of people watch it?

Hao Wu: Livestreaming content in China is roughly equivalent to vlogging in the West. In China, vlogging never really took off for two reasons. First, online advertisers pay low rates to sponsor user-generated content. Second, when user-generated content first emerged on Chinese video-hosting websites more than a decade ago, most internet users lacked the equipment and skills to make good videos. Consequently, few Chinese vloggers made a decent living.

Livestreaming overcomes both issues. As long as you have a webcam, you can create content and get people to donate money. Like the criticism leveled at American vloggers, some people say livestreaming is brainless, low-quality, and resorts to creating controversy to attract fans. But both models appeal to similar demographics in their respective markets.

Teenagers and people in their 20s are most likely to watch livestreaming. There’s a gender imbalance, too — more men watch livestreaming than women. Because YY was a forum for online gamers before becoming a livestreaming service, its demographic is very male, relatively poor, and not very highly educated. They live in China’s small cities or they’re migrant workers in the big cities, and they have a lot of time to kill.

Sixth Tone: What compelled you to make a film about China’s livestreamers?

Wu: Livestreaming culture interests me because it’s a virtual reflection of things that are happening in real life, such as China’s growing wealth gap and urban loneliness. China’s economy gives young people from the countryside a lot of opportunities to move around. But the drawback is that they move to large, alienating metropolises where they don’t know many people.

Often, these people end up lonely. But on a deeper level, they also don’t feel like they belong there. Few migrants occupy the same social class as people in the cities, and their chances to move up the social ladder are diminishing as the economy moves away from manufacturing and toward services. Nowadays, the kind of people who make a lot of money in China are increasingly those who have a good education and work in skilled industries. The demographic that powered China’s growth in the last few decades feel stuck where they are, and this reinforces their sense of solitude.

In addition, the distribution of wealth in China has been so unequal for so long that rich people now enjoy a strong advantage in securing good education for their kids and maintaining their own social capital. I believe that when poorer people go into the cities and encounter this face to face, they think, “I just can’t see anyone from a poor background like mine rising to the top anymore.”

So, some people turn to livestreaming for escapism. They don’t want to face reality, so they spend all their time online. They see that popular livestreamers are often from backgrounds similar to theirs, and so they live vicariously through them, enjoying the fantasy that someone like them can still enjoy fame and fortune. Many such viewers feel a sense of admiration and sexual desire toward their heroes.

The ways that fans idolize livestreamers are different from the interactions between typical showbiz celebrities and their fans. Livestreaming fans want to directly help their idols maintain their luxurious lifestyles. In the film, Big Li’s wife — a livestreaming promoter — says that the reason why fans want Big Li to succeed so much is that they don’t have anything of their own to show off in real life. So, they invest all their hopes and dreams into Big Li. If he wins, they feel proud — at least it’s something. It’s the only thing they can feel proud of.

Sixth Tone: Your film also looks at the theme of gender. How does livestreaming reinforce traditional gender roles in China?

Wu: The appeal of the male livestreamer lies in his ability to be an alpha male; fans rally around him, because they see him as both a funny drinking buddy and a natural leader. But a lot of the [female livestreamers] sell sex appeal — they have to sexualize themselves to win fans.

This gender imbalance also emerges in the way male and female livestreamers experience online trolling. When trolls go after the men, they’ll say he’s a dishonest piece of shit, that he’s unfairly cheating his fans out of their money. But when they go after women, they always accuse them of sleeping around or say their tits are too big, too small, too fake — that sort of thing. A lot of the insults are about sex and the women’s physical attributes.

[punkpoemprose]

Siege of Arendelle- Chapter Thirteen

Thirteen chapters in and we’re finally starting the main plot. I’m a disaster and a half. Just a quick reminder that this Friday 6/22/18 marks the last day for Kristanna Christmas in July sign ups! I’m signed up to be part of it and I’d love to see y’all do it as well. Send a PM or ask to @kristannachristmasinjuly or @michaela-armstrong-paul if you’d like to participate or have more questions! Can’t see what y’all write!

Universe: Canon- Post Film Rating: T (Teen and Up) Length: 2362 Words

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve

Kristoff hadn’t truly dreamt since he was very young. He’d explained it away to himself by believing that he worked too hard in the day to waste energy dreaming at night, and when that wasn’t enough, he just did his best to avoid hearing anyone else talk about their own dreams. It was easier for him to call their absence normal when he pretended that everyone else slept soundly through the night with nothing on their minds. It might have concerned him at some point that he hadn’t dreamt of Anna in the way all the romantic songs and poems said, but it was hardly surprising with how long it had been since his last nighttime imagining and he tried his best not to think about it.

Despite the long passage of time, he could still remember waking up as a child frightened by the vivid images his mind conjured up. Before he’d run away from “home” he’d been terrified by his dreams. The only thing scarier than waking up with his heart pounding in his chest was the thought of awakening the house with his nightmares. They, his “parents”, had never taken kindly to it, just as they’d never taken kindly to questions, requests for affection, or anything else Kristoff had needed as a child. So, he’d choked it all down until the time came that he no longer needed to. Even then he suffered through most of it quietly. He’d already programmed himself to do so.

The nightmares had been less frightening when he was with the trolls, and they’d slowly become more like vivid dreams than terrors, and eventually they’d faded away completely. He’d always had the sneaking suspicion that Pabbie had something to do with it, but he had never cared to ask. The old troll had more knowledge than Kristoff imagined he’d ever have the years to learn, and then of course, there were some things that he was happy never knowing about.

Kristoff had felt himself drifting, as he always did with Anna at his side. He was strangely unsurprised when, unlike any night of his adult life, he was struck with the paralyzing sensation of being in a dream. The warm comforting feeling of sleep had been interrupted by the dislocating pull he remembered feeling in his gut as a child combined with a sense of state change from sleep to somewhere between it and wakefulness. For the first time in what felt like an eternity Kristoff was made uncomfortably cognizant that he was not in his body, but instead somewhere far away, floating above a mass of shifting dark shapes and below the northern lights.

He’d been there before. He knew that much. A man now, he didn’t scream out when the dark mass grasped at his ankles, he knew that calling for help would do him no good. It had never helped before. As he was pulled under, the darkness pulsed with light and he felt as if he were on the edge of recalling something while simultaneously being on the edge of drowning in something larger than himself.

A pale hand emerged from the mass and reached out for him, and his hand reached out in return. Something was calling to him, someone that he’d long forgotten. He was sure of it, that the hand belonged to someone who knew him, someone who was him.

“Móðir.”

                                                             ***

Anna brushed his hair from his eyes as he awoke slowly but surely in the warmth of their bed. He was aware of her comforting presence, the closeness of her body to his as she softly shushed him and combed her fingers through his hair. She brought him back to Earth, she reminded him of where he truly was.

“You’ve been restless all night,” she said with a kindly exasperation. She hadn’t been able to sleep at all, and it was hardly his fault. There was something about their journey that had her on edge. It wasn’t the danger they would face, and it wasn’t that the fate of the entire kingdom had fallen squarely onto their shoulders. It should have been those things weighing on her, all that she could lose if their trip failed, and yet she knew that it was the leaving home that had her most upset.

She’d never truly had a home since her parent’s death. She hadn’t been able to feel truly loved and safe with a sense of belonging in so long that she was unwilling to let it go again. She’d thought more and more lately about just what it might have been like if they didn’t have a battle ahead. Nights before this one, when she had fallen asleep easier and had dreams, they were always pleasantly “normal”.

She’d never been blessed with a normal life, but in Kristoff’s home she’d found one. It had been easy to dream about wedding him, about gardening at his side, practicing archery, and tending to the animals with him for the rest of her days.

Her favorite dreams were always the ones she’d be too embarrassed to speak of, the most intimate ones. The dreams of him bedding her again, the dreams of being Mrs. Bjorgman, and the dreams of having a little life growing within her. Leaving felt like abandoning all those dreams, and what she hated most of all was that it was her idea to leave in the first place, that her dreams were impossible.

“Sorry,” he finally mumbled, breathy, as if his lack of rest was as exhausting as running a mile at a sprint.

Anna hushed him gently, savoring the moment of simply being beside him in the coziness of their small shared bed. As the weather had cooled off they’d managed to find a comfortable number of blankets for the both of them. It had been a battle, but a wonderfully intimate one. Kristoff, always warm, preferred only a single thin blanket, and Anna, who always was the first in a room to feel a chill, preferred to be nested among many layers. Kristoff never minimized the importance of warmth for her as he understood why even a slight chill often affected her. She, in return, understood that she was sweating him out of bed at night. After a few days of trial and error, they’d settled on a quilt that Anna had recently mended and Anna’s being able to “steal” Kristoff’s warmth skin to skin. It was pleasant most nights, but now when she wanted to savor it most, his sleep was troubled.

