#shes having a political argument with my uncle. i want to get off mr bones wild ride

[synthaphone]

‘ohh this animal isnt really cool or interesting, because people have heard of it’ well sorry you cant appreciate both popular and unpopular animals but im different

[internalsealpanic]

Of Midnight Smoothies and Murder Mysteries

Summary:  Sneaking out for a movie turns out to be a bad idea. 

A/n: So... this was supposed to com out on Halloween then I confessed about thirst then my priorities shifted. Well, since I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving this is just extended Halloween. It would be funny to do a Thanksgiving thing with the Batfam.  Thanks to @littleredwing89 and @lucy-roo for proof reading this crack. Thanks for @ereawrites for the encouragement. And thanks to @littleredwing89​ for the mood board. (I love you my dear enabler.) Also “[ ]” will indicate characters speaking in a different language. I sadly could not find grammar stuff for the language so you will have to bear with me.  This is still part of the Merc! Reader series. 

Warnings: Gore, a lot of blood, dumb bickering, Dick being a cute dork, and snake bleps.

Main Masterlist 

Series Masterlist

"Aliens don't exist," You huff around your thoroughly chewed straw, swirling the radioactive green smoothie Dick insisted that you try. You debate on whether to take out the bag of confectioners sugar you bought and pour it in. Dick makes a noise, indiscernible with his own straw in his mouth. You cast a glance at him only to see his neon blue smoothie spurting out of his nose. Your snort quietly, the noise hidden by the rustling of grocery bags against your bouncing leg but based on the way he’s pouting at you, Dick clearly sees your lack of sympathy and takes offense. You shrug at him. 

 Brushing the liquid away with the sleeve of his denim jacket, Dick levels you his best batglare. You give him an impassive half-asleep response of ‘hnnn’ which just gave him flashbacks about talking to Bruce. You’re entirely too focused on the fact that the blue of the smoothie is still alarmingly stark even against the blue of the denim.  “You’ve met Superman, right?”

 You roll your eyes at his piss poor attempt at intimidating you and pinch your straw between your thumb and index finger, trying to break apart the clumps of ice preventing you from getting more smoothie. “-Met is a strong word-” You drawled causing him to sneer.  “Just say he kicked your ass six ways to Sunday like a normal person.”

 “I fought him.”

 “You got your ass beat-” You glare at him sticking your green tongue out at him and in return he sticks his blue tongue out at you. It was true but he didn’t have to say it. This is always how your long-held arguments start. 

 “Besides, aren’t you and Slade metas?” He breaks in after a long moment, instantly cutting off the possibility of weeks of not talking to each other. You smile balefully at him. “Precisely.”

 “What? How does you being a weirdo disprove aliens?” 

 You make an affronted sound through your nose but launch into your explanation in your professorial voice. “The guy’s gotta be some kind of meta and he probably just came up with the Krypton thing afterwards. It sounds cooler, yanno?” 

 Dick looks up to the smog covered Gotham sky, leaning back against the solid brick pillar behind him. “Well, why can’t he be an alien?” He says dreamily tracing unseen constellations with his right hand. You briefly remember him mentioning stargazing with his parents when he was younger. There is something warm in the memory even if it wasn’t yours.  You look down at him, eyebrow ticking. “Ok genius, tell me why there would be aliens that look exactly like us?”

 “Why not?” He says grinning at you. The sterile lighting of the grocery store light filtering through smudgy windows highlighting his features. The shadows highlighting the shape of his cheekbones and the dimples forming at the edges of his cheeks.  When had Dick gone from cute to handsome? You shake your head, avoiding his smiling corscian blue eyes. 

 “Becaaauuuuuse, dipshit, that’s not how evolution works” You bite out. 

 “What about convergent evolution?” He offers casually and your tongue freezes. A light flickers in his eyes and his pretty mouth twitch up into a laugh when you fail to respond. “You forgot about that, didn’t you? HA”

 “I regret this conversation.”

 “HA”

 “Superman fanboy” you accuse, jabbing a finger into his chest. Dick giggles either from your weak deflection or the fact he’s ticklish, either way, your stomach does somersaults.  

 “Just say you’re wrong.” He says grinning, the divots formed by his dimples becoming more apparent.  You feel Yasiri’s tail flick across your collarbone, her body coiling up in response to your irritation. Your mouth curls too but the irritation doesn’t quite boil over as you expected it to, not when  Dick smiles at you like that. There’s a strange twisting in your stomach. You aren’t sure what it is but you’re pretty sure that you don’t like it. You blow out a breath, sound caught between a tired laugh and a long-suffering sigh, and pick your grocery bags before getting up. 

 Not even 5 seconds after you resolve to abandon him, Dick’s already by your side, falling into step with you bumping his shoulder against yours in a placating gesture. Yasiri slithers from the skin on the base of your neck to hiss at him. Dick smiles at her unfazed despite the clear and present danger. He pets her without much fuss from your usually ferocious snake. You make an amused noise at her compliance. 

 The walk is spent in easy companionable silence. The kind you two settle into when Dick knows you need to settle down. You were a sore loser when it comes to arguments but so was he, so you tend to let the other work through it. You grimace at your lightly scuffed shoes. They weren’t expensive or flashy or even one of a kind but they were comfortable, reliable, and most importantly they were from Mr. Wintergreen- Uncle Wintergreen, he insisted. The fact that he’d taken the time at all made your stomach flip-

 Your stomach dropped. Your throat and mouth felt dry. The scent of copper permeating the air as you stared at the red puddle beneath your white shoes, a severed finger poking at you. 

 "Y/n?" 

 You must have stopped abruptly. You turn to Dick mechanically and see his face crumple into worry. Before you can rush out words of dismissal, your ears tune in to the sounds of a haunting melody. Yasiri rattles around your neck once again leaving the safety of your collar bone. Your head swivels mechanically towards the old theatre. Dick looks at you curiously, concern flashing in his eyes when another scream erupts from the theater. You both stiffen, spines straightening. Eyes blown wide, your feet take you toward the theater. 

Dick falls into step with you.”You’re not seriously going, are you? You’ve- Didn’t we just watch a horror movie?”

 “You seem to be going the same way.” You point out, side-eyeing him sharply, the sour look on your face not betraying the anxiety cloying at your spine. In the corner of your eye, you can see Dick huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. 

 “I’m Robin.” 

 “And I kicked your ass just 2 days ago and served it on a silver platter while quoting the one and only Arnold Schwarzenegger,” You grin absolutely, unequivocally unapologetic. 

 “I was protecting civilians!” He protests, throwing up his hands theatrically. 

 “Iieerrelevant~”

 Dick opens his mouth to contest your point but there really was convincing you on that. His face screws up and being the gracious loser that he is, he sticks his still neon blue tongue out at you. You, being the graceful winner that you were, stick your radioactively neon green tongue at him in answer. 

 You continue to bicker about the merits of his heroism on the battlefield 'til you reach the front of the theater. You tuck your grocery bags behind debris by the entrance making sure to keep them well hidden. Dick wants to point out that they’ll probably be gone by the time you two are done but Yasiri was staring at him like she was about to strike at him for real this time. 

  It- It wasn’t hard to get into the building. Dick held out his hand to you as you climbed over another set of debris. You take it. You thank him clumsily. He bows to you a gremlin smile spreading across his face. You sneer but give him a sharp smile in return. 

