#the three of them have been attending so many funerals as a trio | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sardinesandhumbugs · 4 years ago

Note

dude dude empty chairs at empty tables from les mis that line "oh my friends, my friends, forgive me that I live and you are gone" thats BADGER

A/N: asdlfjadslfjadsf your mind, nonny. This was meant to focus solely on Badger and his losing Rat Sr and Toad Sr, but then, naturally, this broadened out to Badger and grief in general.

For obvious reasons, trigger warnings for death.

(Also, yes, I am still working on these prompts, so if you are waiting on one, fear not! It will get written... just very, very slowly. @wolfiethewriter I snuck the hat story in!)

It had been a bitter winter that year. A selfish winter, taking so much and giving nothing in return.

And Badger is tired.

Toad Sr had been the first one to go – an impossibility to anyone who had known him, but, then again, life cared little for probabilities. It took the indomitable toad in a cascade of carriage wheels and snowblind storms and slick roads and Badger was left with nothing but a funeral to prepare alongside his mourning friend.

"It's how he would have wanted to go," Rat says in the twilight hours following the funeral.

(To many, Rat is now Rat Senior, but Badger finds the epitaph weighs heavily on his mind; it's a constant reminder that his friend (and he) are ever growing older while the generation below settle into the youthful energy that he and Rat had once enjoyed.)

"What?" Badger grumbles. "Dramatically?"

"No. Quickly." Rat sighs and readjusts the blankets around himself that are far too numerous for an armchair by the fireside, even in the bleak midwinter. "He would have hated to fade away slowly."

"One would think he'd much rather have not gone at all," Badger says.

"We must all go eventually, Badger."

"Maybe. But not any time soon. Not yet."

"We're not so young as we used to be."

"Neither are we so old as to welcome death as a familiar friend," Badger answers with rancour.

Rat gives a breathy half-laugh. "Even so, it seems like a long time since our first meeting. Do you remember it?"

"Like it was yesterday," Badger says, and he does not add that it is not long ago enough, not by half. Not by a long shot. "Toad invited us both for a meal at the Red Lion Inn. You looked like you thought I might eat you."

"Can you blame me? You were scowling at me something rotten." Rat chuckles sheepishly. "Truth be told, I'd never really met a badger before then – they always seemed to keep to themselves, and you're not the least intimidating of animals."

"I suppose we're not. We're not really Undergrounders or Wild Wooders, and we're certainly not Riverbankers." He hesitates. "We're just Badgers."

"Well, that never bothered Toad."

"No, it didn't."

A pause lingers between them, a silence for the animal who would have filled it within a heartbeat.

"Toad was the first animal I could honestly call a friend," Badger says eventually. The words sit heavily in his lungs, a truth he has been avoiding since the news came of Toad's demise. "A sorry state of affairs to reach at that age, but most other animals veered on the same opinion as you did," and he nods to Rat (not accusing nor bitter, only the lonely truth), "that we were a solitary type and best left to our own devices. And then he introduced you, his oldest and dearest friend, and I suppose some part of me felt..."

"Territorial?" Rat offers with a rueful smile.

"I suppose that is one word for it."

"And now look at us."

"How the tables have turned," Badger agrees.

Rat gives a breathy half-laugh. "We've had some times though. Do you recall the night Toad showed us the tunnels beneath the Hall?"

"I remember it, but I'm surprised you do. You were three sheets to the wind, and then some." His words are admonishing, but his tone is affectionately amused. "You and that blasted amphibian."

"If I recall correctly, you were singing as loudly as either of us."

"I wasn't the one who dove head-first over a wall in trying to catch his hat."

Rat snorts. "It was a low wall."

"Not low enough and there was a drop on the other side. I was prepared to climb over to fetch your hat back for you, but you just shouted–"

"'Grab my legs,'" Rat choruses with a chuckle.

"–and leapt head-and-arms over it without even checking to see if I was there, like it's an impromptu trust exercise."

"You did catch me though."

"A few drinks later and I might not have." Rat's humour is contagious though, and Badger finds himself smiling along at the chaotic memory. "I just turn to see a pair of legs rapidly sliding over the wall and all I can think is I'm not trained for this kind of thing."

"It was a good hat."

"It better have been one-of-a-kind for that stunt."

Rat gives a laugh that shakes at the edges and ends abruptly with a sharp, pained inhale. The smile returns quickly after, but it is watery and the carefree humour has faded.

(Badger makes no comment on the rattle in his friend's laughter, just as he has made no comment on the sudden breaths Rat takes between words, nor how the water rat has slipped quietly from captain to passenger aboard his own boat, relegating the rowing to the generation below.)

(Maybe, if he doesn't comment on it, it won't matter.)

(Maybe, if he doesn't comment on it, Death won't hear and will pass his remaining friend by.)

Rat's paw finds Badger's, and although his friend's has always been dwarfed by Badger's, it now feels frailer than before. The grip is tight though, and the fervour unnerves Badger.

"Don't retreat," Rat says. "When the time comes, don't hide back in your sett."

Badger cannot promise that. "When the time comes?" he echoes instead.

Rat smiles, but there is sadness in his eyes that tell he is not fooled by Badger's feigned ignorance. "First friends will always be special, but they're a beginning, not an end, Badge," and the smile does reach his eyes in that moment – at the nickname that had been so commonplace in their more youthful years. "And, whatever anyone else might think, you are not a solitary animal."

And then there is one.

Rat's passing had been as slow as Toad's had been quick, and that cruel winter had hemmed Badger and his fading friend and the barely-beyond adolescent Ratty in a house that stank of death.

(A blessing, said animals who didn't know better, that he eventually went; better for all that the suffering should finally end.)

And as he attends the second funeral in as many months, towering over the heads of the above-ground folk, he feels keenly the buffering that his riverbank-born friends had granted him. Animals who had once earnestly invited the trio for drinks now offer faltering commiserations with gazes that refuse to meet his, and there is more than the awkward shadow of grief that hound his conversations.

The Undergrounders see him as more Wild Wood than one of theirs (after all, his home is in the wood's depths; how much more Wild Wood could one get?) and the Wild Wooders regard him as one of the Undergrounders (they pay their respects, for his medical knowledge has helped more than one of their kind, but he is not one of theirs, he is of the earth) but it is the Riverbankers who break his heart the most. Their eyes flicker to the Wild Wooders, to the Undergrounders, and it is clear that he has been a visitor to their world; a tourist staying by the grace of his friendship, but that friendship is buried beneath the ground and he should follow suit.

He stays through the funeral, for respect to his late friends – and their offspring, who are too shattered to bear the brunt of well-meaning animals alone – and he stays civil, despite the keening anger that sits in his heart. Instead, he speaks in steady, unerring words of the Rat he had known, and he is too tired to correct the animals who mistake his dry eyes for detachment.

He is tired, and he is alone and his friends are gone.

So let the Badger who sung at Rat's wedding and danced at Toad's die alongside them, he decides. There is no room for that Badger anymore.

He packs up the part of him that begrudgingly endured society and the world lets him. Badgers had always haunted that sett; they are a somber, to-themselves kind of animal and the fact that the current badger had been an outlier is something comfortably and quickly forgotten.