“Don’t be,” she murmured, shifting so that her back was pressed into his front, giving them both the maximum possible level of contact. “I have bad dreams too sometimes. You know that.”

Kristoff sighed and wrapped his arms around her. He did know. He’d held her through many of them now. It seemed that the closer they came to departure, the more restless both their minds became. It was unnerving at best, but he took comfort in her willingness to curl back into his side despite his night terrors. When he felt her snuggle a little closer he returned the favor by pulling her in tighter and after a few moments of doing his best to match his breathing to hers, he felt centered again.

“Please get some sleep,” she whispered to him, “I know you’re worried, but I’m ready, we’re ready, and no matter what we’ll be together.”

He was already losing the ability to recall what it was he had dreamt, but for some reason hearing that she would be beside him through whatever darkness was coming was more disconcerting than it was comforting. He was ill at ease, and the idea of leading her into the dark was something that he almost couldn’t bear. He was completely comfortable with her being the death of him, so long as she was safe herself.

Anna felt him squeeze her a little tighter and she gave a sad smile she was glad he couldn’t see. He was kissing the crown of her head, and she could feel the soft warmth of his lips long after they had moved away. When she drifted off again, all she could think of was his warmth.

                                                            ***

Kristoff watched Anna pack the last of their provisions and tools into the wagon as he hitched Sven. The lamplight that lit her path flickered and made her hair look as if it too were a part of the flame. He was grateful that she’d passed on his offer to dye it again for their journey into the hinterlands. It was unlikely that they would meet anyone up North that recognized her anyway, but for her safety he had at least felt the need to ask.

It was selfish, and he knew it, but he was pleased to have his redhead back.

“It would probably be silly to bring strawberry preserves wouldn’t it?”

It was the first thing she’d said in a long while, the pair having said little at all over their breakfast of oatmeal. Kristoff was almost startled to hear her voice in the stillness of the morning. Of course, he quickly noticed the note of concern in her voice, a sound he’d come to align with Anna’s feelings of trepidation towards a task or decision at hand. He wondered if he would have ever heard it if their lives together had only taken place within the castle walls where she always seemed so self-assured. He didn’t relish her nervousness, and in fact in made him anxious to hear the note of unsureness in her speech. She’d set them on this long and dangerous road and he hated to think that she was already second guessing herself.

“Not if it would make you happy,” he said, wondering as he often did, whether he was saying the right things. “Just make sure you leave some home, so we can have it to celebrate when we make it back.”

Anna smiled and set the small jar she was holding into the wooden crate Kristoff had constructed to hold them in. The lids glittered prettily in the light and she felt a swell of pride in her chest as she slid the wooden slat closed on the box’s top. Most of the food they had put away was a team effort, and though he’d never admit it, Anna knew that Kristoff had been the one carrying most of the weight. It did bring her great joy to think of how she’d made the preserves herself, even though they were the most frivolous food they had.

Silly or not, packing them made her smile, and she imagined every last drop of the sugary fruity substance would remind her of happier times. After all the plants that had grown the berries had been Kristoff’s gift to her, and his hands had been so gentle on her sides as he stood behind her, instructing her on the way she should add sugar and water to the pot she made it in. More than anything she wanted to bring that sweetness with her, no matter what was to come.

“Alright then, I think we have everything.”

Kristoff nodded, tugging on Sven’s tack to ensure it was secure before moving up and into the seat of the wagon. Anna followed him to the space and slid carefully beside him, which would have been comfortable were it not for the way he could hear the clinking of arrows in the quiver she wore against her back. Neither of them was allowed the illusion of their trip being anything more or less than what it was, a danger.

Anna did her best to quiet the nagging sensation of dread that gnawed at her stomach as she pulled away from his home, her home, their home. She told herself silently that the locked doors and shuttered windows would be opened again soon, and in more peaceful times, but her head, unwilling to comply with her heart reminded that even if they made it out alive nothing would ever be as it was again. If they succeeded, she’d return to the castle and once again be the watched over spare princess of Arendelle. If they failed, she shuttered to think of how much worse they both might fare.

She thought of the Alves, everything she’d ever heard about them as a child. They stole children, wore no clothes, laid with men just to slit their throats in their sleep, made deals and reaped souls. There was nothing evil that they were incapable of, and that was why they were tales for children. No adult could ever believe that the embodiment of evil truly lived in the hills.

But Kristoff did believe. In fact, he feared them as if they were as real and solid as the reindeer before him, the woman at his side and the wagon below them. It would be easy to chalk up to superstition if it weren’t for the trolls and the fact that Kristoff was the man she trusted most in all of creation. He, in her eyes, was more knowledgeable than any castle tutor and more versed in the truth of their lands than any royal advisor.

If he were scared of the hinterlands and their inhabitants, she had every right to be terrified.

As the darkness behind them swallowed the house, the stables, and the clearing that surrounded them, Anna gripped her bow tightly and leaned into Kristoff’s side. He was steady, and Anna couldn’t help but to silently thank him and the Gods that made him when he snaked his arm around her waist and regripped the reins.

He tried to tell himself he was holding on for her sake, as if he could calm her anxiousness while ignoring his own. He fought desperately not to think of his nightmare as the wood swallowed them whole.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered gently, understanding her ill ease more than she could ever know. “I’ve got you.”

She held the curved wood tightly, her knuckles going white as she thought to herself, And I have you, and I have you.

[flirting-with-psychology]

Truth of Dare (and I’m gonna do them all cause I’m bored)

1: (truth) Who was your first major celebrity crush? (dare) Put your music player on shuffle and post the first five songs.

Truth: I guess Peter Pan even though technically he was a character and not a celebrity

Dare: 1. The Stranger - Billy Joel. 2. You Belong With Me - Taylor Swift. 3. You’ll Be Back - Hamilton. 4. The Trolls - Frozen. 5. Second Chance - Shinedown

2: (truth) What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to you in the past week? (dare) Refresh your dashboard and send an anonymous compliment to the person who posted whatever’s at the top of your dash.

Truth: I got tongue tied in front of a cute guy. He either found it adorable or pathetic

Dare: Done

3: (truth) What are your three favorite things about your appearance? (dare) List all nine of your tumblr crushes, and describe each blog/blogger in one word.

Truth: My eyes, my hands, my boobs

Dare: Mint-rumneigh: funny. nope4hope: roommate? potatouprising: nerdy. thegirldownthelaine: cool. wonderwomanlovesyou: fandoms. flynnomalleys: Choices. choicesobsession: Choices. mrsperegrintook: Roommate. an-indecisives-choice: Choices

4: (truth) What is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you? (dare) Post the oldest selfie on your camera roll.

Truth: Raised me

Dare: Done

5: (truth) If your parents knew everything you’ve ever done, what would they think is the worst thing? (dare) Tag the three nonmutuals you admire most.

Truth: Probably slapping myself when I fuck up

Dare: @taylorswift @the-average-gatsby @juliajm15

6: (truth) What is the last thing you purchased? (dare) Tag three people you’ve thirst followed.

Truth: McDonalds

Dare: @asimplepotatofarmer @therulesdonotknowme @joshpeck

7: (truth) How many hours did you sleep last night? (dare) Send an anonymous compliment to the last person who followed you.

Truth: Like 7 whole hours but I’m still tired from this week

Dare: Done

8: (truth) If you could go on a date with any of your mutuals, who would it be and what would you do? (dare) Send an anonymous compliment to one of your four “Biggest Fans” on tumblr.

Truth: Therulesdonotknowme but unfortunately I’ve already burned that bridge, I think the only reason we’re still mutuals is because he never gets on tumblr. It would be cute for him to show me around his city

Dare: Done

9: (truth) How did you meet your best friend? (dare) Refresh your dashboard. Open the blog of the person who posted whatever’s at the top of your dash. Reblog their most recent selfie.

Truth: Our parents got us together when we were one

Dare: Couldn’t find one

10: (truth) What was your favorite band five years ago? (dare) Tag a blog that posts very different content from yours, but that you couldn’t imagine not following.

Truth: Glee

Dare: @benditlikegumby

11: (truth) Where did you get each article of clothing you’re wearing right now? (dare) Pick up the closest book to you. Turn to page 39 and copy down line 7.

Truth: Necklace: museum gift shop. Shirt: my friend’s grandma. Pants: goodwill. Glasses: glasses store. Bra: Kohl’s. Underwear: Kohl’s

Dare: It’s blank

12: (truth) What are your five favorite girls’ names and five favorite boys’ names? (dare) Copy and paste the 14th line of text from the last document you worked on in Word or Google Drive.

Truth: Rachel, Diana, Phoenix, Hannah, Star (why I picked it). Shane, Eric, Matt, Lucas, Connor

13: (truth) What’s your most irrational fear? (dare) Tag five mutuals who take amazing selfies.