 It’s dark. The absence of light is thick. It makes the sounds of your heartbeats uncomfortably loud. You swallow. You trace your finger along your skin, the hilt of your knife falls easily into your hand. You trace your finger on your other arm and hand the knife to Dick who shakes his head.  You shrug and let it melt back into your skin. 

 “You have a tracker on you, right?”

 “No-” You eye him, cutting him a look of disbelief. “I-”

 “Relax, I have one too.” You deadpan. 

 Dick sighs. “You’re dad’s paranoid too?”

 “So is yours” You snip, hackles drawn. 

“Bruce isn’t my dad.”

 “Slade isn’t mine either.”

 “Mentors?” Dick offers placatingly.

 “Polite way of saying bossy prick, I guess.” You roll your eyes but concede. 

 “I mean I don’t know about Wintergreen but Alfred taught me some manners.” Dick shrugs, folding his arms behind his head somehow relaxed despite the thick scent of blood in the air or maybe this was how Dick was when he was nervous. 

 The truth was Wintergreen had attempted to teach you manners but he’d run into quite a few problems. The first being that you were a terrible student. Sure, you caught on quickly when you could but anything you didn’t gravitate towards didn’t hold your limited attention long enough to make an actual impact on you. Now that in of itself was fixable with the right kind of bribery. The other problem was less so. Your mentor, if you could really call him that, was a rude bastard. Long story short, you’ve never seen the point, much to Wintergreen’s chagrin and Slade’s amusement. You were, however, a master of mouthing off. 

 “Shouldn’t we call back up?”

 You flick your eyes to him, uselessly, but based on the shifting of the body beside you he somehow got the message. “Go ahead, if you wanna explain to big daddy bats why you’re hanging out with me, sure.”

 Yeah. That wasn’t an option. There was, of course, a silent understanding that bats probably knew about your little hangouts but still. 

You pad the walls with your left hand while your right was gripping Dick’s sleeve, white-knuckled. You cringe every now and again feeling the walls slick with what you weren’t eager to investigate. You strain your ear to listen for odd sounds but mostly to see if Dick, as you suspect, is echolocating. 

 “How are you doing that?”

 “Doing what?”

 “Silently echolocating?”

 Dick snickers. “I am not. You do know B isn’t an actual bat, right?”

 “Oh yeah, I forgot he was just a furry.” You sneer. Dick snorts a sound caught between amusement and offense. He clearly respected Bruce. Not the same way you respected Slade, maybe, but you understood how larger than life the Batman was even if he was the biggest pain in your ass by far. 

 “Do you really have any room to make fun of my mentor when yours has ‘Stroke’ in his name?”

 “I have plenty of room, probably. Why not  echolocate to check just how much room I have?”

 “Listen here-”

 The opera music floods the silent hall, sharp and clear. You feel the air around you catch fire and your fraying nerves. You turn your head to Dick. Despite not being able to see him, you know his mouth flattens and his brow wrinkles the way they do when you two agree to do something incomprehensibly stupid. This time you do not argue or question or even complain. You simply go forward.

A scream, messy and jagged, tangles with the smooth crispness of the opera music. It makes your stomach turn almost as much as the idea of who or, more appropriately, whatever was behind it. You were familiar with the cruelties Gotham’s monsters were capable of. You have, after all, worked for quite a few. 

 But this? 

 This pure, uncut agony in that scream? That was just something you could not stomach. You feel Dick flinch at the sound, almost jumping out of his skin. You squeeze his arm once, then twice, then twice once more. You feel his hand on your wrist, reciprocating the gesture. You smile at him reassuringly not knowing whether it would make things better or whether he can actually see it. 

 Neither of you is particularly good at dealing with people’s pain. That might not be the right word for it. Neither of you coped well. You absorbed too much of it. You were, however, much better at hiding it. Not that you could fault Dick on that. You didn’t even attempt. For Dick, humanity was a part of the job. Compassion? Kindness? That was to be expected of a hero not derided. To uphold that in the face of Gotham’s worst, that took strength. 

 Strength, in your case, was directed elsewhere. Something bone-breaking, more visceral. You suppose that was the problem with keeping company with survivors. Perpetually dancing on the brink of death robbed you of something but you haven’t exactly known any other life besides this. 

 The end of the hall is light by bright lights, sterile white, the kind you only saw in clinics. Your head runs through the catalog of Gotham’s rogues, possibilities of which utter psychopath could possibly be doing this. 

 “We should call the cops.”

 Not really really paying attention, you nod. You should probably. You grip the handle of your knife, flexing your fingers nervously, as another scream cuts through the air. Dick’s body curls, recoiling at the sound. The sound, this close, was enough to make you twitch. 

 “Can’t we just text them?”

 “What do you think this is? Canada?”

 “Ok, fair but make sure to tell them you’re Dickle Grayson.” You tease, smiling way too easily considering the creepy atmosphere. 

 Dick crosses his arms over his chest.“And summon a media storm?”

 “It would get the police here faster.”  

 “I hate it when you’re right,” Dick wishes he could wipe the absolutely smug grin off your face. “We need to back up. You know, in case, he can hear us.”

 “I mean you are the one unarmed here.” You say, waving your arms at him. 

 “No, I’m not. I have my bird-a-rangs.” Dick preens, taking them out from some pocket hidden in his jacket. 

 “Bird-a-rangs.” You echo, raising a brow. 

 “Yup. Bird-a-rangs.”

 “You are officially- no, you are legally not allowed to name things.”

 Dick makes an offended squawking noise.“Oh, come on! Still not as bad as Sharknado.”

 “Take. That. Back. Heathen.”

 “Make me.”

 Both of you still. Yasiri unfurls from your collarbone, her tail rattling. You spin on your heel. Your knife swings out in a wide crescent of light.  Thick crimson splashes across your face. At the end of your knife was a person- no, it was a person in the past tense. It makes a small cry when you wiggle the blade planted in its throat a fraction. Otherwise, it ignores the fact that it is, in fact, bleeding out from its jugular. It’s thick, clumsy limbs reach for you. Your stomach rolls. The thing in front of you, the mangled approximation of what was once a person, is lurching towards you. You think you sneer in disgust but your face is far too numb to tell. 

 “Dick! Just call the cops!” You snarl, panic rising audibly as more bodies emerge from God knows where. You kick the one to your front off to the side, shredding its neck. It takes everything in you not to vomit. In the corner of your eye, you see Dick type as he kicks another one away.   You two back into each other as the bodies close around you, cutting off all the exits. You roll up your sleeve tracing a blood-soaked finger over the lines of your tattoo and producing another knife. Dick pulls out his bird-a-rangs. 

 Dick landed blows but they weren’t hard enough to maim or be fatal. Even if he was to hit them with the sharp bird-a-rangs, he would still aim non fatally. Slade would kill you if you fought so inefficiently or maybe he would just taunt you. Either way, you didn’t care much for Dick’s squeamishness right now as the bodies kept getting back up. As far as you can tell, you’re doing them a favor. 

 The first wave of bodies rushes towards you. Their limbs jutting towards you clumsily. You swing your blade, vicious and precise. You feel metal clash against flesh, against bone. Blood coats every available surface on you.  You hear Dick squawk and you don’t really need to turn around to check that he’s also covered in it too. The spray of blood makes the air thick with the scent of copper. The blood on your skin burns. 

 “Duck!”

 “Goose!” You shout, ducking and slashing down at a row of bodies and legs. You hear his bird-a-rangs slice through the air cleanly and land on one of the creature's shoulders. You let out a huff of air thinking of all the more permanent places it could have landed. He throws a few more hitting them in the face. 