Toad Jr and Ratty have yet to shed their childhood nicknames, but in time they will pick up the moniker mantels that their fathers have left in their wake – and Badger cannot watch it happen. There is already too much of their fathers in them – or perhaps not enough. In their sons are left uncanny valleys of the animals he had once known; ghosts that linger in rogue phrases and remnant gestures, echoes of a time that are forever lost to him.

And maybe there is too much of their fathers in him. For, in the wake of their fathers' passing, neither animal loiter on his doorstep for more than the acceptable allotted condolences, both given and received. There is no outreach of mutual mourning to tie them together; only the bitter memory of what has been lost to render each presence painful.

Barely beyond puphood, Badger finds himself thinking as Ratty (still Ratty, always Ratty. Rat was his father; Rat was his lifelong friend; Rat is gone) shakily takes the meal that Badger has brought. They both are grieving, but Ratty is young and hopeful and, even as the sickness had stolen more of his father away, he had never quite believed that it would do the unforgivable until it was too late.

But Badger has sat with his grief so long that it feels like well-worn slippers. Every time he had visited his friend's parlour for lunch, or by the fire with drinks, or smoked out on the jetty, his mind had whispered perhaps this will be the last time. So when he and Ratty share that meal and the conversation is a muted, disquieted thing, Badger accepts the truth that his grief has been promising.

Ratty is not Rat.

Rat is gone, and Badger remains.

When Badger leaves that once-cosy riverside abode, it is with the knowledge that he will not return to his late friend's home until its present owner comes to Badger's sett on his own terms. He will not darken Ratty's door with reminders of his grief until Ratty is ready.

(It doesn't occur to him that Ratty might be thinking the same thing; that he saw the flinch in Badger's stoic form as his turn of phrase cut too close to his father's, or the quickened breath as he for a moment – but, oh, what a cruel moment – mistook Ratty for Rat Senior.)

(It doesn't occur to him that Ratty might see his own absence to Badger's doorstep a similar kindness, or take Badger's retreat to his sett as confirmation.)

(And so the cycle continues.)

Badge becomes Badger becomes Mr Badger, and suddenly he is the old, intimidating animal that he had seen his grandfather and his father become. He is not quite Wild Wooder and not quite Undergrounder, and he had forgotten that in his time playing as a Riverbanker, but none have space for him now.

Rat is gone and a badger he doesn't recognise remains.

That is, until a lost mole and a water rat wander to his doorstep one cold autumn night.

There is so much of Rat in his son that, even now, the grief runs riot through Badger. Ratty is no longer the scruffy pup hanging on to his father's coattails, nor the gangly, grief-stricken adolescent shakily reheating a mourning meal, but an animal comfortably settling into adulthood.

There are differences, of course (there is a tension to Ratty that easy-going Rat had rarely possessed, and a sharpness to his words that betray a difficult time of it) but when he laughs, it is Rat's voice that Badger hears.

It is not the raucous fracas that Rat would employ (Toad Senior had laughed so loudly, so infectiously, that Rat had caught some of his careless volume) but there is enough of it. And so even when Ratty reintroduces himself as Rat, Badger can't help but stick by Ratty.

Still Ratty, always Ratty. Rat was his father; Rat was his lifelong friend. Rat is gone.

Rat is gone, but Ratty remains and he needs Badger's help.

There is enough of the Badger that once was that he rises to the occasion. He braces for that same uneasy grief he had met with in the aftermath of the funerals, but not for the almost-filial manner Ratty and Toad appeal to him with – nor for the fragment of something he hesitates to call paternal responding in kind.

It is different, but that's no bad thing.

For Ratty and Toad are not their fathers, but neither is Badger the Badger that once was.

He is different.

But maybe that's no bad thing.

#Anon #replies #wind in the willows musical #witw fanfic #cat writes #you should know that nothing I write will reach the emotional punch of opening this ask and seeing #'oh my friends my friends forgive me that I live and you are gone' applied to Badger #also this song holds a special place in my heart #it was sung at my high school leavers do #also also I'm appreciating the irony that this is being applied to badger #when craig mathers (aka mole) actually has performed this song as marius #'empty chairs and empty tables' rich line for an animal who literally only has the one chair for himself that we see #also I have to laugh how ratty literally goes 'badger tell him!' when he disapproves of Mole tricking the stoats #if that doesn't just reek of appealing to the adulter adult then I don't know what does #messing about in a boat on the river with queue #okay now I want to write more paternal!badger with ratty and toad #also this hit 2K words that's ridiculous #might have to transfer this to ao3 eventually

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classic80sand90smovieloves2 · 4 years ago

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Meeting and Dating Jack Goodman

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(Most of these can probably go for both normal jack and ghost jack but the hcs center around him being amongst the undead. I wouldn’t mind writing some hcs specifically for human Jack though)

- You first met Jack in highschool. Initially, you were friends with David who was in a few of your classes, but soon enough David introduced you to Jack and the three of you became a trio.

- Jack fell for you the moment he saw you, or at least couldn’t help but find you incredibly attractive. You probably thought he was just nervous when you first met with the way he was stumbling over his words and acting so awkward. Gosh, David had a field day with him after you left.

- To Jack, you’re completely out of his league and there is no chance that you would be interested in him. But he has to try. Too bad his “trying” isn’t nearly as obvious as he would like it to be.

- The two of you gradually spend more time together, going from only hanging out once in a while; and only with David, to hanging out for hours on your own. Every time you’re together he tries to psychically project his feelings into your mind.

- Its nearly a year later that he actually tries to put the moves on you but at that point you’re such good friends that you don't even notice what he’s trying to do. Every proposition of a date is just him asking to hang out. Every romantic compliment or pickup line results in you laughing and telling him to stop messing around. He doesn’t know how much more of it he can take.

- When the three of you graduated highschool, you’d decided that you’d take a year off and vacation in Italy. The boys wanted to go backpacking so they agreed to meet you there. Of course, they never really did, did they?

- You were beside yourself when you heard about what happened. Here you were, in the middle of a foreign country supposed to be having the time of your life and instead, you find out that one of your best friends is killed by an animal and that the other is recovering in a London hospital. Jack was dead, it was like the idea wouldn’t register in your mind. Jack was dead and you’d never see him again.

“Y/n came to my funeral. Gosh, she really looked torn up,” Jack smiled at David almost sheepishly. “Do you think now would be a bad time to tell her how I feel?”

- It was a few days after his funeral that you first saw him again. You though that you were going crazy, that your grief had gotten the better of you and you were having a serious lapse in your sanity. But it all seemed far too real, too detailed to be a hallucination.

- After hearing about what happened, you’d cancelled the rest of your trip and went back home. You’d holed yourself up in your room for a week before you finally forced yourself to go outside, though it was only to attend Jacks funeral.

- You were curled up on your bed, still dressed in your funeral attire and feeling utterly miserable as you fumbled with a book you’d borrowed from the boy for your plane ride to Italy. The room was quiet, save for you sniffling, ...up until a sudden voice rang out.

“You never did get the chance to give me that back.”