Truth: Spiders

Dare: @mellifllxous @cultured-pearl @benditlikegumby @im-significant @homofied

14: (truth) If you could only wear one outfit for the rest of your life (consisting of clothes you already own), what would it be? (dare) Tag someone you follow who has amazing fashion sense.

Truth: A dress that’s comfy but also cute

Dare: @thewonderofafairytale

15: (truth) If you could rock any unusual article of clothing/makeup technique/hairstyle, what would it be? (dare) Go to the blog of the last person you reblogged a text post from. Reblog your favorite of their selfies.

Truth: A bob. But I tried it and I can’t quite rock it

Dare: Couldn’t find one

16: (truth) What is your dream job? (dare) Post the four most recent pictures in your camera roll.

Truth: Something in the film industry

Dare: Pretty much done already, half of them were in another post

17: (truth) Where is the last place you went that took over two hours to get to? (dare) Post screenshots of your phone’s lock screen and home screen.

Truth: Probably somewhere close, fuck the bus

Dare: Done

18: (truth) How old were you when you had your first kiss? If you haven’t had it yet, how old do you want to be? (dare) Go to the last app/tab you opened. Post a screenshot.

Truth: I was 18

Dare: done

19: (truth) What is the first thing you remember having to keep secret? (dare) Tag five bloggers who you associate with being obsessed with something particular, and list what each of them is obsessed with.

Truth: Me and my friend climbing onto the cat structure

Dare: @literally all the choices blogs: Choices. @parfaitfaye: kpop. @cultured-pearl: boys and Taylor Swift (it’s ok me too). @person #1 who I’ve fallen out with: Once Upon a Time. @other person I’ve fallen out with: music. I know they’re not all really tags but I couldn’t think of many

20: (truth) What does your bedroom look like? (dare) Take one selfie and post it. You only get one shot! (No old selfies or retrying, even if you think you look bad)

Truth: Actually pretty cute, pink and turquoise accents, posters and stuff on the walls

Dare: Done

21: (truth) What three fictional characters would you most like to meet? (dare) Write your name down on a piece of paper and draw a quick picture of yourself. Take a photo of it and post it.

Truth: Kelsier from Mistborn, Harry Potter from Harry Potter, Raydan from Choices

Dare: No more pictures, my phone’s dying

22: (truth) What are three things you’re looking forward to? (dare) Tag the last three people you reblogged posts from, and estimate how many followers they have.

Truth: Film shoots later this summer, seeing the cute guy at the gym cafe, getting some damn sleep

Dare: @nayla-sa: 4000. @potatouprising: 1500. @thegirldownthelaine: 2000

23: (truth) What are your three biggest turn ons, and your three biggest turn offs? (dare) Put your music player on shuffle. Without actually listening to it, write the lyrics to the chorus of the first song.

Truth: I’m bored of this question, I must have answered it a thousand times

Dare: My phone is dying so no

24: (truth) If you could only own five material objects (not counting life necessities like food/water/a house/etc) what would they be? (dare) Put your music player on shuffle. Post what the first three songs are, and for each one, tag a blog that the song reminds you of.

Truth: Laptop, phone, stuffed dog, crush log, stuffed cat

Dare: Phone is dying so no (i’m on a school computer for the rest of this)

25: (truth) What is the last thing you lied about? (dare) Tag three people you want to know better and ask them each three questions about themselves.

Truth: The reason I was late to work was a half-truth

Dare: Nah fam that’s too much work

26: (truth) What’s the last movie you watched? (dare) Reblog the most recent of your own selfies posted on tumblr, and in the tags say two things you like about your appearance in it?

Truth: Coco

Dare: Done

27: (truth) What are three things you like about yourself unrelated to your appearance? (dare) Post a picture from your camera roll that you’ve been meaning to post on tumblr.

Truth: I’m creative, I’m smart, and I like boys

Dare: Phone is dead

28: (truth) How do you take your coffee? (dare) Post the last picture you posted on a social media platform other than tumblr.

Truth: I don’t

Dare: Phone is dead

29: (truth) What are your worst habits? (dare) Put your Top 25 Most Played songs on shuffle and list the first five.

Truth: Procrastinating, staying up late, eating junk food. Most of my bad habits involve lack of impulse control

Dare: I don’t even know how to do that

30: (truth) What is the last thing you did that you have to keep secret from someone? Who do you have to keep it secret from? (dare) Tag five blogs with great URLs.

Truth: Crushed on a married coworker. I have to keep that secret from pretty much everyone including him

Dare: @irunwithscissorstofeeldangerous @the-average-gatsby @huffylemon @joshpeck @this-is-my-temporary-url (I helped her pick it)

[tabloidtoc]

Us, October 26

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: The truth about Carrie Underwood’s darkest days 

Page 4: Who Wore It Best? Izabel Goulart vs. Alyssa Diaz, Bridget Moynahan vs. Hilary Duff 

Page 6: Loose Talk -- North West on how she’d make the world a better place, Eva Mendes’ response to a social media troll who suggested that Ryan Gosling should take her out more, Stevie Nicks on whether Harry Styles would be her type if he were older, Adam Sandler on his pandemic beard, Dolly Parton on posing for Playboy in honor of her 75th birthday in January 

Page 8: Contents 

Page 10: Hot Pics -- Prince William and Duchess Kate stepped in for Queen Elizabeth to meet with the president of Ukraine Volodymyr Zelensky and his wife at Buckingham Palace, Joe Manganiello does his best impression of Rafiki holding up Simba with his own pup Bubbles at an Archenemy screening in Montclair, Macaulay Culkin sent the internet wild when he shared this photo of himself in a mask featuring his iconic wide-mouthed expression from Home Alone 

Page 12: Venus Williams turns heads in a bold Louis Vuitton ensemble at the brand’s spring-summer 2021 runway show in Paris, Lily-Rose Depp and her mom Vanessa Paradis at the Chanel show in Paris, Tom Cruise films a scene in a car for Mission: Impossible 7 in Rome 

Page 13: Sarah Jessica Parker working at her SJP collection store in NYC, Jordan Fisher steps out for fresh air in L.A., Jeannie Mai 

Page 14: Kaley Cuoco and costar Michelle Gomez on the streets of the Big Apple filming scenes for their new series The Flight Attendant, Machine Gun Kelly with girlfriend Megan Fox 

Page 15: Christina Aguilera and daughter Summer kick off spooky season at the 2020 Nights of the Jack Friends & Family Night in Calabasas, director Steve McQueen and Letitia Wright greet each other at the London Film Festival premiere of Mangrove 

Page 16: Rise and Grind -- caffeine-lovers need their morning fix -- Tan France, Ireland Baldwin in L.A., Jenna Fischer, Nick Viall, Peyton List running errands in L.A. 

Page 18: Khaki Craze -- celebs sport fall’s hottest trend -- John Krasinski filming Jack Ryan in Rome, Maisie Williams and Reuben Selby are color-coordinated in Dior during Paris Fashion Week, Irina Shayk works it for Boss in Milan, Olivia Palermo in Milan, Suki Waterhouse in Milan, Little Mix Jesy Nelson and Leigh-Anne Pinnock and Perrie Edwards and Jade Thirlwall in London 

Page 20: Petal Pushers -- these stars and flowers are a bunch of beauties -- David Beckham, Simone Biles and sunflowers, Madelaine Petsch and poppies, Hilarie Burton on Mischief Farm in Rhinebeck, NY 

Page 21: Jessica Chastain in the sunflower field, Yolanda Hadid and lavender, Travis Scott and daughter Stormi wander in the flower fields 

Page 22: Stars They’re Just Like Us -- Jessica Simpson works out, Garrett Hedlund plays tennis, Tyler the Creator dines out

Page 24: Love Lives -- For Artem Chigvintsev watching fiancee Nikki Bella’s postpartum depression was difficult 

Page 25: Camila Cabello is Shawn Mendes’ biggest fan, Kelly Rowland is expecting her second child with husband Tim Weatherspoon, Alec Baldwin and wife Hilaria Baldwin never bicker when it comes to parenting 

Page 26: Hot Hollywood -- Just weeks after calling off their short-lived engagement Max Ehrich’s team picked up his belongings from Demi Lovato’s house including the engagement ring he proposed with in July -- Max who is currently filming a movie in Atlanta is heartbroken about the split while Demi isn’t looking back and she’s acting as if she was never engaged to Max and that their relationship never happened

Page 27: It’s been nearly 10 years since Jessica Simpson last released an album but a comeback is on the horizon and she’s been working on new music and she realizes her past hits are too old for audiences to relate to so she’s focused on making more current tunes, Kim Kardashian West flaunted her hourglass figure for the first issue of Grazia USA and inside got candid about her challenging year, Katie Holmes and Emilio Vitolo Jr. are showing no signs of slowing down anytime soon and the pair are like young teens in love when they’re together and it shows -- Emilio lights up around Katie and whenever he’s asked about her he blushes and smiles -- the chef’s loved ones have also given Katie their stamps of approval 