 Dick launches over you, using you as a springboard. You grunt and he winks at you like a showman. His foot predictably lands an impressive blow on one of the creature's faces. You two regroup back to back immediately after he lands. 

 Your eyes widen a fraction when a hand from out of nowhere grabs at your face catching you off guard. Your breath catches when you feel a hand at your shoulder pushing you down. A fist makes contact with the creature’s swollen face and it takes a moment for your mind to realize that it’s Dick’s hand on your shoulder and Dick’s fist making contact with the creature. 

 “Thanks,” You mumble, straightening yourself out. “I had it.”

 “You’re welcome, Pookie.” You flush as Dick winks at you. “You know I literally have your back.” He teases. You groan bending back into a fighting stance.

 “When we get out of here alive, we are working on your sense of humor.” Dick chuckles at that, making your muscles ease. “Says the person who shouted ‘Goose!’.” 

 You land every blow with every intent to make it fatal. Dick is still sticking to his nonfatal method. Normally, it was pure joy to watch Dick as he fights. The sheer control he commands over his muscles was awe-inspiring. Despite his size, he’s able to land blows just as powerful as yours. He would truly be terrifying if he were to be anything but himself. 

 These bodies. They’re too alive, too much. The next wave comes at you more fervently with more bodies. Another wave of nausea hits you when hands grasp at your arms. Your stomach tries to twist out of your abdomen. You try to wrench yourself free. You pull and twist and thrash, only succeeding in getting yourself pulled in deeper. 

 “Dick!” You cry reflexively. The coarseness in your voice lets the fear spill all over your vowels. 

 Dick’s corscian eyes widen with a flash of panic. To Dick, you and death were two separate lines running on parallel tracks next to each other, never quite crossing and never belonging to the same headspace. Completely mutually exclusive as far as he knew.  But right at this moment, right as you’re about to be swallowed whole by the crowd of misshapen bodies, he watches those lines slowly intersect. Dick doesn’t know where his heart has leaped to. 

 “Y/n!”

The world resurfaces in a surge of bright white light. Some small part of you is really hoping that Dick is, for once, right about the alien thing. Quietly you draw in a calming breath. It’s shallow not wanting your chest to rise too much to give away your consciousness. 

 The opera music is blaring in your still ringing head which isn’t helped by the wannabe opera singer belting his lungs out. Thankfully, that means he’s distracted. You move your limbs checking. Everything seems to be intact AND you seem to be tied up to someone instead of something which was either good or bad depending on who it is. 

 “Mornin’ sleepy head” Dick mumbles quietly, sounding relieved. You click your teeth in irritation. 

 “Morning, Disco Stick. Any chance you magically woke up with a plan or were you just taking a beauty nap?”

 “I don’t need one and sort of.”

 “Well shit, we’re screwed then.” 

 “You’re being dramatic.”

 “I’m sorry which of us is running around doing somersaults when they’re assaulting criminals?”

 “In my defense, flipping makes my kicks land harder.” Which was true but you were feeling snippy. “It also gives them much more time to dodge or counter.”

 “Killjoy.” You roll your eyes, smiling. You know he’s being cute and pouting. Given this is really not the time considering there is a man butchering another man a few feet away from you while singing bad opera. You really did stumble into a horror movie. “Please tell me you called Batman or the police.”

 “Both.”

 “How?”

 “Some of us are good at multitasking.” Dick chirps proudly leaning against you. You scoff judging just how tightly the ropes are bound around you. 

 “Well, you are good at being insufferable while still breathing.”

 “Isn’t that part of my charm?”

 You snicker accidentally tugging at the binds around you. You hear Dick wince likely from what is a bruised rib or, heaven help you, a broken one. “Sorry.” You whisper low and small.

  Shit. What if he had a broken rib. Shit. Shit. 

 “I’m ok, Hon.” Dick laughs making sure to lay the Delaware accent thick. It makes your chest feel warm even though everything else in you was freezing from dread. You snort. “Fine, bleed out for all I care.”

 “Awwww don’t be like that.” You sigh. You hate how weak you are to his puppy dog eyes. You can’t even see it. You decide to change the subject instead. “So what are the odds that we’re escaping if we break out of their bonds now?”

 “Not high.”

 “Even if I get Yasiri to gently inject him with poison?”

 “Please tell me you didn’t bring poison to our hangout.”

 “I mean. Do twinkies count?”

 “No.”

 “Ok, fine. So we’re stalling then.”

 “Pretty much.”

 “I hate this.”

 “You were the one who started heading in.”

 “Why didn’t you stop me then?”

 The man at the surgical table turns to you with a whimsical flourish as the body on the table goes limp. No, not limp. Docile. You have just witnessed a person become a body, you think numbly. The way the fight so easily left its limbs made you shudder, feeling the fight in your own limbs fleeting out. This isn’t how you want to die, not by the hand of a madman. At least, not until you’ve put your own demons to rest. 

 “Look who’s awake,” He drawls, his voice slimy and all the vowels coming out at the wrong pitches. Dick shifts the two of you so that he’s angled slightly in front of you. He squares his shoulder trying to make his lean form look far bigger than it actually is. You smile at his attempt to be protective because deep down you both know you’re the more intimidating one and you’re the one who can take more punishment. Your power and training have those pleasant side effects. 

 You see him draw closer making you snarl. “Come any closer and I swear I will rip your throat out.” You are surprised at how even the threat came out but the distilled ferocity you had put into it didn’t quite show, likely blunted by the fear pooling in your stomach.  

 “Don’t worry I’ll make you perfect too. I promise.” He reaches past Dick, grabbing you by the back of your neck. The grip on you is bruising and callous. He forces you to bow your head and look down at the bloodstains on your clothes. The browning blots of red stain your white Wonder Woman shirt. You swallow.  You felt like a lamb being dragged to slaughter. Dick, likely without thinking, bites down on the man’s wrist.

 The man pulls away with a cry, cradling his bleeding wrist. “Are you ok?” Dick asks, spitting blood out, eyes shiny with concern. You gulp down air before nodding. Dick presses closer to you reassuring you. Shaken, you press back, careful not to press hard enough to hurt him. 

 Your floundering mind comes to one conclusion. You can’t let him touch Dick. You use your strength to shift your positions so that Dick is completely behind you.  Dick tries to move you back but you plant your heels preventing him from even inching. 

 The man grabs you by the collar of your shirt, pulling you off the ground. You hear Dick’s breath hitch. His heart rate kicks up and so does yours. Fury burning in the man’s eyes. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?” He screams, shaking you. “NO. NO. NO. MY- I’M- NO! PERFECT. I NEED- I NEED TO BE PERFECT.” Somehow the spit flying in your face grosses you out more than the blood probably drying on your face. It’s only winning by a small margin though. 

 Bile is rising in your throat. Still, you grin, sneering and taunting. “Trust me you didn’t need help in the department,” You jeer. Dick squirms behind you. Urging you to stop. You don’t. “You think those pisspoor excuses for creatures you sicced on us were perfect. HA!” You can feel Dick shaking his head behind you.  You nudge him assuring him you’ve got a plan. You did. Sort of. It’s more of a goal really. Take his attention off of Dick. 

 “[Y/n, please no. Don’t do this. I know what you’re doing. But I can take it. Moon, please.]” Dick pleads, voice hoarse and desperate. ‘Shion’. Moon. The endearment glances of your ribs like a well placed kick to the chest. You don’t let your eyes flick to him. “[Which us is meta here?]” You whisper back in broken Romani. You cringe a little knowing just how badly you butchered the sentence.  Dick makes an affronted noise.  “Cham.” You whisper quietly, trying to shape your vowels and consonants correctly. Dick’s breath catches. Sun. Sure, the endearment seemed inadequate, too succinct, when compared to how much you care for him but as of right now it will have to do. 