- Your eyes widened as you clumsily sat up and turned around. There he was, standing in the doorway to your bedroom; torn and bloodied but there. You watched as he walked inside the room, smiling at you as he took a seat on the edge of your bed. Feeling the mattress sink under his weight was what fully convinced you that you weren’t just going mad.

- Your mouth went completely dry as you looked at him. You couldn’t think of anything to say even as you tried your hardest. All you could manage to get out was a “how” and a clumsy sounding “what”.

“How ya doin y/n/n? Wonderful service wasn’t it. I was glad to see you there. I think my parents were too, they always liked you,” he said sweetly though the words held a bitter air. “You know, I was thinking about sticking around here a bit. You said I was always welcome and, well, being around the dead all the time is really starting to bum me out. I much prefer your company.

- You inched closer to him, placing a tentative hand on his cleaner shoulder before moving it to touch his undamaged cheek. His skin was cold but you could touch it as though he were really there. Letting out a sob, you lunged forward, smushing you’re lips against his cheek and pressing your forehead to the side of his head.

“Well don't get all mushy on me now.”

- True to his word, he did stay, albeit in intervals. Every now and again, he’d disappear for a while but he always came back and was seemingly content and relieved to be around you.

- Its not very long after he comes back into your life that he finally confesses his feelings. He figures that, hey, he’s dead, what else has he got to lose? So one night, just as you’re drifting off to sleep, he enters your room and kneels beside your bed, delicately shaking you awake.

“Y/n/n? I know its late but I’ve been sitting up and thinking. Thinking about my life, all the things that happened, everything I should have done. I realized that I didn’t do much at all. I mean; I should have met more people, went out more, slept around more.” he chuckled softly though it sounded more like a scoff than anything else.

“But you see, I can live with all of that, or, well... nevermind! The point is, that there was one thing that I should have done that I never did, something that I can’t just let go of. …I should have kissed you Y/n. I should have kissed you and never stopped. I was an idiot, I was an idiot because I never told you how I felt when I had the chance. Well now I’m a lousy mess of ghostly meat but I’m going to finally tell you.” He paused, taking a deep breath and trying to calm his nerves. Even in death, he was a coward.

“Y/n. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you and never once has that love gone away; …not even in death. I know this isn’t very orthodox and that I’m not a very nice looking corpse either. …And maybe this whole thing is insane and I never should have said anything at all!” He spoke as though he finally realized how bizarre the situation was, an nervous edge in his voice. He paused and collected himself before speaking again. “…but I did say it, so now we’re just gonna have to move on from here.”

- None of his dreams could have ever prepared him for the sheer shock and joy that he felt when you told him that you liked him too.

“So you’re saying we could have been together all of this time?” You couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face. With a tired smile, you beckoned him into your bed and laid back once again to go to sleep, this time with him by your side.

- You had your first date in your house, cuddled up on your couch and watching movies. It was just like any other day yet different at the same time. It felt right.

- The two of you shared your first kiss that same day when you were saying goodnight to each other. You were going to go to bed and he wanted to stay up a bit longer so he walked you to your bedroom. You both paused at the door before he leant down and kissed you gently, saying goodnight with a smile as you retreated into the room.

- And so, the dead joined the living... in her small studio apartment.

- Jack is sort of an indoor boyfriend so to speak. He’s a ghost; and a mangled one at that, so you can’t exactly be seen with him out in public.

- He’s a bit clingy. He’s pretty much always alone when you’re not around so he hates when you have to leave him.

- I hope you don't mind gore because his isn’t going away anytime soon.

- Please let him kiss you. Please. He is literally begging you to makeout with him.

“I know the face is a bit messy but my lips are still perfectly intact.”

- Humor is sort of a defense mechanism for him. Whenever he’s nervous or doesn’t know what to say; or how to say what he wants to say, he’ll just keep cracking jokes and trying to make you laugh in an effort to ease the tension.

- Getting surprise visits. He’ll most definitely scare you with the way he just pops up wherever you are, though its hard to stay mad at him when he says that he missed you.

- Sudden butt pinches and grabs. He puts his hands behind his back whenever you turn to look at him, glancing away and whistling before looking at you with a little devilish smile.

- Jaw kisses. He loves them and he loves giving them though he uses his for evil.

- Cuddling? He loves it though it may be a bit difficult with his …injuries. You'll usually lay side by side and hold hands while you sleep or you’ll clutch his hand to your chest and snuggle into that.

- You can’t exactly go on dates so you’ll have to find things to do at home, unless you want to go somewhere very secluded.

- Picnics in the woods.

- Late night walks. You’re pretty much only able to go out with him when it’s dark, otherwise you’ll have to pretend he’s not there which certainly puts a damper on things.

- Curling up on the couch together with some hot chocolate and a corny sitcom.

- Giving him some goddamn toast. There's not much to eat in the spirit world and god does he miss your cooking. Would you mind making him something?

- Talking to a corpse is boring. To him, you’re a much better conversationalist, even if you think you're a bad one.

- He has a bad habit of speaking when he shouldn't or saying the wrong thing. Nowadays, there’s not too many instances where that's a problem though it’s certainly earned him a few glares from you.

- Lovingly calling him meatloaf and chopped liver. He …tolerates it; only because you look at him so sweetly when you do so.

- Is he legally obligated to say your name; at least, twice during every conversation of yours? At this point, you’re honestly pretty sure he is. He doesn’t use nicknames though he doesn’t have anything against them, he just prefers saying your real name.

- He has kind eyes, doesn’t he? It seems like whenever you turn to him, he’s always gazing down at you with this sincere look of absolute adoration. It makes your heart skip a beat every time.

- Jack is a bit naive when it comes to girls or, rather, girls he’s in love with. He always believes what you say and falls for your devilish little tricks.

- David definitely teased him relentlessly for his crush on you and was betting on the two of you getting together. The circumstances aren’t the best but at least it happened, right?

- He’s a fan of old literature and makes references to it whenever he can. If he finds out you haven't read his favorite novel, he will literally sit you down and force you to.

- Teasing compliments. They aren’t the most romantic but hey, they still make you smile.

“Baby there is nothing mediocre about your body.”

- He likes sitting in your bathroom while you take a shower so that the two of you can talk. He also likes doing it so he can watch you shower but you like to focus on his interest in what you have to say, it’s much sweeter.

- He’s a horny boy, even in death. Are ghost boners a thing? Well he’s certainly gonna find out.

- Being welcomed home by a smooth jazz record and him patiently awaiting your arrival with a somewhat suggestive grin.

- Every time you say something all lovey dovey to him, he swears his heart nearly starts beating again. He never knows what to say back, he usually just turns red and laughs all shyly.

- He makes a big deal out of your birthdays, he doesn’t let you just forget about them or treat them like any other day. You’re alive! You’re another whole year older! …Fuck! …You’re aging and you’re going to keep aging.... He’ll try not to think about that part.

- Getting to hear little bits of gossip. No one can see him so he’s certainly witnessed some interesting things, interesting things he likes to tell you about.

- Nosy ghosty. He snoops around your stuff constantly. He’s practically memorized your entire house down to a T.

- Having to accept that there’s a lot of supernatural things in the world. Werewolves, ghosts, and who knows what else; they’re all real and your life has just been completely normal up until now.