Page 28: A Day in the Life -- Ruby Rose 

Page 29: When longtime Dancing With the Stars hosts Tom Bergeron and Erin Andrews were replaced with Tyra Banks many were skeptical about the choice but ABC producers had high hopes but now nearly halfway through the season Tyra’s job may be under fire especially after she announced the wrong bottom two couples during Week 4 -- it’s not going well because Tyra thinks she has so much experience hosting she doesn’t have to prepare and she’s also terrible at taking any feedback or constructive criticism

Page 30: Cover Story -- Carrie Underwood stronger than ever -- the country music superstar is opening up about her trials and tribulations and how she made it back from the brink 

Page 34: How legendary supermodel Cindy Crawford stays in tip-top shape 

Page 35: Like mother, like daughter -- Kaia Gerber’s a chip off the old block in the health and wellness department 

Page 36: Marion Cotillard takes us behind the scenes of her first campaign as the face of Chanel No. 5 

Page 38: Kristin Chenoweth shares scary good secrets for hosting the holiday 

Page 42: Us Musts -- Shea and Syd McGee bring their unique aesthetic to hopeful clients in a new Netflix series Dream Home Makeover 

Page 46: Fashion Police -- Mayim Bialik edition -- the Blossom alum looks back at her style choices from the ‘80s and ‘90s 

Page 48: 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me -- Ben Feldman 

[theliterateape]

A Merry Christmas Punch/CounterPunch On the Sensitive Topic of One Mr. George Bailey, Part One

By Don Hall

Author’s Note: This is the first year in a very long time that I will be spending Christmas away from Kansas and my family. It will also be the first Christmas I’ve ever spent working and, given that I work at a casino, my first Christmas in a casino and my first Christmas in the desert.

As this holiday comes crashing through and the New Year comes next, two benchmarks approach. Both the mark of my first year in Las Vegas (I drove my Prius filled with crap out of Chicago on February 12th) and my fifty-fourth birthday. The year has been one of huge, sweeping change, a fresh start in a new place in a new industry, and some rather serious if not completely naval-gazey observations about things in general.

Rather than walk you through all of that happy crappy horse shit on Christmas Day (I’ll save the staring into my naval pieces for the New Year/Decade), Joe Janes flew out to Vegas for Christmas and he and I went head-to-head at BUGHOUSE! Our topic: George Bailey: A Wonderful Life or a Miserable Failure?

This morning, we start with my argument. Later today, Joe will present his. FYI: he won. Go figure.

George Bailey: Having Friends Bail You Out Isn’t Enough

The warmth of that final scene is supposed to make us hug our loved ones and revel in the glow of a town surrounding their failed banker by bailing him out all in the Spirit of Christmas.

But did that room full of people really know George Bailey? Did they fully grasp his horrible failure as a human being before throwing down the money he lost?

Who was George Bailey and why do we in the Age of Cancel Culture want to see him escape his tragic fall?

First, understand that the film was pretty much critically panned at the time of its release in 1947 and recorded a $525,000 loss. It didn’t become the feel good classic until the 1980s when public television began playing it because it was free to do so. The 1980s when the world was celebrating problematic films like The Breakfast Club, Wall Street, Risky Business, and Porky’s. 

Second, George Bailey in his own words:

George Bailey: How old are you anyway?

Mary Hatch Bailey: Eighteen.

George Bailey: Eighteen. Why it was only last year you were seventeen.

George Bailey: [to Mary] You look older without your clothes on.

George Bailey: You call this a happy family? Why do we have to have all these kids?

Third, the George Bailey his many friends did not know:

George is that guy who graduates high school and then comes back to the high school party to troll recent graduates.

At the party, George becomes ­reacquainted with Mary, graduating that night. Mary is smart—she advances to college—but that isn’t what interests George. Walking home, he speaks lines seemingly from the Weinstein couch: “How old are you, anyway?” he leerily asks Mary, who replies that she is eighteen and wonders if that is “too young or too old.”

Later, when he learns he will be stuck in town managing his late ­father’s bank, George drunkenly makes his way to Mary’s house, where he “shakes her,” yells at her and forcibly kisses her. I suppose a later scene where he asks her if he can masturbate in front of her, she says nothing, so he does.

After George and Mary have married and had children, George releases his workplace stress by screaming at his children and ­destroying family belongings—incidents that today would be seen as red flags for domestic violence

Annie is the Bailey family’s African-American maid. At one point George’s brother slaps her fanny. All in jest, though one wonders how an older minority woman, as Annie is, might take such sporting if she weren’t ­dependent on a privileged white family for her room and modest income.

So, George is a sexist, a creep, a sexual assaulter, a potential domestic abuser, and a passive racist

He’s also a tragically bad businessman. Entrusting the money of the poorest people in Bedford Falls to a known drunk and a man who needed string on his fingers to remember things. You’d think after George caught the drunken Mr. Gower poisoning kids, he’d learn not to trust alcoholics but he was far too self-involved to learn that lesson. It all indicates that George had checked out somewhere around the time his selfish fucking brother reneged on his promise

George had kept the business running, in an agreement with his brother that Harry would take over after he returned from school. But Harry and his new fiancée, Ruth, had other plans. Ruth tells George her father offered Harry a job in the research business. While Harry says nothing’s set in stone yet, it hits George that his dreams really are turning to dust

Did Harry truly understand how much George hated him after that? The look of horror, panic, and hopelessness George gets on his face after Harry reveals his casual “I’m in love and have opportunities so go fuck your dreams of world travel” says far more than words

When George discovers the $8,000 missing, he loses his shit. “It means bankruptcy and scandal, and prison. One of us is going to jail. Well it’s not gonna be me!” George tells the exhausted and addled Uncle Billy, making it clear he’d send his uncle up the river if the money doesn’t turn up

Finally, when he sees that Potter, a bitter old man with a successful if not completely cutthroat business whom he has intentionally alienated throughout the first half of the film, is going to have him jailed, he decides to commit suicide. Not out of chronic depression or a chemical imbalance. Not out of grief or any sort of mental illness he may be suffering. He decides to take his life because that’s just easier than taking a breath, figuring out where the money went, and solving the problem.

His decision to off himself and leave his family and the host of poor people in town whose money has evaporated is narcissistic, sociopathic, and selfish to a degree that those friends who bail him out would stop in their tracks and say “What the fuck?

Instead, he is redeemed.

In the unwritten sequel, when George discovers a few months later that Billy has been quietly funneling funds to pay for his drinking problem, he decides to buy a shotgun, kill Mary and the kids and then turn the gun on himself until Clarence comes back and shows him how Zuzu grows up and creates a strain of agriculture based on the science of flowers that can feed the world. The third unwritten film, has George older and on trial by the FDIC for financial malfeasance. He plots to wear a suicide bomb to the trial and thus end his troubles but this time Clarence shows up, slaps him repeatedly in the face and tells him maybe suicide is the right choice. Once called on it, showing himself to be the coward he always was, Bailey turns state’s witness against his uncle

In a time when society no longer truly embraces redemption for mistakes, the idea that we can all sit down and feel good about a suicidal, abusive, sexist, racist, avoider of responsibility like George Bailey is out of place. We now look toward Punishment instead of Rehabilitation, Revenge in lieu of Redemption. We no longer Forgive or Forget

He may have a room full of friends but they don’t know what we know. He will never be held accountable for his mistakes. Bailey is a tragic failure and should be cancelled

Don’t even get me started on the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge.

[theconservativebrief]

When Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone came out in the United States 20 years ago, it changed the way we thought about children’s books. Under Harry’s influence, kids’ books got longer. They got more prestigious. They became culturally inescapable. And for a generation of writers, the Harry Potter books became foundational texts, ones to refer to again and again to figure out what their next book should look like.

Vox spoke to seven writers via email about their memories of growing up on Harry Potter, and how the books influenced their own writing. In their own words, here’s how Harry Potter changed the next generation of writers.

The following comments have been lightly edited for length and clarity.

Lee’s gay Regency road trip novel A Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue was one of the most charming books of 2017, and its sequel will come out in October.

My strongest memory of Harry Potter is listening to the audiobooks narrated by Jim Dale. I was a big audiobook reader as a kid, and I used to carry a little cassette player all around the house, listening to Harry Potter over and over again until I could recite passages from memory. I also remember going to a release party for the fourth book, where my sister and I made her a Fluffy the three-headed dog costume and she won second prize in the costume contest!

My other biggest Harry Potter memory is when the seventh book came out, my family made a pact we’d all read it together. But I couldn’t wait! My mom was keeping a close eye on the book to make sure no one read ahead, so in order to sneak it away, I swapped the dust jacket with another fantasy novel and pretended to be reading that one instead. And it worked! She didn’t know until I told her years later!