 The man shakes you again dragging your attention away from Dick. Your smarmy grin cuts across your face as if you’re not pissing yourself from fear. A large hand grabs your face. Your entire body braces itself for your neck to be twisted but it does not come. He tilts your head back side to side. “You’re going to need a lot of work.”

 Your heart stops. Dick thrashes behind you. You want to elbow him. You want to scream at him to stop fucking moving but you’re entire body is numb. Your eyes flick to the man, no, the body on the table. It is breathing and writhing in agony. Your breaths pick up. You- you don’t- you can’t-

 You hear a crash and the fall of debris on a dozen bodies. 

 “B!” Dick shouts distantly. The grip on your collar disappears. A black clad fist hangs in front of you. Your eyes trace up the arm in front of you only to be met with the scowling face of the Batman. You swallow nervously while Dick lets out another enthusiastic ‘B’. Batman makes quick work of your ropes, all the while glaring at you for what you don’t know. Maybe somehow he knows this whole situation was your fault. 

 Once released, the first order of business, at least for Dick, is to throw his arms around Batman’s shoulders. Awkwardly, he reciprocates your friend’s affection. The hold he has on Dick cannot be mistaken as anything but protective. You find humor in the fact at how obvious their familial connection is yet they deny it. A teasing remark rises up your throat but is abruptly shoved back down by Batman’s unrelenting glare. Was he born glaring? 

 “What are you doing here?” Less of a question and more of a growled accusation. 

 “Careful, his rib might be broken.” You stumble out dumbly.  Dick glares at you but compared to Batman’s it looks more like a pout which is, again, hilarious. Batman loosens his grip on Dick and apparently, this is now the time Dick chooses to realize that his mentor (read: dad) is trying to turn you into ash with a scowl.     

 Dick peels away from him stepping in front of you. He widens his stance to shield you from the larger man. Dick feels an odd surge of protectiveness and he’s not about to let B attack you, especially not after what just happened. 

 They stare each other down. They seem to be having a silent argument. You want to cut in but you’re afraid you might actually turn into ash with the intensity of Batman’s gaze. 

 The loud blaring of sirens mingle with the still playing opera music in the background as a tidal wave of police officers and paramedics rush in.  

  -----

You pestered the medic to let you stay with Dick. 

 “So, what do you plan on doing?” Dick asks, leaning against you pointedly ignoring the paramedic's instruction to be careful. You let him lean into you. You know he needs all the comfort he can get.  You rest your head against his hair, placing a kiss on his scalp. Dick doesn’t comment afraid that you might withdraw if he teases you too much. 

 “Maybe grow out my hair,” You joke, pinching a lock of hair between your fingers. “Might as well considering how grounded I’ll be. Well, if uncle Wintergreen has anything to say about it.”

 Dick extricates himself from your shoulder and turns to you with a pensive look. Tilting his head, he looks at you appraisingly, wrinkling his brow. You can’t blame him. He’s never seen you with long hair mainly because you’ve never let it get too long. Too much of a hassle, too much of a health hazard. 

 Dick places his jacket over your head, draping it over you like a wedding veil. You chuckle at him, barely able to keep the smile off of your face. 

 “How do I look?” You joke twining your fingers around the cloth. You think you see Dick blush but it was probably just the cold. Dick coughs poorly disguising his laughter. He covers his mouth, depriving you of his dimples. “ Like you’re going to get married in a jean pants suit. I have dibs on walking you down the aisle.” 

 You tilt your head. Your smile tilts along with it.  “Nah uncle Wintergreen has dibs on that.”

 Dick huffs, his shoulders sag in disappointment. It’s the closest he was gonna get to being your groom, he thinks. 

 I want you waiting for me at the end of the aisle. The thought makes your heart twist. You swallow it along with the huge lump in your throat.  “You can be my last dance though.”

 You concede. Dick brightens a little at this but not by much. 

 “You sure Deathstroke wouldn’t mind?” 

 “This implies he’ll show up. He’s a busy man.” Dick laughs at that. Genuine and very Dick. This time you don’t fight the smile off of your face.  

 You smile at each other and laugh. A million unspoken sentences hang between the two of you. 

 This love of yours is reckless.

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a/n: Thanks for reading. Also yes I did have to include good dad Bruce and bastard mentor Slade. I only have one braincell and it is dumber than shit. 

tag list:  @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes ,  @boosyboo9206 , @americasmarauders , @l-inkage @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical, @ereawrites​

[sortinghatchats]

Sorting Teen Wolf

In this system, we like to talk about Primary Houses (WHY characters do things) and Secondary Houses (HOW characters do things). Read more on our tumblr, at sortinghatchats.wordpress.com, or take our quiz: https://ejadelomax.itch.io/sortinghatchats 

Scott McCall is a Hufflepuff primary: his morality (why he does things) is based in fairness, in people and the idea that every single one deserves consideration, in community and in loyalty. He’s a Puff secondary, too: his best methods (aka his secondary) (aka how he does things) are compassion, team building, and helping others. (Hello Mr. Every Time Someone is in Pain I Take it on Myself).

But Scott thinks the way he is supposed to act is brave, direct, and forceful. So he tries. He models Gryffindor, and he has nightmares about that particular bravery’s violent extremes.

Once upon a time on a little show called Teen Wolf, Stiles Stilinski told Scott McCall he didn’t have to save everyone, and Scott gave him the blankest, most incomprehending look imaginable. 

Stiles is a Slytherclaw— the precise, ruthless loyalties of a Slytherin Primary acted out by a Ravenclaw secondary’s planning, strategy, research, and learning. The kid reeks Slytherin. Refusing to tell his father about the supernatural, to keep him safe, even at the expense of other people’s lives— Stiles only backed down then at the terrible might of Scott’s puppy dog eyes, which: understandable. 

Let’s kill Jackson, says Stiles, because he doesn’t care. In Allison’s voice that would have the ruthlessness of idealism, not “he’s not one of mine.” I guess a good distinction would be this: Allison would consider killing Scott, if he was murdering people, and Stiles never would. (This is not indicative of a greater connection between brother and brother or lover and lover; this is just pointing out that Allison would do, first, what was right (she would certainly fight her hardest to save Scott, but if there were truly no other options she would sacrifice him). 

Stiles’s morality doesn’t work like that. He would keep his father in the dark even if it meant letting people die, because his father’s life is more important to him than theirs. Stiles is a Slytherin with a very short list of people. 

I think in the S1 Stiles might have modeled Slytherin Secondary on top of his Ravenclaw secondary. He’s into manuevering and deception a lot more then than he is in the later seasons— especially after the nogitsune. 

“I’m 147 pounds of skin and bones; sarcasm is my only defense.” I think that says a lot of it— Stlies has been becoming more and more powerful in his own Ravenclaw skills, enough that he can rely on them instead of hiding behind Slytherin modeling. I’m not sure he feels safer (the world keeps getting more dangerous) but he’s been up against enough now to know that he can survive, and that what keeps him safe tends to be his steady mind and anxious preparations.

Lydia is a Ravenclaw/Ravenclaw who models Slytherin Secondary (eight million times better than Stiles does) and performs Puff (about as badly as Stiles models Slytherin—you can tell she’s putting it on for politeness, when she smiles and doesn’t mean it). 