- Getting to have all of your questions about death answered though some of the more painful things, he’ll keep a secret just because he doesn’t want to make you upset.

- I feel as though his looks can depend on his mood and also the type of spiritual day it is. You know how some days are considered more spiritual than others? Well on those days, he’s normal, looking very chipper and with a lot of energy. On bad days, he’s practically a skeleton with a few flaps of dried up skin.

- He usually hides away during his bad days, not wanting you to see him like that and be scared away. You reassure him that you’ll love him no matter what but a part of you is sort of thankful. You don’t know if you want to see him all horribly decomposed.

- He does get jealous. I mean, he’s a ghost, you're human. Plus, he was a loser in life, why wouldn’t you pick the attractive living guy whose hitting on you over him.

- He uses humor to pretend like he isn't bothered by the guys actions but will call him an asshole or something otherwise insulting later when you're alone together. Like out of nowhere, he’ll make some offhanded comment about the guy and you’ll realize he’s still mad about it. You just agree with him and give him a kiss.

- A part of him; a selfish, disgusting part of him wishes that you were dead. That something would happen to you, something quick and painless but something. On one hand, he wants you to live the life that he couldn't. But he also can’t help but want you with him, encased in eternity as beautiful as always and just how he remembers you.

- He used to be more of a coward but now that he’s dead, he really has nothing to fear, does he? The only thing he’s worried about is your wellbeing.

- You’re very good at changing his mind and convincing him to do things. He defends himself by saying its because he likes you so much and that you should consider yourself lucky that he does.

- He’s not stupid, maybe a bit cowardly at times but not stupid, if something doesn't feel right he’s getting the hell out of there and making sure he takes you right along with him. As much as he’d love an equally undead girlfriend, he knows you aren’t ready to go and shouldn’t be going.

- He’s quite protective of you. He hates even thinking about you being hurt in any way. He literally can’t even hear about it in hypothetical situations.

- He cant stand seeing you cry. He never knows what to say or do. He always yearns to comfort you but god, how does he do that? He’ll usually just rub your back and let you cry into his shoulder, trying his best to crack some carefully selected jokes in an attempt to make you feel better.

- He can be annoyingly persistent when he wants something. He wont let up so unless you’ve got real thick skin and the patience of a saint. You’ll wind up doing what he asks just to get him off your case. If you don’t do it for him, he’ll wind up doing it for himself anyways so don’t sweat it too much.

- There's constant short lived bickering between the two of you. It’s just how he is. He’s a smartass, especially when something bothering him and highly argumentative when something doesn’t sit right with him. You don’t have all that many real fights though.

- He apologizes when he’s in the wrong or when he feels that he could have handled things better, shyly and jokingly pleading with you to not try and exorcise him while pressing little kisses across your face.

- He doesn't say he loves you very often. He deems it a very serious thing to say and saying it makes him nervous so he keeps it reserved for special moments.

- Well, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon so I hope you’re ready for a long relationship.

#an american werewolf in london #an american werewolf in london headcanons #an american werewolf in london headcanon #an american werewolf in london imagine #an american werewolf in london imagines #80s movie imagine #80s movie imagines #80s movie headcanons #80s movie headcanon #jack goodman imagine #jack goodman headcanons #jack goodman headcanon

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vaguewriting · 4 years ago

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vague fic fragment #4

solangelo rwrb au

Will was seventeen when his mom became the president of the United States, and there were some things that he hated.

He hated moving out of his childhood home in Texas, even if it was incredibly cool that he got to live in the White House. He hated having to transfer schools for his last semester of high school (and had begged Naomi for the months leading up to her inauguration to let him finish school online). (She didn’t go for it.) He hated that they’d all been too busy with campaigning and then packing and then moving, and that when Will finally got his driver’s license, it said DC instead of Austin.

But everything else, well. That was all really cool.

When they moved into the White House, back when Will felt like he had more reasons to feel bummed out than anything, he made himself a list. He liked making lists. They helped him relax, and they helped remind him of what was important - homework that was due the next day, or cities that they were visiting along the campaign trail. During the first year of his mother’s presidency, he made a new list. A list of every good and awesome and okay thing there was about being the First Son of the United States.

First and foremost, Naomi had made history. In 2016, a female Democrat from the great state of Texas reached over 300 votes by the electoral college, and she had done it all without a husband by her side. And Will wasn’t going to let himself be upset about moving schools while his mother made history.

And point one, subsection A, there were now a good handful of states separating them from Will’s father.

His two best friends - Annabeth and Magnus Chase, daughter and nephew-turned-adopted-son of Vice President Frederick Chase. Annabeth had been helping her father’s campaign since she was old enough to speak, and had been crucial to Naomi’s ascent to the White House. Magnus had always been there to share his weed whenever Will got anxious. (The media had dubbed the three of them The White House Trio because they’d been so active in their parents’ campaign.) (Sometimes The Golden Trio, but that was usually more mocking.)

The three of them had all become something of minor celebrities. Sure, they were no Kardashians, but they got invited to events. The only event that Will could remember attending that wasn’t entirely political was his junior prom.

They traveled - all over the world! Will was pretty sure he had no reason to tag along to some of the places that his mom went, but he’d barely left Texas before the campaign started.

He got to meet so many amazing people. There were doctors who cured cancer and lawyers who fought for justice and so many people out in the world that wanted to help. Will had gotten teary eyed on more than one flight back to DC after some visits to different youth shelters across the country.

Oh, and did he mention the plane? The private jet that he got to fly in? He’d never flown before, and he knew that Air Force One had definitely gotten him spoiled for air travel ever again.

He was going to meet royalty.

His newest addition to the list was scribbled out in a rush after his mother announced that they would be attending the Olympics in Rio - and Will got to choose which events they got to see! (Well, some of them.) (Okay, he got to pick one, because they were only going to be there for a day or two.)

His choice was clear to him in an instant. He knew from some light social media stalking - he was a teenager who was suddenly famous, he didn’t know how things worked yet - that there was supposed to be a special guest at the soccer fields. And he knew exactly who that special guest would be.

The Prince of England.

He had always known for as long as he could remember - for as long as he’d known what royalty was - that there was a prince about his age. There had been a girl in Will’s third grade class who had once told him that she was going to marry the prince and become a princess, and then someday, a queen. Well, Will didn’t want to rule a country. He was just on the hunt for a new friend.

And how cool would it be to have the Prince of England as a friend?

Suck it, Molly, Will couldn’t help but think as he, Annabeth, and Magnus wandered around the VIP area at the soccer fields. They were so high up above the stands that he didn’t understand how anybody could see anything that was happening in the game, but he figured it didn’t matter, since he wasn’t there to watch, anyway. He was there to search.

“You know, chances of finding him here are ridiculously low,” Annabeth pointed out, not for the first time, as they started another lap around the stadium. “A prince is going to have a huge security detail, even bigger than ours, and everyone in this section is so surrounded by buff guys in suits that--”

“And girls,” Magnus cut in.

“What?”

“Guys and girls,” Magnus told her. “Or, sorry, women. Half of our security team is female, you can’t generalize like that.”