I feel like Harry Potter is always with me, and always with everything I create. I’m constantly chasing the feeling those books give me in everything I write, and hoping that someday someone will love my work even a smidge as much as I love Harry Potter.

Robson is an internationally best-selling author of historical romances. Her new book The Gown comes out in December.

My sister put the first book in my hands a year or two after it was first published. I read it straight through without stopping, and then I turned to the first page and read it all over again. When my now-teenage son was still very little, probably no more than 4 or 5, I read the first three books aloud to him at bedtime over the course of a year or so. I simply couldn’t wait any longer to introduce him to the world Rowling had created.

The clarity of [Rowling’s] vision continues to astonish and inspire me. She saw, right from the beginning, where the great arc of the series would lead Harry and his friends, and she knew exactly how those thousands of puzzle pieces would fit together. I also adore Harry himself, not least because he reminds me of another orphan who only wanted to be loved and have a place to belong and a family to call her own: Anne Shirley [of Anne of Green Gables].

For me, Rowling herself is the inspiration. I’d dreamed of writing a book for years, but for one reason or another I kept putting it off. And then, late one night when I was up with my weeks-old daughter, I watched a documentary about Rowling, and how difficult her life was before the great success of Harry Potter. She wrote her first book without any of the supports that many people would consider essential to such a grand endeavor: no supportive partner, no child care, no money for things like a computer or research trips or even a nice cup of coffee at the end of a bad day. She kept going through the bad days; she never gave up. I started writing my first book the next morning.

Knisley is an author and illustrator who reimagined each Harry Potter book as a poster-length comic. Her new book Kid Gloves comes out in February.

I was that cool kid who had a book club with my sixth-grade teacher. We’d trade books that we thought the other would like all through elementary school and into high school. In my freshman year of high school, she sent me the first Harry Potter book. It was the last book she ever sent me, but it was probably one of the most long-lived gifts I ever received.

[Harry Potter] celebrates everyone’s differences. We love the characters because of their individuality and strengths, and that they can find a place for themselves. I was a lonely, awkward kid who changed schools quite a lot (a Neville, if you will) but I recognized this world in the book as a place where everyone, oddball or misfit or even bratty narcissist included, could find their home.

I think Harry Potter has given all of us something to strive for — a world so beloved and complete that people of all ages get lost in the pages. I’d love to be able to write a book like that someday.

Matharu became a YA fantasy sensation on the fanfic website Wattpad. His book The Summoner’s Handbook comes out in October.

I was first given Harry Potter at around the age of 9. It was right before the series became a phenomenon — I hadn’t heard of it before. When I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for the first of many times, in my eyes, it was like any other book.

That was before I started reading it. I became an instant fan — I loved every page, and immediately begged my mother for a trip to the bookshop to purchase the second one when I finished it. After that, I was one of the many readers who had the release date of the next book written in my diary, and would queue up with my parents outside the bookstore, waiting for the doors to open. I count myself lucky to be in the first generation of Harry Potter fans.

J.K. Rowling lived and breathed the world of Harry Potter, and that was plain on the page. You believed it when you read it. And perhaps most important of all, it was a world you wished you could live in. I stayed up all night on my 11th birthday, waiting in hope for an owl to deliver my Hogwarts acceptance letter.

Of course, now I know that Muggle-born children don’t receive owls — a teacher from Hogwarts arrives at their door with the letter, to explain everything to their parents. It’s that kind of attention to detail that made the world of Harry Potter so special.

It’s no coincidence that my own first novel takes place in a boarding school setting, where teenagers learn to control their powers. Harry Potter’s Hogwarts is one close to my heart, and it inspired me to make my own magical school. That being said, [mine is] more of a military academy. Training involves learning how to fight as military officers, in a war against the savage orcs of the Southern Jungles.

The magic is also very different; no wands or broomsticks here. But even here, Rowling’s influence can be seen — students’ powers involve summoning demons from another plane of existence. These demons are magical creatures inspired by world mythologies, not unlike Rowling’s own bestiary of fantastic beasts.

Along with his brother, young adult author and icon John Green, Green is one half of the YouTube power duo Vlogbrothers, the founder of VidCon, and a longtime member of Harry Potter fandom. His debut novel An Absolutely Remarkable Thing comes out this month.

The way we loved Harry Potter while the books were coming out was so good and big and pure, and the fact that some of the younger, nerdier parts of the internet were simultaneously on the rise can’t really be separated from each other. The community and passion of the Harry Potter fandom was, for a lot of people, how their experience of the internet began. That community was vital to my growth not just as a creator but as a compassionate, thoughtful citizen of the internet. Weird, but true.

Lam is the author of the critically acclaimed YA fantasy series the Micah Grey trilogy and the Pacifica series.

My best friend since I was 6 thrust the first book into my hands when I was 11 or so. I devoured the first three books and became an instant fan. I waited in line at midnight for the next book release, dressing up. When a new film came out, my mom would let my brother and me play hooky and we’d go watch a matinee showing. In a roundabout way, I met my husband and moved to Edinburgh, the birthplace of Harry Potter, through the books too, because he was a troll on a Harry Potter Yahoo chatroom that me and my friends posted on (it’s a long, nerdy story).

My favorite thing about the books is the sense of magic. It was pure escapism. It didn’t matter that if you thought too hard about certain things about the world, it didn’t exactly make sense. Because it was such a wide phenomenon, it was fantasy that all my friends also read. It was my first fandom, where I read fanfic and started thinking about where else the world could go and who else could live within them. I was especially drawn to fanfic about the marginalized that didn’t show up that often at Hogwarts — the queer and POC characters, for example.

I once uploaded two chapters of a Harry Potter fanfic called The Black Cat. I have zero recollection of what it was about — I only know the title because I referred to it in my teen diary. It’s better lost to time. My first love is fantasy, and that’s what I started writing. Harry Potter’s influence has creeped into my Micah Grey trilogy, starting with Pantomime. Micah runs away to a magical circus to escape his stifling real life, changing gender presentation within the process. There’s even a trio — Micah is definitely the Gryffindor. Cyan is Ravenclaw. Drystan is Slytherin but with a little bit of hidden Hufflepuff. I’ll always be thankful to Rowling for the magic.

Spieller is a literary agent and author of the YA novel Your Destination Is on the Left. She recently revealed her Harry Potter allegiances via Book Twitter’s version of fuck/marry/kill: “Write Gryffindor. Edit Ravenclaw.”

I heard Harry Potter before I read it. My seventh-grade computer teacher read the first chapter to the class, then helped us build basic HTML websites inspired by the story. I remember a lot of pixelated, rotating witches’ brooms …

My favorite thing about the books is how they make me feel. Reading even a single line takes me back to childhood, when all I wanted was to receive my Hogwarts acceptance letter via owl. J.K. Rowling makes Harry’s world feel lived-in and real by including lots of small details. I try to do that with my own books.

Original Source -> 7 authors tell us how 20 years of Harry Potter shaped their lives

via The Conservative Brief

[readbookywooks]