In this way, her and Stiles’s journeys parallel each other, which makes their friendship one of my favorites. They’re both slowly coming to accept and value their Ravenclaw— to recognize that this is a kind of strength and perhaps even beauty; and that it is theirs.

Until Lydia starts breaking, she almost looks like a Slytherpuff—or, well, a Slytherin/Slytherin with a Puff performance. Her Puff is really unconvincing. But her outward facade of Slytherin Primary is magnificent. Even in the first season, though, her Claw peeks its head out now and then.

(Also: it looks like Lydia’s mom is a Ravenpuff? Which makes me wonder where Lydia learned that she should be a Slytherin. Because she’s so ashamed of her Ravenclaw, early on, both the primary’s idealism and the secondary’s intelligence and curiosity. She has this idea that beauty and power are the things required of her and that she must fulfill them. Only her world shattering around her made her vulnerable enough to reassess and embrace her Ravenclaw. It makes me want to meet her father, or other formative influences in her life, and perhaps see what her mother acted like in that marriage).

Alison Argent takes up her family’s moral legacy and rewrites it in her own words. She does what she thinks is right in defiance of foes, friends, and family. When she decides what right is, when she has watched and learned the world around her and slowly, deliberately built her own code out of the truths she’s found there—then Allison goes after her goals with a single minded intensity and a direct, sometimes violent efficiency. This, my friends, is a Ravenclaw/Gryffindor and she is beautiful.

(ALLISON I HOPE YOU ARE ENJOYING BACKPACKING FRANCE WHILE YOU RECONNECT WITH YOUR COUSINS AND FIGHT FOR TOLERANCE IN THE HUNTER COMMUNITY. I LOVE HOW YOU CALL LYDIA ONCE A WEEK ON SKYPE.)

Malia and Stiles boned over their shared Slytherin primary, which delights me. Malia looks like a Slytherdor, but I wonder if she might be a Slytherin/Slytherin who’s living in her “neutral state” because she doesn’t give a toot. I think if Malia needed to, she’d be happy to lie, coerce, adapt, transform to get what she wanted. She just so far doesn’t think highly enough of anyone to manuever in any way but straightforwardly. 

Kira is a Gryffinpuff, I think. She’s certain and forward and brave, and she goes after her goals with kindness and determination.

Derek is a Hufflepuff with a Claw secondary. “We’re brothers now,” he tells this young kid just because the kid got chewed on by his uncle. He is desperate for community (see: the terrible choices of the Worst Alpha Ever aka S2). Even when he’s creepy (often), even when he’s a failwolf (…more often), he’s doing things to help people simply because they are people.

But he was going to kill Lydia, right? When we thought she was the kanima. Yes, he was— to save other people. Scott, wasn’t, but they’re both still Puffs, because Derek is what happens when a kid like Scott loses hope—or gets a truer idea of the real world, depending on who you ask. 

Scott doesn’t believe in victories that come with comprimises attached. He doesn’t believe in heroism with trade-offs and consequences. Scott was going to save Lydia. But Derek? One girl’s life to stop a monster? He was going to save everyone else. 

(Which— he was wrong, it was Jackson, you failwolf. But I’m more interested in both of their why’s than I am in the realities of the fictional situation).

Derek, like Scott, also models Gryffindor and probably… shouldn’t. He’s worse at it than Scott is. Which, like, wow. Calm down kiddos, please. Neither of you wants to be alpha dog, not really. Embrace your inner pack mom. Take pain from people and take Kira leather jacket shopping and brush the hair out of Cora’s face and hold Lydia’s hand when she’s making hard decisions about what kind of person she wants to grow up to be. Here are your strengths, boys. Here is your heroism.

THE PARENTS

Melissa McCall, Mama McCall, the beacon of Beacon Hills, is a Slytherdor. Her son’s in danger? She will forcibly waken one of her own patients when she herself has warned against it. She will sit with Ms. Yukimura and wonder why their children have to fight this war. (Ms. Yukimura, who’s some sort of idealist House, will respond that otherwise they would be running and hiding, but Melissa will remain unconvinced because this is her boy). 

Melissa’s a Gryff secondary because she is direct, no-nonsense, and doesn’t care if she steps on people’s toes on the way to her goals. She’s amenable up until someone gets between her and something she wants, or something she wants to protect.Melissa models Hufflepuff occasionally, sometimes at her job, but most often around her ex, which makes me wonder if Melissa used to be a Slytherpuff, or a Huffledor, but went “no, screw this!” at the same time she threw her husband out of the house.

Papa Argent, I think, House shares with Derek Hale: Hufflepuff (his morality is informed strongly by the people he loves: his father and sister, and then his daughter; the best argument to get to him in S1 is “Scott hasn’t hurt anyone yet”) with a Ravenclaw primary (plans, preparation, and knowledge), and a Gryffindor modeling because it’s what his family expects of him. 

Scott doesn’t have that many Hufflepuff role-models, does he? His mom, who is extraordinary and wonderful, is a Slytherdor. You can get farther from Puff/Puff but it’s hard. He doesn’t particularly bond with Papa Argent.

The best role model is probably Sheriff, who might be a Puff primary, but who Gryffindor secondaries so competently. Gryffindor secondaries just aren’t where Scott’s skills lie. Or maybe he could find a role model in Deaton, who models Puff but I think Deaton’s really just a Ravenclaw/Ravenclaw. The Puff all goes away when things get serious.

No wonder the kid isn’t comfortable with his Puff. All of his heroes win their wars in other ways.

THE VILLAINS

Peter is a burned Hufflepuff. Literally. People who aren’t his family have ceased being people to him. He presents effectively as a rather nasty Slytherin, but I do think it’s ultimately coming from a Hufflepuff place. But maybe I’m wrong and he really is as simply and shallowly selfish as he seems. … yeah that’s quite possible. 

Peter’s got a slimy Slytherin secondary, and he models Ravenclaw, which is the Chessmaster set up, the mold for the manipulative schemer who (would like to think he) is two steps ahead of everyone. 

(This is opposed to just a Slytherin, where you get adaptable and interpersonally effective tactics, but no long term “mwuahaha” strategy, and just Ravenclaw (think Sokka. think later seasons Stiles) where you just have the strategist).

Gerard, the manipulative douchebag, is a Slytherin/Slytherin who performs Gryffindor to cajole people like Kate and Allison into following him.

Kate is a Gryffindor/Slytherin who models and performs Gryffindor. I’m so sorry Gryffindors.

[cubeswhump]

Sunglasses at Night

A weird interpretation of Tooth Knocked Out for my character, Noelle.

So you all know Noelle, maybe not by name, from my profile picture. She was actually one of the first characters on this blog but I’ve neglected to write her until coming up with an actual plotline like two nights ago.

Warnings for mentions of murder (specifically serial killing), blood, some gore, mentions of alcoholic intoxication, violence, kidnapping, discussed sexual abuse, implied sexual abuse, broken bones, minor mouth gore, briefly mentioned racial bias and police brutality, politically incorrect joke that the character is immediately guilted for.

There was regular stupid, and then there was Noelle Alan.

All of five feet and two inches, the girl thoight herself a badass, the Batman of middle of nowhere Florida. But instead of the Joker she fought petty criminals and that one neighbor who hit his kid, and she was dirt-poor with no grappling hook and Noellemobile, just a hockey stick and homemade pepper spray that was starting to smell fermented.