Annabeth elbowed him and rolled her eyes. “Oh, whatever. You knew what I meant. And the point I was trying to make is that--” She cut herself off when she walked straight into Will’s unmoving form. “Will?”

“That’s him,” Will whispered, eyes glued on a boy his age, standing beside a single bodyguard.

Prince Nico was shorter than Will by a few inches, and was wearing a well-tailored black suit, as always. He tended to look like he was either on his way to a funeral, or on coming back from one. He stood with perfect posture, his pale hands clasped behind his back, though the way he held himself made Will think he wanted to lean over the rail to get a closer look at the game. Will knew he’d be here somewhere. Nico loved soccer.

“I’m gonna go say hi,” Will mumbled, ignoring Magnus’s, “Maybe you shouldn’t--” because he was already walking.

His first word to Nico was, “Um,” and then, “Hi, um, Your Highness.”

Nico looked unimpressed. There was a pout to his lips and a coolness to his eyes that he never showed to the camera. (No, not coolness. Coldness.)

“I’m Will,” he continued, unable to stop the words now that they’d already started, and he held out a hand. Nico didn’t take it. “Um. Will Solace, I’m the--”

“I know who you are,” Nico told him. His voice was quiet, yet held commanding authority. Will wondered if that was something he’d learned alongside table manners and perfect posture. That authority in his voice was giving off a vibe of quit bothering me.

While Nico had clearly trained his tongue well, Will had never learned how to shut up. “You do?” he asked with a bright, genuine smile - he still hadn’t perfected a fake smile for the cameras - and looking at it seemed to cause Nico pain. “That’s… That’s crazy! I mean, I’m, like, a total nobody compared to you. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you! Can I hang around and watch the game with you?”

Nico’s head turned back toward the field below, and Will took that as a yes, until he heard a whisper from beside him, voice accented in that way that nobody’s but Nico’s was: “Can you get rid of him?”

Will’s heart plummeted.

Thankfully, he didn’t get the opportunity to react (though he wouldn’t have minded a chance to apologize) before Annabeth was tugging on his arm. Above the thoughts suddenly swirling in his head, he thought he heard Annabeth saying, “Sorry, Your Highness, he didn’t mean to intrude,” before he was dragged away.

They started back around the stadium, returning to their starting point - something of a suite that had been reserved for the US president and her guests.

As he flopped down onto an empty couch, Will added one more item to the list of things he hated: Nico di Angelo.

#vague fic fragment #mine #nico di angelo #will solace

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yatorihell · 4 years ago

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In The Darkness Chapter 77 - The Visit

Noragami x Harry Potter AU

Words: 4,582

Summary: The trio visit Godric’s Hollow.

Also available on Yatorihell A03

Winter rolled in and the days blurred into each other.

Yukine’s birthday passed without much celebration – not that they had been keeping tracked of the dates in the first place. During a trip for supplies, they bought a little cake – a decadent rarity in the new travelling life they had – and presented it to Yukine at dinner.

The frustrations had eased lightly, the horcrux now being carried in their pockets rather than around their necks to keep contact to a minimum, but Yato still felt that nag that he wasn’t doing enough. If it wasn’t a glimmer of rubies, a serpent’s eyes, or his own name being whispered like wind in the eaves in his visions, it was Sakura who greeted him. A pallor like death and her face contorted, reaching around his neck before disappearing beyond the veil.

“Can you not see anything?” Yukine prodded.

Yato suppressed a groan. This became the new routine: sleep, see nothing, wake up, get questioned. He could understand the need to pick apart every part of the dreams he had, but there was nothing there.

“No, I can’t see anything,” Yato replied as calmly as he could.

Yukine huffed and fell silent.

The Sorcerer seemed to be stronger at preventing Yato see his memories. If they could work out how to destroy the locket, maybe it would weaken his defences enough to find the other horcruxes.

Yato told himself this daily, a strained belief that the first step was destroying the locket. It would be the second out of Merlin knew how many, but still, how many horcruxes could one person make? How many times could they tear their soul apart and still feel human? He could only hope there was a limit.

“I think I found a lead on how to destroy horcruxes,” Hiyori said later that evening.

Yato looked at her, eyes tired in the dying lamplight. On her lap was that infernal Dark Arts book she read through every evening, seemingly doing more to find horcruxes than he was. In her hands she held the book Professor Tenjin left her, Tales of Beedle the Bard.

Hiyori patted the spot beside her on her bed, and Yato ambled over. Yukine looked on from his spot on the floor where he’d bundled himself in a blanket.

“Look at this,” Hiyori pointed at one of the dozens of marks that had been etched over the book’s pages. A circle within a triangle, crossed through with a vertical line. He blinked at it for a minute, then looked at Hiyori.

“You know I failed Ancient Runes,” Yato said. “’Affinity for failure’, Takemikazuchi said.”

Hiyori shook her head. “It’s not a rune.”

Hiyori put down the book and refocused on the Dark Arts book. She flipped to a page and showed him and Yukine, who had finally risen to see what she was talking about. The same symbol was printed in the top right corner, besides a name in dark lettering. Their mouths fell open.

“Not the Grindelwald? Certified madman purist?” Yukine asked, craning his head to try to read the scribbled writing.

“One of the most dangerous Dark Wizards, Grindelwald believed that wizards were oppressed by Muggles and wanted to return ‘the natural order’,” Hiyori recited.

“Like the Sorcerer,” Yato said.

Hiyori nodded and continued. “He attended Durmstrang, which is famous for its relaxed approach to the Dark Arts, and got expelled for attacking students and… unethical experiments. He became obsessed with the Deathly Hallows, which is what this symbol is.”

Hiyori picked up the Beedle the Bard storybook again and flicked to the front page where they could see the same symbol.

“The Philosophers Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility, and the Elder Wand,” Hiyori pointed at each as she went. “He wanted to retrieve all three and become the Master of Death. He got as far as the Elder Wand before he was captured.”

“Then what?” Yukine asked.

“He disappeared.”

Yukine let out a breath that was nearly a snort. “That’s the Ministry for you, can’t keep hold of the Darkest Wizards.”

“How do the Deathly Hallows help us?” Yato interrupted.

He knew the Philosophers Stone was said to be used to create the Elixir of Life, giving the drinker immortality. Kugaha had revealed his own version which could contain life force derived from a soul vessel, which was the diary Yato had destroyed in the Chamber of Secrets. He doubted he nor the Sorcerer was in possession of it if he had to resort to horcruxes.

The invisibility cloak, well, there were lots of them, even he had one. But the Elder Wand was something obscured in myth, legend, and fairy-tale, like the book in Hiyori’s lap. No one knew who owned the Elder Wand due to the curse of jealousy that came with it; its owners murdered in their beds by others craving its power.

A storybook seemed an unlikely answer to destroying horcruxes, but Hiyori was thinking of the bigger picture.

“It’s not the Hallows we need, it’s the name,” Hiyori put down the book and folded her hand on her lap like she was about to reveal the biggest revelation in the world. “Grindelwald had family in Godric’s Hollow.”

Yato flinched inwardly at the village name, but it went unnoticed. Hiyori looked at them expectantly, but the penny still hung in the air.

“How does that help us?” Yukine prompted.