Christmas on the Closed Ward

Was this why Dumbledore would no longer meet Harry's eyes? Did he expect to see Voldemort staring out of them, afraid, perhaps, that their vivid green might turn suddenly to scarlet, with catlike slits for pupils? Harry remembered how the snakelike face of Voldemort had once forced itself out of the back of Professor Quirrell's head and ran his hand over the back of his own, wondering what it would feel like if Voldemort burst out of his skull. He felt dirty, contaminated, as though he were carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to sit on the Underground train back from the hospital with innocent, clean people whose minds and bodies were free of the taint of Voldemort ... he had not merely seen the snake, he had been the snake, he knew it now ... A truly terrible thought then occurred to him, a memory bobbing to the surface of his mind, one that made his insides writhe and squirm like serpents. What's he after, apart from followers? Stuff he can only get by stealth ... like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time. I'm the weapon, Harry thought, and it was as though poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him, bringing him out in a sweat as he swayed with the train through the dark tunnel. I'm the one Voldemort's trying to use, that's why they've got guards around me everywhere I go, it's not for my protection, it's for other people's, only it's not working, they can't have someone on me all the time at Hogwarts ... I did attack Mr. Weasley last night, it was me. Voldemort made me do it and he could be inside me, listening to my thought's right now--' 'Are you all right, Harry, dear?' whispered Mrs. Weasley, leaning across Ginny to speak to him as the train rattled along through its dark tunnel. 'You don't look very well. Are you feeling sick?' They were all watching him. He shook his head violently and stared up at an advertisement for home insurance. 'Harry, dear, are you sure you're all right?' said Mrs. Weasley in a worried voice, as they walked around the unkempt patch of grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place. 'You look ever so pale ... are you sure you slept this morning? You go upstairs to bed right now and you can have a couple of hours of sleep before dinner, all right?' He nodded; here was a ready-made excuse not to talk to any of the others, which was precisely what he wanted, so when she opened the front door he hurried straight past the trolls-leg umbrella stand, up the stairs and into his and Ron's bedroom. Here, he began to pace up and down, past the two beds and Phineas Nigellus's empty picture frame, his brain teeming and seething with questions and ever more dreadful ideas. How had he become a snake? Perhaps he was an Animagus ... no, he couldn't be, he would know ... perhaps Voldemort was an Animagus ... yes, thought Harry, that would fit, he would turn into a snake of course ... and when he's possessing me, then we both transform ... that still doesn't explain how I got to London and back to my bed in the space of about five minutes ... but then Voldemort's about the most powerful wizard in the world, apart from Dumbledore, it's probably no problem at all to him to transport people like that. And then, with a terrible stab of panic, he thought, but this is insane--if Voldemort's possessing me, I'm giving him a clear view into the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix right now! He'll know who's in the Order and where Sirius is ... and I've heard loads of stuff I shouldn't have, everything Sirius told me the first night I was here ... There was only one thing for it: he would have to leave Grimmauld Place straightaway. He would spend Christmas at Hogwarts without the others, which would keep them safe over the holidays at least ... but no, that wouldn't do, there were still plenty of people at Hogwarts to maim and injure. What if it was Seamus, Dean or Neville next time? He stopped his pacing and stood staring at Phineas Nigellus's empty frame. A leaden sensation was settling in the pit of his stomach. He had no alternative: he was going to have to return to Privet Drive, cut himself off from other wizards entirely. Well, if he had to do it, he thought, there was no point hanging around. Trying with all his might not to think how the Dursleys were going to react when they found him on their doorstep six months earlier than they had expected, he strode over to his trunk, slammed the lid shut and locked it, then glanced around automatically for Hedwig before remembering that she was still at Hogwarts--well, her cage would be one less thing to carry--he seized one end of his trunk and had dragged it halfway towards the door when a snide voice said, 'Running away, are we?' He looked around. Phineas Nigellus had appeared on the canvas of his portrait and was leaning against the frame, watching Harry with an amused expression on his face. 'Not running away, no,' said Harry shortly, dragging his trunk a few more feet across the room. 'I thought,' said Phineas Nigellus, stroking his pointed beard, 'that to belong in Gryffindor house you were supposed to be brave? It looks to me as though you would have been better off in my own house. We Slytherins are brave, yes, but not stupid. For instance, given the choice, we will always choose to save our own necks.' 'It's not my own neck I'm saving,' said Harry tersely, tugging the trunk over a patch of particularly uneven, moth-eaten carpet right in front of the door. 'Oh, I see,' said Phineas Nigellus, still stroking his beard, 'this is no cowardly flight--you are being noble.' Harry ignored him. His hand was on the doorknob when Phineas Nigellus said lazily, 'I have a message for you from Albus Dumbledore.' Harry span round. 'What is it?' '"Stay where you are." ' 'I haven't moved!' said Harry, his hand still upon the doorknob. 'So what's the message?' 'I have just given it to you, dolt,' said Phineas Nigellus smoothly. 'Dumbledore says, "Stay where you are."' 'Why?' said Harry eagerly, dropping the end of his trunk. 'Why does he want me to stay? What else did he say?' 'Nothing whatsoever,' said Phineas Nigellus, raising a thin black eyebrow as though he found Harry impertinent. Harry's temper rose to the surface like a snake rearing from long grass. He was exhausted, he was confused beyond measure, he had experienced terror, relief, then terror again in the last twelve hours, and still Dumbledore did not want to talk to him! 'So that's it, is it?' he said loudly. '"Stay where you are"? That's all anyone could tell me after I got attacked by those dementors, too! Just stay put while the grown-ups sort it out, Harry! We won't bother telling you anything, though, because your tiny little brain might not be able to cope with it!' 'You know,' said Phineas Nigellus, even more loudly than Harry, 'this is precisely why I loathed being a teacher! Young people are so infernally convinced that they are absolutely right about everything. Has it not occurred to you, my poor puffed-up popinjay, that there might be an excellent reason why the Headmaster of Hogwarts is not confiding every tiny detail of his plans to you? Have you never paused, while feeling hard-done-by, to note that following Dumbledore's orders has never yet led you into harm? No.No, like all young people, you are quite sure that you alone feel and think, you alone recognise danger, you alone are the only one clever enough to realise what the Dark Lord may be planning--' 'He is planning something to do with me, then?' said Harry swiftly. 'Did I say that?' said Phineas Nigellus, idly examining his silk gloves. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than listen to adolescent agonising ... good-day to you.' And he strolled to the edge of his frame and out of sight. 'Fine, go then!' Harry bellowed at the empty frame. 'And tell Dumbledore thanks for nothing!' The empty canvas remained silent. Fuming, Harry dragged his trunk back to the foot of his bed, then threw himself face down on the moth-eaten covers, his eyes shut, his body heavy and aching. He felt as though he had journeyed for miles and miles ... it seemed impossible that less than twenty-four hours ago Cho Chang had been approaching him under the mistletoe ... he was so tired ... he was scared to sleep ... yet he did not know how long he could fight it ... Dumbledore had told him to stay ... that must mean he was allowed to sleep ... but he was scared ... what if it happened again? He was sinking into shadows ... It was as though a film in his head had been waiting to start. He was walking down a deserted corridor towards a plain black door, past rough stone walls, torches, and an open doorway on to a flight of stone steps leading downstairs on the left ... He reached the black door but could not open it... he stood gazing at it, desperate for entry ... something he wanted with all his heart lay beyond ... a prize beyond his dreams ... if only his scar would stop prickling ... then he would be able to think more clearly ... 'Harry,' said Ron's voice, from far, far away, 'Mum says dinners ready, but she'll save you something if you want to stay in bed.' Harry opened his eyes, but Ron had already left the room. He doesn't want to be on his own with me, Harry thought. Not after what he heard Moody say. He supposed none of them would want him there any more, now that they knew what was inside him. He would not go down to dinner; he would not inflict his company on them. He turned over on to his other side and, after a while, dropped back off to sleep. He woke much later, in the early hours of the morning, his insides aching with hunger and Ron snoring in the next bed. Squinting around the room, he saw the dark outline of Phineas Nigellus standing again in his portrait and it occurred to Harry that Dumbledore had probably sent Phineas Nigellus to watch over him, in case he attacked somebody else. The feeling of being unclean intensified. He half-wished he had not obeyed Dumbledore ... if this was how life was going to be for him in Grimmauld Place from now on, maybe he would be better off in Privet Drive after all. Everybody else spent the following morning putting up Christmas decorations. Harry could not remember Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was actually singing carols, apparently delighted that he was to have company over Christmas. Harry could hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold drawing room where he was sitting alone, watching the sky growing whiter outside the windows, threatening snow, all the time feeling a savage pleasure that he was giving the others the opportunity to keep talking about him, as they were bound to be doing. When he heard Mrs. Weasley calling his name softly up the stairs around lunchtime, he retreated further upstairs and ignored her. Around six o'clock in the evening the doorbell rang and Mrs. Black started screaming again. Assuming that Mundungus or some other Order member had come to call, Harry merely settled himself more comfortably against the wall of Buckbeak's room where he was hiding, trying to ignore how hungry he felt as he fed dead rats to the hippogriff. It came as a slight shock when somebody hammered hard on the door a few minutes later. 'I know you're in there,' said Hermione's voice. 'Will you please come out? I want to talk to you.' 'What are you doing here?' Harry asked her, pulling open the door as Buckbeak resumed his scratching at the straw-strewn floor for any fragments of rat he may have dropped. 'I thought you were skiing with your mum and dad?' 'Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing,' said Hermione. 'So, I've come here for Christmas.' There was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold. 'But don't tell Ron. I told him skiing's really good because he kept laughing so much. Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I've told them that everyone who is serious about the exams is staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do well, they'll understand. Anyway,' she said briskly, 'let's go to your bedroom, Ron's mum has lit a fire in there and she's sent up sandwiches.' Harry followed her back to the second floor. When he entered the bedroom, he was rather surprised to see both Ron and Ginny waiting for them, sitting on Ron's bed. 'I came on the Knight Bus,' said Hermione airily, pulling off her jacket before Harry had time to speak. 'Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo's and he'd given you all permission to visit. So ...' She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron all looked up at Harry. 'How're you feeling?' asked Hermione. 'Fine,' said Harry stiffly. 'Oh, don't lie, Harry,' she said impatiently. 'Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo's.' 'They do, do they?' said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed quite unabashed. 'Well, you have!' she said. 'And you won't look at any of us!' 'It's you lot who won't look at me!' said Harry angrily. 'Maybe you're taking it in turns to look, and keep missing each other,' suggested Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching. 