She came home bruised and bloody most nights. People looked at her father with scorn when she stood next to him with black eyes and swollen lips.

"Elle, you're gonna die one of these days," Marshall grumbled when he saw how intently she was looking at her phone, "and I'm gonna piss on your rotting corpse."

"Kinky," she giggled.

"Scratch that. If you were on fire, I wouldn't piss on you."

He had an idea of what she was looking at and a pit formed in his stomach. When the bodies of young women, necks torn and blood drained, had started to be found around town on a weekly basis, not even hidden, Noelle wasn't scared; Marshall recognized the glint in her eye.

"No," he growled, looking over her shpulder at the news article on her phone screen. "Don't you fucking dare."

"I'm hunting a vampire," Noelle murmured, lips stretching into the dumbest smile.

"Vampires aren't fucking real. You're gonna chase after a serial killer and end up raped and dead in a gutter."

Noelle didn't look up from her phone. "Way to sould callous about rape."

Marshall grit his teeth, fists clenched tight. "No, I'm the one actually taking that shit seriously and bringing up an actual risk."

"I'll sharpen my stakes."

Marshall unclenched his fists and granbed her by her shoulders. He shook his overgrown hair out of his face to look her in the eye.

"Your jawline's looking really defined," Noelle tried, but the flattery was ignored. "Is that stubble I see?"

He huffed out a sigh. "Noelle, I will kill you myself."

"Do it, pussy."

"I don't think you're taking this seriously."

"I'm serious all right." Her shit-eating grin was back. "Seriously about to kick some undead ass."

Marshall drew back his hands, face contorting. "I can't fucking stand you sometimes," he said softly, and turned his back to her. "See you in Hell."

He slammed the bedroom door on his way out. Front door opened and slammed as well. He peeled out of the driveway in his beat-up secondhand car.

Okay. That hurt a bit.

Noelle tried to keep her spirits up. She'd apologize to Marshall after she caught a vamp- serial killer. Caught a serial killer.

People often called Noelle stupid but when she wanted answers, she knew how to get them. When she bothered to actually do her work in school she could always find the cause and effect, the author's purpose, subtext, textual evidence. She got scolded for being mouthy. Teachers said she was far too opinionated when she badmouthed authors and mocked bias in her essays. She was in internal suspension more than the mainstream classroom for arguments with teachers and fights with peers.

Her father joked, with a hint of seriousness, that she was the cause of his receding hairline. Some black people rose to the top and lead social change, but where does having a big mouth usually get a black girl from a poor family? All these police shootings terrified the man and Noelle knew it, but she couldn't stay out of trouble.

He thought she was finally behaving when he caught her pouring over notebooks, scribbling with pencils, using up all their printer ink. His frown lines softened. She was doing her homework, and she was working hard.

In actuality, she was printing up police reports and jotting down the hints, connecting all the detaild. This killer stayed within a small radius and his victims, young women of various races (so racial motivation was crossed out) but tending to be on the smaller side, were all last seen at bars (three specific local ones). And all were seen leaving on their own.

This killer made no attempts to hide their bodies. Two were found in a canal less than a mile away from Marshall's house. One was stuffed into a trashcan missing its lid. One was found behind poor Mrs. Johnson's teashop, and she'd told her young, female employees to stay away for their own safety. One, the most brazen display, was tied to a lamppost on the town's busiest intersection.

All victims were found within a five mile radius.

And the manner of the killing stumped Noelle and detectives alike. Police reports and news articles were vague, almost glossing over it in saying that "throats were torn and copious amounts of blood was lost", but Noelle had managed to find and save some leaked photos before they were taken down.

These women didn't just have their throats slit. Despite Noelle's earlier jokes about vampires, there weren't two neat little punctures; throats were ripped open, skin flapping, jugulars severed and windpipes exposed with multiple points of entry. She reasoned that the weapon must be one designed to grasp at the skin and tear.

She sketched designs for metal claws that attach to the hands, designed to bite into the skin and tear it away when the killer drew his (or her, Noelle Alan was no misogynist) arm back. They would have to attach to the fingers for better flexibility and range of motion and they would need to be relatively short, perhaps protruding only an inch past the finger tips, to have a good grasp. Such a cautious design would be needed to attach well and firmly to the fingers without causing harm to the wearer. Would the blades continue down along the fingers? They must. The intricate joints needed to bend with the fingers.

"This is fucking cool," Noelle breathed, imagining such a weapon on her own hands. Mirror-like silver against brown fingers. She would be a viscous tiger-lady clawing at her enemies and protecting the innocent.

Right. Back to the toxicology reports. While finding blood alcohol levels above 0.05% in what little blood remained in each victim, there was something else. A small amount of some foreign substance but there was more of it than blood after the killer got done with these poor women.

Surely the medical examiner would be able to identify any known toxin or poison, so it was nothing like cyanide or chloroform. Perhaps it was something homemade the killer was lacing his (or her!) weapon with? Or, Noelle thought, perhaps he just didn't clean the weapon in between uses and let it build up enough grime to show in blood?

No, that would not only dull a blade, but a medical examiner would recognize simple dirt and bacteria.

Once a week, usually Monday or Tuesday. Girls always seen leaving after two in the morning, dead before three. Bars the girls came from following no pattern, like the killer was picking which of the three at random. So which one would Noelle go to if she couldn't predict the target?

The killer liked small girls, short of stature and narrow shoulders. Noelle's height fit the bill, but she needed clothes that hid her muscles while allowing enough skin exposure (no turtlenecks).

Her wardrobe: tank tops, tank tops, short-shorts, athletic shorts, more tank tops, pajamas, sports bras, running shoes. Why was her middle school uniform still in there? A momentary distraction while she tried it on and found that while she'd gotten wider, she hadn't grown much vertically since seventh grade.

She had to blow her birthday money from that one rich aunt at Goodwill. A green dress that had a good balance of making her butt look fantastic while still allowing movement. A good dress couldn't help her chest though and she stuffed some tissues in her bra. A-cups, while great for athletics, scarcely got noticed.

A cardigan covered the bulk of her arms (and bra straps) and the dress hid her thighs but showed of her calves. She practiced some kicks and defensive stances in the black kitten heels until the clerk threatened to kick her out. They slipped off easily enough, and were only nine dollars, so she'd just kick them off to fight.

She arived at Uncle Tim's Beer Belly (always pick the one with a funny name) at 1AM. She was only eighteen so she wasn't supposed to be in bars but she discovered that she could get away with it by staying away from the bar, hiding in crowds, and acting casual and confident if the bartender looked her way. She couldn't actually get drunk before a fight but she rubbed whiskey in her armpits, behind her ears, and on her wrists and neck and practiced a drunken shamble to look and smell the part.

Each victim seen leaving around two in the morning. Check, Noelle was out the door by 2:10, feeling so stupid shambling down the road that she couldn't help giggling and sticking her arms out in a zombie impression.

She circled the block for a good hour, and only attracted the attention of some catcallers. At least it was fun to yell back at them.

"I'll suck your dick if you suck mine!" she shouted at one in a red car, and immediately felt guilty. Marshall would punch her in her padded boob if he heard her making jokes at the expense of transwomen.

God, she missed Marshall. He hadn't responded to any of memes she sent him the past few days. She knew he'd disapprove of her activities.

She tried the next night and had no luck again. The only difference was that her dad caught her coming in through the window smelling like a bar and freaked out. That was not fun.