“Grindelwald’s symbol was in this book. Grindelwald was from Godric’s Hollow,” Hiyori paused for a moment, still seeing their blank faces.

“What if Professor Tenjin knew that he couldn’t give you the sword? What if he hid it somewhere we could find it, using the gifts he gave us?”

“The Sword of Gryffindor is locked up in Hogwarts,” Yato pointed out.

“But is it the real sword?”

Yato and Yukine paused. It was a longshot, but would Professor Tenjin have the foresight to know that the sword would be kept from them?

“Where would we find it?” Yukine asked.

Hiyori’s face fell just a fraction. “I don’t know…”

“It’s a start at least,” Yato encouraged. “You found a clue!”

Hiyori smiled gently. “Thank you.”

Yukine picked his blanket up from the floor and crossed back to his own bed. “Let’s just hope we don’t get snatched before we find it.”

The next time they had stopped for supplies was in the midst of a snowstorm.

They left their camp wrapped in hats and scarves to hide their faces and apparated. When they emerged in a sleepy village that was covered in snow, Yato recognised it instantly. The houses they passed were decked in wreaths, the front room lights glowing warm and making them silently wish that they had the luxury of a home to go back to.

Godric’s Hollow was mainly a wizarding population, and visiting wasn’t a risk they would take if there wasn’t something important hidden within.

The main thoroughfare of the village was quiet aside from the drunken cheers from the pub further down the road, but Yukine pulled his scarf around his mouth and entered the shop alone. Whilst they would apparate together, going in shops alone was one way of making sure Snatchers and snitches wouldn’t recognise three of the wizarding worlds most wanted huddled around cans of soup.

Yato looked wistfully up the road, heart hammering and mouth dry. He hadn’t been here since that day, and the knowledge of that made him feel sick.

“Do you want to visit her?”

Yato snapped his head back. Hiyori had pulled her pink scarf from around her mouth by a finger, looking at him with soft eyes. He looked back, through the snow where he could just make out the church tower standing out against the sky. Maybe the horcrux was playing with his heart, feeling its erratic beat on the underside of the locket, but pulsating need to go was enough to move him.

He nodded.

They walked silently from the shop, not bothering to let Yukine know where they were going. But either way, anyone who knew Yato would know the first place he would go, for this village just so happened to be where Sakura was laid to rest.

The church dominated the sky as they entered through the small metal gate that had become stuck open in a snowdrift. The stain-glassed windows glowed dimly, and a faint noise could be heard from inside, but they turned left and followed the hidden pathway that skirted the edges.

The small churchyard was where they had erected a headstone and said their own private mass for those who knew Sakura. Yato remembered Professor Tenjin, Kofuku, Daikoku, and nameless faces gathered around the plot of earth that held no coffin, laying late-blooming cherry blossoms atop the grass and saying their final goodbyes.

Now Yato could see that those branches were long gone, cleared away by the groundskeeper probably not too long after the funeral. A thick layer of snow capped the black stone, the golden words not quite faded yet like the memory of her voice. The flowerpot was blackened with dirt and the rainwater inside surely frozen, not that there were flowers to begin with.

They looked at the gravestone in silence, allowing the snowflakes to settle on the sleeves of their coats and star their woolly hats in multitude of fading constellations. The ringing of bells sounded behind them, and slowly, a gentle hum of singing reached them across the barrenness of forgotten souls.

“I think it’s Christmas eve,” Hiyori said gently.

Yato said nothing, just stared at the marble that listed Sakura’s name, birth and death. Underneath were the words that named her sister, friend; that was all the monument that her life held.

Hiyori quietly stepped forward and knelt on the frosty ground before the headstone. Wordlessly she waved her wand in a circular motion, a cherry blossom wreath appearing against the grave.

Yato smiled sadly at the small yet great gesture as she stood up and stepped back beside him. His hand caught hers in a silent thank you, which she squeezed in return and leaned her head against his shoulder. Maybe this was the closure he needed to clear his visions.

“Happy Christmas, Hiyori,” Yato murmured.

“Happy Christmas, Yato.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer, lingering in the comfort and warmth they gave each other. Yato’s eyes flickered up to the dark churchyard railings that divided the living from the dead. In the dying snow flurry, he could see a figure stood in the road directly facing them.

At first he thought it was Yukine, allowing them a moment's privacy to remember Sakura, but the figure was too short and had an unnerving aura to it. Yato tightened his grip on his wand but looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen the stocky figure.

“Someone’s watching us,” Yato murmured quietly, looking to the left beyond Hiyori at the rows of wonky headstones.

She looked at him, eyes wide under snowcapped lashes before she subtly looked to the railings. She frowned, her breath fogging in front of her. “Isn’t that Iwami?”

Yato allowed his eyes to slide over again, but the figure was already retreating. From a distance he couldn’t be sure, but the white tufts of hair and the small, hunched build under the coat could’ve been him. He was one of the oldest members of the Order of the Phoenix, serving alongside Tenjin in the First Wizarding War, yet he hadn’t been seen since Kofuku told them about members going missing before Tenjin’s death.

The figure stopped and looked back but continued down centre of the abandoned road.

“I think he wants us to follow,” Yato murmured. Could Hiyori be right? Was the Sword of Gryffindor hidden here all along, in Tenjin’s birthplace and already in the Orders possession? Had Iwami stolen away with it, keeping it safe under Tenjin’s orders?

Hiyori looked back up the road towards the shop. “We should wait for Yukine -.”

“It’s ok, Iwami is in the Order,” Yato cut in. He took Hiyori’s hand and started up the path towards the exit, heart beating harder.

Iwami was nearly a smudge in the snowfall, but their paces quickly caught up to him outside a derelict house on the outskirts of the village. The windows had been shattered and the door hung from its hinges, letting a small snowdrift pile up in the hallway. Bits of debris that seemed to have been thrown from the windows were strewn across the front garden and covered in a thick layer of snow.

Iwami shuffled inside, not looking back as Yato and Hiyori hung around the gate. He disappeared into the shadows of the house, not bothering to turn on any lights. They stood outside for a moment, wondering why he hadn’t greeted them nor invited them in.

“Should we go in?” Hiyori whispered.

A groaning came from inside, and Yato nodded. “He said come in.”

Yato led the way inside the house, stepping over the frozen post that had piled up on the floor and been obscured by snow of the same colour. He could tell that this wasn’t Iwami’s residency due to the smell of something foul and the moulting interior. The furniture was broken and the lightbulbs had been smashed in their holdings, leaving them in pure darkness.

Yato’s eyes adjusted and he saw Iwami’s stout, hunched figure at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t look quite right; all shadows and lines in his face and a gait that told them he was at the end of his days. He spoke again, and Yato’s ears attuned to his speech.

“Is it here?” Yato asked quietly, matching his tone. “The Sword of Gryffindor? Professor Tenjin -.”

Iwami spoke again, a rasp that barely reached Hiyori’s ears. He turned and started up the stairs, footsteps thumping slowly and methodically with every step.

Yato looked back at Hiyori for a second and followed him.