'Very funny,' snapped Harry, turning away. 'Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,' said Hermione sharply. 'Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears--' 'Yeah?' growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside. 'All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it.' 'We wanted to talk toyou, Harry,' said Ginny, 'but as you've been hiding ever since we got back--' 'I didn't want anyone to talk to me,' said Harry, who was feeling more and more nettled. 'Well, that was a bit stupid of you,' said Ginny angrily, 'seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels.' Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. Then he wheeled round. 'I forgot,' he said. 'Lucky you,' said Ginny coolly. 'I'm sorry,' Harry said, and he meant it. 'So ... so, do you think I'm being possessed, then?' 'Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?' Ginny asked. 'Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?' Harry racked his brains. 'No,' he said. 'Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you,' said Ginny simply. 'When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.' Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was lightening almost in spite of himself. 'That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though--' 'Harry, you've had these dreams before,' Hermione said. 'You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.' 'This was different,' said Harry, shaking his head. 'I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake ... what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London--?' 'One day,' said Hermione, sounding thoroughly exasperated, 'you'll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparaie inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry.' 'You didn't leave your bed, mate,' said Ron. 'I saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up.' Harry started pacing up and down the room again, thinking. What they were all saying was not only comforting, it made sense ... without really thinking, he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and crammed it hungrily into his mouth. I'm not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their door towards Buckbeak's room, singing 'God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs' at the top of his voice. How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet Drive for Christmas? Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of the summer; now he seemed determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognisable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view, and even the stuffed elf-heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats and beards. Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile. 'Good haul this year,' he informed Harry through a cloud of paper. 'Thanks for the Broom Compass, it's excellent; beats Hermione's--she got me a homework planner--' Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hermione's handwriting on it. She had given him, too, a book that resembled a diary except that every time he opened a page it said aloud things like: 'Do it today or later you'll pay!' Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described. Harry flicked through the first volume eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful in his plans for the DA. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably supposed to be an anti-theft device, but unfortunately prevented Harry putting any money in without getting his fingers ripped off. Tonks's present was a small, working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly around the room, wishing he still had his full-size version; Ron had given him an enormous box of Every-Flavour Beans, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies, and Dobby a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected had been done by the elf himself. He had just turned it upside-down to see whether it looked better that way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George Apparated at the foot of his bed. 'Merry Christmas,' said George. 'Don't go downstairs for a bit.' 'Why not?' said Ron. 'Mum's crying again,' said Fred heavily. 'Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.' 'Without a note,' added George. 'Hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything.' 'We tried to comfort her,' said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. 'Told her Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings.' 'Didn't work,' said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. 'So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.' 'What's that supposed to be, anyway?' asked Fred, squinting at Dobbys painting. 'Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.' 'It's Harry!' said George, pointing at the back of the picture, 'says so on the back!' 'Good likeness,' said Fred, grinning. Harry threw his new homework diary at him; it hit the wall opposite and fell to the floor where it said happily: 'If you've dotted the "i"s and crossed the "t"s then you may do whatever you please!' They got up and dressed. They could hear the various inhabitants of the house calling 'Merry Christmas' to one another. On their way downstairs they met Hermione. Thanks for the book, Harry,' she said happily. 'I've been wanting that New Theory of Numerology for ages! And that perfume's really unusual, Ron.' 'No problem,' said Ron. 'Who's that for, anyway?' he added, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she was carrying. 'Kreacher,' said Hermione brightly. 'It had better not be clothes!' Ron warned her. 'You know what Sirius said: Kreacher knows too much, we can't set him free!' 'It isn't clothes,' said Hermione, 'although if I had my way I'd certainly give him something to wear other than that filthy old rag. No, it's a patchwork quilt, I thought it would brighten up his bedroom.' 'What bedroom?' said Harry, dropping his voice to a whisper as they were passing the portrait of Sirius's mother. 'Well, Sirius says it's not so much a bedroom, more a kind of--den,' said Hermione. 'Apparently he sleeps under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen.' Mrs. Weasley was the only person in the basement when they arrived there. She was standing at the stove and sounded as though she had a bad head cold as she wished them 'Merry Christmas', and they all averted their eyes. 'So, is this Kreacher's bedroom?' said Ron, strolling over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry. Harry had never seen it open. 'Yes,' said Hermione, now sounding a little nervous. 'Er ... I think we'd better knock.' Ron rapped on the door with his knuckles but there was no reply. 'He must be sneaking around upstairs,' he said, and without further ado pulled open the door. 'Urgh!' Harry peered inside. Most of the cupboard was taken up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in the foot of space underneath the pipes Kreacher had made himself something that looked like a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of it showed where Kreacher curled up to sleep every night. Here and there among the material were stale bread crusts and mouldy old bits of cheese. In a far corner glinted small objects and coins that Harry guessed Kreacher had saved, magpie-like, from Sirius's purge of the house, and he had also managed to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that Sirius had thrown away over the summer. Their glass might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white people inside them peered up at him haughtily, including--he felt a little jolt in his stomach--the dark, heavy-lidded woman whose trial he had witnessed in Dumbledore's Pensieve: Bellatrix Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers was Kreacher's favourite photograph; he had placed it to the fore of all the others and had mended the glass clumsily with Spellotape. 'I think I'll just leave his present here,' said Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of the depression in the rags and blankets and closing the door quietly. 'He'll find it later, that'll be fine.' 'Come to think of it,' said Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the cupboard door, 'has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?' 'I haven't seen him since the night we came back here,' said Harry. 'You were ordering him out of the kitchen.' 'Yeah ...' said Sirius, frowning. 'You know, I think that's the last time I saw him, too ... he must be hiding upstairs somewhere.' 'He couldn't have left, could he?' said Harry. 'I mean, when you said "out", maybe he thought you meant get out of the house?' 'No, no, house-elves can't leave unless they're given clothes. They're tied to their family's house,' said Sirius. 'They can leave the house if they really want to,' Harry contradicted him. 'Dobby did, he left the Malfoy's' to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterwards, but he still managed it.' Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, 'I'll look for him later, I expect I'll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother's old bloomers or something. Of course, he might have crawled into the airing cupboard and died ... but I mustn't get my hopes up.' Fred, George and Ron laughed; Hermione, however, looked reproachful. Once they had eaten their Christmas lunch, the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione were planning to pay Mr. Weasley another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye and Lupin. Mundungus turned up in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to 'borrow' a car for the occasion, as the Underground did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which Harry doubted very much had been taken with the consent of its owner, had been enlarged with a spell like the Weasleys' old Ford Anglia had once been. Although normally proportioned outside, ten people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it quite comfortably. Mrs. Weasley hesitated before getting inside--Harry knew her disapproval of Mundungus was battling with her dislike of travelling without magic--but, finally, the cold outside and her children's pleading triumphed, and she settled herself into the back seat between Fred and Bill with good grace. The journey to St Mungo's was quite quick as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards was creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for them. They strolled casually towards the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass. The reception area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo's had been coloured red and gold to become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway; and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each one topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time they had been there, although halfway across the room Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a satsuma jammed up her left nostril. 'Family argument, eh?' smirked the blonde witch behind the desk. 'You're the third I've seen today ... Spell Damage, fourth floor.' They found Mr Weasley propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray on his lap and a rather sheepish expression on his face. 'Everything all right, Arthur?' asked Mrs. Weasley, after they had all greeted Mr. Weasley and handed over their presents. 'Fine, fine,' said Mr. Weasley, a little too heartily. 'You--er--haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?' 'No,' said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, 'why?' 'Nothing, nothing,' said Mr. Weasley airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. 'Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry-- this is absolutely wonderful!' For he had just opened Harry's gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers. Mrs. Weasley did not seem entirely satisfied with Mr. Weasley's answer. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry's hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt. 'Arthur,' she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, 'you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow.' 'What?' said Mr Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. 'No, no--it's nothing--it's--I--' He seemed to deflate under Mrs. Weasley's piercing gaze. 'Well--now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea ... he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in ... um ... complementary medicine ... I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies ... well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on--on Muggle wounds--' Mrs. Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Mr. Weasley; Bill muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning. 'Do you mean to tell me,' said Mrs. Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, 'that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?' 'Not messing about, Molly, dear,' said Mr. Weasley imploringly, 'it was just--just something Pye and I thought we'd try--only, most unfortunately--well, with these particular kinds of wounds--it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped--' 'Meaning?' 'Well ... well, I don't know whether you know what--what stitches are?' 