That morning, someone found the body of a young woman who had last been seen leaving The Wench's Tavern. Caitlin Weiss, a girl who graduated when Ne was a junior, and an old friend of Marshall. She was so nice to everyone and gushed about how she was going to be a veterinarian, and instead she was found with her skirt hiked up as her lower half dangled out of a dumpster. Neck torn.

Ander boiled inside Noee. Caitlin didn't deserve that. None of them did!

If only Noelle had guessed the right bar, Caitlin might have made it home.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Noelle yelled. She had to put duct tape over the hole she accidentally kicked in the wall. Hopefully her dad didn't notice that. She was on thin ice already.

She was back next week, and the week after that. She stuck to the Beer Belly. After all, when you're guessing on a multiple-choice test, you're meant to pick all the same letter. Surely a percentage of those A's will be corrext and you'll fail the test if you alternate answers.

For the first time in her life, she was beginning to lose hope. Would she ever catch this scumbag? But she kept going even as that hope dwindled. She kept going even when Marshall responded after countless texts and only said, "I know what you're doing and I want no part in it."

She owed it to Caitlin, Therese Jenkins, Natalie Hernandez, Jessye Zhao, Katy Smith... She ignored the voice in her head telling her she was doing it out if pride, not the innocent lives lost.

She was having a mental debate when she heard footsteps on week four. Heavy footsteps, like a man. Confident footsteps like he wanted to be heard. She wasn't a girl who feared sharing the sidewalk with men. Maybe it was just a courteous young guy walking loudly to let a woman know he was there and avoid her thinking he was following her.

But she didn't believe that.

She waited until she'd taken four right turns and the footsteps continued. Yep, she was heing followed. She snaked a hand in her bag and whipped out the hairspray bottle, spraying the spicy concoction as she spun around. But the man's face was higher up than she expecyed, and he was wearing sunglasses. At night.

I wear my sunglasses at night

So I can, so I can

Watch you weave-

She pushed the stupid song away and reminded herself this wasn't the time.

In the dim light of the streetlight across the street, she could see...wow, he was tall, and not quite fat but plump and round. He raised his hand and swung it at hers, and there was a crack! even before the cannister hit the ground. She shouted and clutched her hand.

Hands that definitely didn't have metal claws pulled her close, pressing her against his body. She struggled but the hold on her back grew painful.

"You've been looking for me, haven't you?" he asked, voice deep and husky. She could hear the smile in his voice, and grit her teeth.

"You're a sick fuck," she spat. If she could just get her throbbung hand in her bag, if she could move just enough to retrieve her knife...

"I like you, girl," he chuckled.

His hands moved to her shoulders, and with the increased space between them, her hand was able to dart into the bag. Bone fragments ground against each other as her bad hand tightened around the handle, and tears stung her eyes.

The man was suddenly coming down toward her, and he was coming down fast. With a shout, she plunged the knife right in between his ribs just as pain blossomed in her neck.

"Help, I'm being fucking murdered!" she screamed, warmth dripping down her neck and chest. "Fire! Fire!"

A muffled laugh. The creep was amused.

Surely the blood was flowing out, but there was an odd pressure like something going in. It felt like getting an injection at the doctor's office, but the needle at the end of the syringe was actually a bear trap.

Noelle was screaming even after the pain faded to tingly numbness that spread to her limbs, until her vocal cords seized. Her hands fell limply from the handle of the knife still sticking out of his ribcage. The only thing holding her up was his mouth on her neck. She fought to keep her eyes open but everything faded to black.

***

There were lucid moments here and there but it was like watching an old, grainy home video. Long fingers that she couldn't see in the darkness wrenching her jaw open. Something thick and bitter pouring down her throat. The taste remained, sticking to her teeth and mouth and throat. She gagged. Darkness.

Alone on a mattress, sitting back on her ankles, never questioning why she could see with the lights off. A chunk of something was on her tongue. She plucked it out wuth her fingers, one hand still throbbing, and her eyes widened at the little white canine tooth. And then there was another, and then a premolar. Fade to black.

She dreamed of tall, pink men with long fingers and metal claws. She dreamed of her skin ripping open and a skeleton bursting out and flying into the night. She dreamed of teeth: white teeth, yellow teeth, rotted teeth with cavities, square teeth, molars, sharp teeth. Very sharp teeth.

[readbookywooks]