The stairs were narrow and steep, and Yato feared Iwami may fall back at any moment, but they made it to the top of the stairs. None of the rooms Yato could see had doors, leading to gaping abysses of foreboding darkness that were barely illuminated by the streetlamp outside. He followed Iwami inside the front bedroom, wand pressed to his side.

There was a moment of silence. Yato waited patiently, but still he could feel the steady thrum of his heart against the locket, an unpleasant and agitating feeling.

“You are Yato.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Yato nodded regardless. “Do you have something for me?”

Iwami close his eyes and Yato felt an uncomfortable prickle run over his body. The horcrux jerked against his skin and the world swam in a hazy shadowed blur. Before him, Iwami’s mouth opened and his eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolling back in his head as a long tendril pushed out from his mouth. The sound of scales slithering within skin filled the room, and in the distance, he heard Hiyori scream.

The body collapsed to the floor and a serpent spilled from its mouth, slick with salvia glistening against the black scales. The same snake he saw in his visions; the same one that he saw in his bedroom at Hogwarts.

In the time it took for Yato to raise his wand the snake struck his arm, puncturing the skin through his coat.

Yato gasped, somehow keeping a grip on his wand, as its tail slammed into his stomach, a coil of muscle that sent him staggering back towards the door. He heard footsteps on the stairs, unable to call out to Hiyori and tell her to get out. The tail lashed against his ankle and Yato fell with a pained grunt. He felt the coils of scales encircle him, muscular and heavy as the serpent’s head slithered up his chest. The horcrux thrummed harder against his chest as if beating in time with the flickering forked tongue.

“Yaboku…”

Yato felt his vision darkening, arms held tight against his chest, wand useless.

The snake's head darted up suddenly, fangs bared in a hiss as a spell rippled over its body. Its body convulsed and loosened, and Yato gasped, kicking his legs free and coughing. He saw the snake's body in the darkness strike at Hiyori, heard her shriek as she dodged it and flung another spell at it.

Red light briefly lit up the hallway as the snake was flung backward and narrowly missed Yato as he stood. If there was a door he would’ve slammed it shut, but instead, he watched the snake flip over the suit of skin and come at them again with renewed vigour.

Yato raised his wand, arm aching with what he hoped wasn’t poison, and bellowed, “Confringo!”

Yato threw himself over Hiyori, shielding her against the wall. The bedroom exploded. The shattered glass on the floor bounced around the room, the furniture reverberated and splintered, and in the din, they heard the snake scream.

Yato’s head split open with white noise, an unbearable searing pain against his heart forcing the world to go white as snow and then black as night.

Feet walking barefoot through rivers of blood on white marble. The steady drip of crimson running from a hand, splattering on the floor like blooming roses.

A long, elegant black wand. The word ‘Nagini’ whispered like a prayer in the language of snakes.

The feeling of ripping a soul apart and simultaneously taking one for a perverted act of Dark magic.

A woman with long dark hair crying, a ring on her finger that looked so familiar yet unfamiliar as it still contained her lover’s soul.

The locket. Grindelwald's mark. A two-handled goblet he’d seen in multiple portraits at Hogwarts.

The serpent’s eyes, yellow and glowing like a Basilisk.

Yato came to with a start. He was in the tent, in his own bed. His coat and jumper had been peeled off and the duvet was tucked around him. From the still air, dim lamplight, and the lack of warmth in the tent, it could have been the middle of the night. A sheen of sweat trickled down his face. His sudden movement brought Hiyori to his side instantly, closely followed by Yukine. His eyes focused in the dim yellow glow as the lamp was brought to his bedside.

“What happened?” Yato croaked.

“You blacked out at the house,” Hiyori answered. She held a sponge in her hand, and Yato noticed the small cuts on her face where he failed to protect her from the glass. “Yukine heard us from the churchyard and came running. We apparated out of there before the snake woke up.”

Yato looked at Yukine, dazed. From the look on his face, Yukine was more worried than he was pissed off, but the fact that fear outweighed anger scared him.

“How long was I out?” Yato asked.

“Hours, it's nearly morning,” Hiyori dropped the sponge into the bowl of water next to the bed.

“We couldn’t get the horcrux off you,” Hiyori continued. “We had to use a Severing Charm to get it off you; it was like touching fire. And the snake bit you, so I put some salve on them.”

Yato gingerly pushed down his duvet just enough to see an angry red burn in the centre of his chest, right above his heart. His knuckles were white and cut, and the punctures in his arm weren’t as deep as they felt. No doubt the rest of his was as battered and bruised as he felt. He remembered the pulsating beat of the horcrux that he mistook for his own heartbeat, the jerking thrum it made when he was in close contact with the snake. It was as natural as it was agitating.

“Where is it?” Yato looked around, less desperately than he might’ve had if it hadn’t maimed him.

“In the bag. We’ll leave it there for a few days.”

Yato flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. “That was the same snake that attacked Daikoku in the Department of Mysteries.”

He opened his eyes again and stared at the canvas, feeling Hiyori’s and Yukine’s eyes intently on him. “I think it’s his pet – ‘Nagini’.”

He tasted the name on his lips. It was foreign to him, and although the thought of the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world having a pet was unthinkable, it was less so knowing that this was the kind he had.

“Iwami…” Yato asked questioningly, looking at the pair, but Hiyori shook her head.

“Dead in the cupboard.”

“It must’ve used him as a skin to lure us to the house,” Yato sighed. He dragged a hand over his face.

In his desperation to get the sword, he put Hiyori’s life at risk. He wasn’t even sure it was Iwami until he had them in the house and nearly butchered them. Even then, he hadn’t been seen in nearly a year – he was one of the members who had gone missing, presumed dead or defected. Now they knew what had happened; the Sorcerer was using their own against them.

“What was he saying to you?” Hiyori asked.

Yato pushed himself up and accepted the fresh t-shirt Yukine offered him. “What do you mean? You were there.”

“You weren’t talking English,” Hiyori countered. “It was just��”

“Hisses?” Yukine finished. They both looked at him and he offered a single shrug. “Yato speaks parseltonuge; it’s how he found me in the Chamber of Secrets. He sleeptalks it too.”

Yato rubbed his head again, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. He hadn’t spoken parseltongue in years, but he didn’t even realise he was speaking it when he talked to Nagini. It came so easily, like slipping into another skin and talking with an old friend. Once again, the name Yaboku was spoken in a sweetly sinister hiss that was all too familiar.

“Did you have a vision?” Yukine asked, but this time the question didn’t annoy Yato. He paused.

“I saw him.” The footsteps in blood, the wand, the voice – it was all the Sorcerer. And those flashes – Izanami wearing the ring horcrux, a two-handled goblet… “I saw his memories.”

Yato briefly described the vision, along with the new information about the goblet. Yukine frowned. “That sounds like Helga Hufflepuff’s goblet.”

It clicked into place as soon as he said it. He’d seen her portrait at Hogwarts, most recently in the Hufflepuff dormitories when he got love-potioned. A golden goblet encrusted with jewels and etched with a badger was held in her hands as she looked at him disapprovingly.

“How can that be a horcrux? Hufflepuffs cup went missing years ago, along with Ravenclaws Diadem,” Hiyori pondered.