'It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together,' said Mrs. Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, 'but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid --' 'I fancy a cup of tea, too,' said Harry, jumping to his feet. Hermione, Ron and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?' 'Typical Dad,' said Ginny, shaking her head as they set off up the corridor. 'Stitches ... I ask you ...' 'Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,' said Hermione fairly. 'I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something. I wonder where the tearoom is?' 'Fifth floor,' said Harry, remembering the sign over the welcomewitch's desk. They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit. 'And what's that supposed to be?' he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way. ' 'Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now--' 'Watch who you're calling gruesome!' said Ron, his ears turning red. '--the only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked at the full moon in a barrel of eels' eyes--' 'I have not got spattergroit!' 'But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master--' 'They're freckles!' said Ron furiously. 'Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!' He rounded on the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces. 'What floor's this?' 'I think it's the fifth,' said Hermione. 'Nah, it's the fourth,' said Harry, 'one more--' But as he stepped on to the landing he came to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that marked the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out at them all with his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes and a broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white teeth. 'Blimey!' said Ron, also staring at the man. 'Oh, my goodness,' said Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. 'Professor Lockhart.' Their ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed open the doors and moved towards them, wearing a long lilac dressing gown. 'Well, hello there!' he said. 'I expect you'd like my autograph, would you?' 'Hasn't changed much, has he?' Harry muttered to Ginny, who grinned. 'Er--how are you, Professor?' said Ron, sounding slightly guilty. It had been Ron's malfunctioning wand that had damaged Professor Lockhart's memory so badly that he had landed in St. Mungo's in the first place, though as Lockhart had been attempting to permanently wipe Harry and Ron's memories at the time, Harry's sympathy was limited. 'I'm very well indeed, thank you!' said Lockhart exuberantly, palling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. 'Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!' 'Er--we don't want any at the moment, thanks,' said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asked, 'Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?' The smile faded slowly from Lockhart's face. For a few moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said, 'Haven't we met?' 'Er ... yeah, we have,' said Harry. 'You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?' 'Teach?' repeated Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled. 'Me? Did I?' And then the smile reappeared upon his face so suddenly it was rather alarming. 'Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen, you can give them to all your little friends then and nobody will be left out!' But just then a head poked out of a door at the far end of the corridor and a voice called, 'Gilderoy, you naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?' A motherly-looking Healer wearing a tinsel wreath in her hair came bustling up the corridor, smiling warmly at Harry and the others. 'Oh, Gilderoy, you've got visitors! How lovely, and on Christmas Day, too! Do you know, he never gets visitors, poor lamb, and I can't think why, he's such a sweetie, aren't you?' 'We're doing autographs!' Gilderoy told the Healer with another glittering smile. 'They want loads of them, won't take no for an answer! I just hope we've got enough photographs!' 'Listen to him,' said the Healer, taking Lockhart's arm and beaming fondly at him as though he were a precocious two-year-old. 'He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be starting to come back. Will you step this way? He's in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out while I was bringing in the Christmas presents, the door's usually kept locked ... not that he's dangerous! But,' she lowered her voice to a whisper, 'he's a bit of a danger to himself, bless him ... doesn't know who he is, you see, wanders off and can't remember how to get back ... it is nice of you to have come to see him.' 'Er,' said Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above, 'actually, we were just--er--' But the Healer was smiling expectantly at them, and Ron's feeble mutter of 'going to have a cup of tea' trailed away into nothingness. They looked at each other helplessly, then followed Lockhart and his Healer along the corridor. 'Let's not stay long,' Ron said quietly. The Healer pointed her wand at the door of the Janus Thickey Ward and muttered, 'Alohomora.' The door swung open and she led the way inside, keeping a firm grasp on Gilderoy's arm until she had settled him into an armchair beside his bed. 'This is our long-term residents' ward,' she informed Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny in a low voice. 'For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement. Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself; and we've seen a real improvement in Mr. Bode, he seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, though he isn't speaking any language we recognise yet. Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas presents, I'll leave you all to chat.' Harry looked around. The ward bore unmistakeable signs of being a permanent home to its residents. They had many more personal effects around their beds than in Mr Weasley's ward; the wall around Gilderoy's headboard, for instance, was papered with pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at the new arrivals. He had autographed many of them to himself in disjointed, childish writing. The moment he had been deposited in his chair by the Healer, Gilderoy pulled a fresh stack of photographs towards him, seized a quill and started signing them all feverishly. 'You can put them in envelopes,' he said to Ginny, throwing the signed pictures into her lap one by one as he finished them. 'I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail ... Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly ... I just wish I knew why ...' He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed again and returned to his signing with renewed vigour. 'I suspect it is simply my good looks ...' A sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard lay in the bed opposite staring at the ceiling; he was mumbling to himself and seemed quite unaware of anything around him. Two beds along was a woman whose entire head was covered in fur; Harry remembered something similar happening to Hermione during their second year, although fortunately the damage, in her case, had not been permanent. At the far end of the ward flowery curtains had been drawn around two beds to give the occupants and their visitors some privacy. 'Here you are, Agnes,' said the Healer brightly to the furry-faced woman, handing her a small pile of Christmas presents. 'See, not forgotten, are you? And your son's sent an owl to say he's visiting tonight, so that's nice, isn't it?' Agnes gave several loud barks. 'And look, Broderick, you've been sent a pot plant and a lovely calendar with a different fancy hippogriff for each month; they'll brighten things up, won't they?' said the Healer, bustling along to the mumbling man, setting a rather ugly plant with long, swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixing the calendar to the wall with her wand. 'And--oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?' Harry's head span round. The curtains had been drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward and two visitors were walking back down the aisle between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakeably a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking thoroughly depressed--Neville. With a sudden rush of understanding, Harry realised who the people in the end beds must be. He cast around wildly for some means of distracting the others so that Neville could leave the ward unnoticed and unquestioned, but Ron had also looked up at the sound of the name 'Longbottom', and before Harry could stop him had called out, 'Neville!' Neville jumped and cowered as though a bullet had narrowly missed him. 'It's us, Neville!' said Ron brightly, getting to his feet. 'Have you seen--? Lockhart's here! Who've you been visiting?' 'Friends of yours, Neville, dear?' said Neville's grandmother graciously, bearing down upon them all. Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. A dull purple flush was creeping up his plump face and he was not making eye contact with any of them. 'Ah, yes,' said his grandmother, looking closely at Harry and sticking out a shrivelled, clawlike hand for him to shake. 'Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you.' 'Er--thanks,' said Harry, shaking hands. Neville did not look at him, but surveyed his own feet, the colour deepening in his face all the while. 'And you two are clearly Weasleys,' Mrs. Longbottom continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and Ginny in turn. 'Yes, I know your parents--not well, of course--but fine people, fine people ... and you must be Hermione Granger?' Hermione looked rather startled that Mrs. Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the same. 'Yes, Neville's told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you? He's a good boy,' she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her rather bony nose at Neville, 'but be hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say.' And she jerked her head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled alarmingly. 'What?' said Ron, looking amazed. (Harry wanted to stamp on Ron's foot, but that sort of thing is much harder to bring off unnoticed when you're wearing jeans rather than robes.) 'Is that your dad down the end, Neville?' 'What's this?' said Mrs. Longbottom sharply. 'Haven't you told your friends about your parents, Neville?' Neville took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. Harry could not remember ever feeling sorrier for anyone, but he could not think of any way of helping Neville out of the situation. 'Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of!' said Mrs. Longbottom angrily. 'You should be proud, Neville, proud!They didn't give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!' 'I'm not ashamed,' said Neville, very faintly, still looking anywhere but at Harry and the others. Ron was now standing on tiptoe to look over at the inhabitants of the two beds. 'Well, you've got a funny way of showing it!' said Mrs. Longbottom. 'My son and his wife,' she said, turning haughtily to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, 'were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers.' Hermione and Ginny both clapped their hands over their mouths. Ron stopped craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville's parents and looked mortified. 'They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the wizarding community,' Mrs Longbottom went on. 'Highly gifted, the pair of them. I--yes, Alice dear, what is it?' Neville's mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-looking face Harry had seen in Moody's old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed overlarge and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made timid motions towards Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand. 'Again?' said Mrs Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. 'Very well, Alice dear, very well-- Neville, take it, whatever it is.' But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper. 'Very nice, dear,' said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder. But Neville said quietly, 'Thanks, Mum.' His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but Harry did not think he'd ever found anything less funny in his life. 'Well, we'd better get back,' sighed Mrs. Longbottom, drawing on long green gloves. 'Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now.' But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip the sweet wrapper into his pocket. The door closed behind them. 'I never knew,' said Hermione, who looked tearful. 'Nor did I,' said Ron rather hoarsely. 'Nor me,' whispered Ginny. They all looked at Harry. 'I did,' he said glumly. 'Dumbledore told me but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone ... that's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds.' 'Bellatrix Lestrange did that?' whispered Hermione, horrified. 'That woman Kreacher's got a photo of in his den?' There was a long silence, broken by Lockhart's angry voice. 'Look, I didn't learn joined-up writing for nothing, you know!'