The Invitation

By the time Harry arrived in the kitchen, the three Dursleys were already seated around the table. None of them looked up as he entered or sat down. Uncle Vernon's large red face was hidden behind the morning's Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her horse-like teeth. Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. This was saying something, as he always took up an entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley's plate with a tremulous "There you are, Diddy darling," Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn since he had come home for the summer with his end-of-year report. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find excuses for his bad marks as usual: Aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy whose teachers didn't understand him, while Uncle Vernon maintained that "he didn't want some swotty little nancy boy for a son anyway." They also skated over the accusations of bullying in the report - "He's a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn't hurt a fly!" Aunt Petunia had said tearfully. However, at the bottom of the report there were a few well-chosen comments from the school nurse that not even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain away. No matter how much Aunt Petunia wailed that Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the school outfitters didn't stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen what Aunt Petunia's eyes - so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in observing the comings and goings of the neighbors - simply refused to see: that far from needing extra nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale. So - after many tantrums, after arguments that shook Harry's bedroom floor, and many tears from Aunt Petunia - the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all Dudley's favorite things - fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that Uncle Vernon called "rabbit food." To make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed that it was a lot smaller than Dudley's. Aunt Petunia seemed to feet that the best way to keep up Dudley's morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Harry. But Aunt Petunia didn't know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment he had got wind of the fact that he was expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, Harry had sent Hedwig to his friends with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had returned from Hermione's house with a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione's parents were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock cakes. (Harry hadn't touched these; he had had too much experience of Hagrid's cooking.) Mrs. Weasley, however, had sent the family owl, Errol, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor Errol, who was elderly and feeble, had needed a full five days to recover from the journey. And then on Harry's birthday (which the Dursleys had completely ignored) he had received four superb birthday cakes, one each from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Sirius. Harry still had two of them left, and so, looking forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs, he ate his grapefruit without complaint. Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit quarter. "Is this it?" he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia. Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look, and then nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry's with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes. Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his large, bushy mustache, and picked up his spoon. The doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon heaved himself out of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a flash, while his mother was occupied with the kettle, Dudley stole the rest of Uncle Vernon's grapefruit. Harry heard talking at the door, and someone laughing, and Uncle Vernon answering curtly. Then the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper came from the hall. Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the table and looked curiously around to see where Uncle Vernon had got to. She didn't have to wait long to find out; after about a minute, he was back. He looked livid. "You," he barked at Harry. "In the living room. Now." Bewildered, wondering what on earth he was supposed to have done this time, Harry got up and followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the next room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply behind both of them. "So," he said, marching over to the fireplace and turning to face Harry as though he were about to pronounce him under arrest. "So." Harry would have dearly loved to have said, "So what?" but he didn't feel that Uncle Vernon's temper should be tested this early in the morning, especially when it was already under severe strain from lack of food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled. "This just arrived," said Uncle Vernon. He brandished a piece of purple writing paper at Harry. "A letter. About you." Harry's confusion increased. Who would be writing to Uncle Vernon about him? Who did he know who sent letters by the postman? Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, then looked down at the letter and began to read aloud: Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, We have never been introduced, but I am sure you have heard a great deal from Harry about my son Ron. As Harry might have told you, the final of the Quidditch World Cup takes place this Monday night, and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get prime tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. I do hope you will allow us to take Harry to the match, as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain hasn't hosted the cup for thirty years, and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad to have Harry stay for the remainder of the summer holidays, and to see him safely onto the train back to school. It would be best for Harry to send us your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and I am not sure he even knows where it is. Hoping to see Harry soon, Yours sincerely, Molly Weasley P.S. I do hope we've put enough stamps on. Uncle Vernon finished reading, put his hand back into his breast pocket, and drew out something else. "Look at this," he growled. He held up the envelope in which Mrs. Weasley's letter had come, and Harry had to fight down a laugh. Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley had squeezed the Dursleys' address in minute writing. "She did put enough stamps on, then," said Harry, trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley's was a mistake anyone could make. His uncle's eyes flashed. "The postman noticed," he said through gritted teeth. "Very interested to know where this letter came from, he was. That's why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to think it was funny." Harry didn't say anything. Other people might not understand why Uncle Vernon was making a fuss about too many stamps, but Harry had lived with the Dursleys too long not to know how touchy they were about anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Their worst fear was that someone would find out that they were connected (however distantly) with people like Mrs. Weasley. Uncle Vernon was still glaring at Harry, who tried to keep his expression neutral. If he didn't do or say anything stupid, he might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. He waited for Uncle Vernon to say something, but he merely continued to glare. Harry decided to break the silence. "So - can I go then?" he asked. A slight spasm crossed Uncle Vernon's large purple face. The mustache bristled. Harry thought he knew what was going on behind the mustache: a furious battle as two of Uncle Vernon's most fundamental instincts came into conflict. Allowing Harry to go would make Harry happy, something Uncle Vernon had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other hand, allowing Harry to disappear to the Weasleys' for the rest of the summer would get rid of him two weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and Uncle Vernon hated having Harry in the house. To give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down at Mrs. Weasley's letter again. "Who is this woman?" he said, staring at the signature with distaste. "You've seen her," said Harry. "She's my friend Ron's mother, she was meeting him off the Hog - off the school train at the end of last term." He had almost said "Hogwarts Express," and that was a sure way to get his uncle's temper up. Nobody ever mentioned the name of Harry's school aloud in the Dursley household. Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as though trying to remember something very unpleasant. "Dumpy sort of woman?" he growled finally. "Load of children with red hair?" Harry frowned. He thought it was a bit rich of Uncle Vernon to call anyone "dumpy," when his own son, Dudley, had finally achieved what he'd been threatening to do since the age of three, and become wider than he was tall. Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter again. "Quidditch," he muttered under his breath. "Quidditch - what is this rubbish?" Harry felt a second stab of annoyance. "It's a sport," he said shortly. "Played on broom-" "All right, all right!" said Uncle Vernon loudly. Harry saw, with some satisfaction, that his uncle looked vaguely panicky. Apparently his nerves couldn't stand the sound of the word "broomsticks" in his living room. He took refuge in perusing the letter again. Harry saw his lips form the words "send us your answer...in the normal way." He scowled. "What does she mean, 'the normal way'?" he spat. "Normal for us," said Harry, and before his uncle could stop him, he added, "you know, owl post. That's what's normal for wizards." Uncle Vernon looked as outraged as if Harry had just uttered a disgusting swearword. Shaking with anger, he shot a nervous look through the window, as though expecting to see some of the neighbors with their ears pressed against the glass. "How many times do I have to tell you not to mention that unnaturalness under my roof?" he hissed, his face now a rich plum color. "You stand there, in the clothes Petunia and I have put on your ungrateful back -" "Only after Dudley finished with them," said Harry coldly, and indeed, he was dressed in a sweatshirt so large for him that he had had to roll back the sleeves five times so as to be able to use his hands, and which fell past the knees of his extremely baggy jeans. "I will not be spoken to like that!" said Uncle Vernon, trembling with rage. But Harry wasn't going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys' stupid rules. He wasn't following Dudley's diet, and he wasn't going to let Uncle Vernon stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and then said, "Okay, I can't see the World Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I've got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know - my godfather." He had done it, he had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon's face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream. "You're - you're writing to him, are you?" said Uncle Vernon, in a would-be calm voice - but Harry had seen the pupils of his tiny eyes contract with sudden fear. "Well - yeah," said Harry, casually. "It's been a while since he heard from me, and, you know, if he doesn't he might start thinking something's wrong." He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon's thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn't go to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle's mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then - "Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy...this stupid...this World Cup thing. You write and tell these - these Weasleys they're to pick you up, mind. I haven't got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you can spend the rest of the summer there. And you can tell your - your godfather...tell him...tell him you're going." "Okay then," said Harry brightly. He turned and walked toward the living room door, fighting the urge to jump into the air and whoop. He was going...he was going to the Weasleys', he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup! Outside in the hall he nearly ran into Dudley, who had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to overhear Harry being told off. He looked shocked to see the broad grin on Harry's face. "That was an excellent breakfast, wasn't it?" said Harry. "I feel really full, don't you?" Laughing at the astonished look on Dudley's face, Harry took the stairs three at a time, and hurled himself back into his bedroom. The first thing he saw was that Hedwig was back. She was sitting in her cage, staring at Harry with her enormous amber eyes, and clicking her beak in the way that meant she was annoyed about something. Exactly what was annoying her became apparent almost at once. "OUCH!" said Harry as what appeared to be a small, gray, feathery tennis ball collided with the side of his head. Harry massaged the spot furiously, looking up to see what had hit him, and saw a minute owl, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, whizzing excitedly around the room like a loose firework. Harry then realized that the owl had dropped a letter at his feet. Harry bent down, recognized Ron's handwriting, then tore open the envelope. Inside was a hastily scribbled note. Harry - DAD GOT THE TICKETS - Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway. Harry stared at the word "Pig," then looked up at the tiny owl now zooming around the light fixture on the ceiling. He had never seen anything that looked less like a pig. Maybe he couldn't read Ron's writing. He went back to the letter: We're coming for you whether the Muggles like it or not, you can't miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday anyway. Hermione's arriving this afternoon. Percy's started work - the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're here unless you want the pants bored off you. See you soon - Ron "Calm down!" Harry said as the small owl flew low over his head, twittering madly with what Harry could only assume was pride at having delivered the letter to the right person. "Come here, I need you to take my answer back!" The owl fluttered down on top of Hedwig's cage. Hedwig looked coldly up at it, as though daring it to try and come any closer. Harry seized his eagle-feather quill once more, grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote: Ron, it's all okay, the Muggles say I can come. See you five o'clock tomorrow. Can't wait. Harry He folded this note up very small, and with immense difficulty, tied it to the tiny owl's leg as it hopped on the spot with excitement. The moment the note was secure, the owl was off again; it zoomed out of the window and out of sight. Harry turned to Hedwig. "Feeling up to a long journey?" he asked her. Hedwig hooted in a dignified sort of a way. "Can you take this to Sirius for me?" he said, picking up his letter. "Hang on...I just want to finish it." He unfolded the parchment and hastily added a postscript. If you want to contact me, I'll be at my friend Ron Weasley's for the rest of the summer. His dad's got us tickets for the Quidditch World Cup! The letter finished, he tied it to Hedwig's leg; she kept unusually still, as though determined to show him how a real post owl should behave. "I'll be at Ron's when you get back, all right?" Harry told her. She nipped his finger affectionately, then, with a soft swooshing noise, spread her enormous wings and soared out of the open window. Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled out a large chunk of birthday cake. He sat there on the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was flooding through him. He had cake, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer's day, he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything - even Lord Voldemort.