“We know he attended Hogwarts. I wouldn’t be surprised if they went missing around the same time he left, or he was able to get in using a Vanishing Cabinet to steal them,” Yukine pointed out, folding his arms over his chest. “If that’s the case, he had possession of all the founder’s relics.”

They fell silent. Godric Gryffindor’s sword which had been withheld from them and was now lost. Helga Hufflepuff’s cup was now a horcrux. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem had been also been lost or stolen. The Chamber of Secrets and the Basilisk was Salazar Slytherin’s ‘gift’ to Hogwarts, and was now dead. It seemed to be a personal vendetta if the Sorcerer was using Hogwarts’ own founding relics against them.

“Did you see where it was at least?” Yukine asked, but Yato shook his head in silence.

Hiyori’s thoughts cut the silence again with fresh fear. “How did we get traced again? Just like the café, something happened and they found us. Only this time they were more careful about the execution.”

Or lack of, Yato thought, but he had a point – something happened and they were followed. No one could follow their apparations unless they touched them, and if they had been sighted, Snatchers would’ve got to them before they could escape.

Yato let out a frustrated huff. “I don’t know how we were followed, but we should get going.”

“What about the sword?”

“They probably got to it before us.”

Yato kicked the duvet free, happy to see they’d left his trousers on unlike his shirt, and swung himself out of bed. He winced at the bruises on his side and nearly kicked over the water bowl on the floor before Yukine caught his elbow. Yato let out a wheezed laugh. It had been a while since he’d taken a beating; he was getting soft if a snake could get the best of him.

“Don’t suppose you know a spell to fix broken ribs?” Yato half-heartedly joked, though the thought of protruding ribs was something that could become a possibility. He looked at Hiyori and caught the secret look that passed between her and Yukine.

Yato’s smile slipped. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s another problem,” Yukine said slowly, but the words alone were enough to have a wave of assumptions wash over him in a second.

Yato looked at Hiyori, expecting her to reveal a fatal snake bite she was concealing for his own sake, or that he did indeed have broken ribs. Her eyes snagged on his and she bit her lip.

“My wand broke… when the spell bounced,” Hiyori murmured.

Yato’s heart sank. His spell blew up the room Hiyori’s wand with it – her first and only wand. His mind raced for an answer as he held her gaze, but there was none – a trip down Diagon Alley was out of the question.

Hiyori was unarmed.

They moved camp later that day, setting up somewhere in the south where there was little to no snowfall and remote enough that they would be found.

Yato found himself more alert despite his injuries, hyperaware that Hiyori had no way to defend herself. They listened to Kazuma’s radio show; first the list of the dead and snatched, then the true news updates about the Ministry. Kazuma revealed that the Sword of Gryffindor had been relocated from Hogwarts after a failed robbery, but it only disheartened them more to know it was well and truly out of reach. They pushed their stew around their bowls, lost in thought.

When night fell, Yato realised the world had shifted.

After that night in Godric’s Hollow, a silent agreement was made to share each other's company as the winter nights grew longer and colder, and the nightmares of serpents, rotting corpses and death slithered into their dreams.

Yukine pretended not to notice the first time when Hiyori sniffled and quietly slipped out of bed in the dead of night, thinking that he was still asleep. She tiptoed across the creaking wooden slats to Yato’s bed for solstice, finding the single duvet flipped already open for her to crawl in beside him. Her shivering only stopped when she curled up against him and his arm draped over her side, thumb rubbing small, gentle circles on her back as he coaxed her back to sleep.

Twinned with the warmth radiating from under his t-shirt and the steady beat of his heart, dreamless sleep eventually claimed Hiyori. Her fingers loosely clung to his bed shirt as she nuzzled into the deep smell of the boy that held her even closer than he would if she were awake.

When sleep finally claimed Yato, for the first time in weeks there was no vision.

#noragami #noragami aragoto #yato #yukine #hiyori #yatori #hp au #harry potter au #in the darkness

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timeless-hollywood-classics · 4 years ago

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James Francis Durante (February 10, 1893 – January 29, 1980) was an American actor, comedian, singer, and pianist. His distinctive gravelly speech, Lower East Side accent, comic language-butchery, jazz-influenced songs, and prominent nose helped make him one of America's most familiar and popular personalities of the 1920s through the 1970s. He often referred to his nose as the schnozzola (Italianization of the American Yiddish slang word schnoz "big nose"), and the word became his nickname.

Durante was born on the Lower East Side of New York City. He was the youngest of four children born to Rosa (Lentino) and Bartolomeo Durante, both of whom were immigrants from Salerno, Italy. Bartolomeo was a barber. Young Jimmy served as an altar boy at St. Malachy Roman Catholic Church, known as the Actor's Chapel.

Durante dropped out of school in seventh grade to become a full-time ragtime pianist. He first played with his cousin, whose name was also Jimmy Durante. It was a family act, but he was too professional for his cousin. He continued working the city's piano bar circuit and earned the nickname "ragtime Jimmy", before he joined one of the first recognizable jazz bands in New York, the Original New Orleans Jazz Band. Durante was the only member not from New Orleans. His routine of breaking into a song to deliver a joke, with band or orchestra chord punctuation after each line, became a Durante trademark. In 1920 the group was renamed Jimmy Durante's Jazz Band.

By the mid-1920s, Durante had become a vaudeville star and radio personality in a trio named Clayton, Jackson and Durante. Lou Clayton and Eddie Jackson, Durante's closest friends, often reunited with Durante in subsequent years. Jackson and Durante appeared in the Cole Porter musical The New Yorkers, which opened on Broadway on December 8, 1930. Earlier the same year, the team appeared in the movie Roadhouse Nights, ostensibly based on Dashiell Hammett's novel Red Harvest.

By 1934, Durante had a major record hit with his own novelty composition, "Inka Dinka Doo", with lyrics by Ben Ryan. It became his theme song for the rest of his life. A year later, Durante starred on Broadway in the Billy Rose stage musical Jumbo. A scene in which a police officer stopped Durante's character—who was leading a live elephant across the stage—to ask "what are you doing with that elephant?", followed by Durante's reply "what elfin!?" was a regular show-stopper. This comedy bit, also reprised in his role in Billy Rose's Jumbo, likely contributed to the popularity of the idiom "the elephant in the room". Durante also appeared on Broadway in Show Girl (1929), Strike Me Pink (1934) and Red, Hot and Blue (1936).

During the early 1930s, Durante alternated between Hollywood and Broadway. His early motion pictures included an original Rodgers & Hart musical The Phantom President (1932), which featured Durante singing the self-referential Schnozzola. He initially was paired with silent film legend Buster Keaton in a series of three popular comedies for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Speak Easily (1932), The Passionate Plumber (1932), and What! No Beer? (1933), which were financial hits and a career springboard for the distinctive newcomer. However, Keaton's vociferous dissatisfaction with constraints the studio had placed upon him, his perceived incompatibility with Durante's broad chatty humor, exacerbated by Keaton's alcoholism, led the studio to end the series. Durante went on to appear in The Wet Parade (1932), Broadway to Hollywood (1933), The Man Who Came to Dinner (1942, playing Banjo, a character based on Harpo Marx), Ziegfeld Follies (1946), Billy Rose's Jumbo (1962, based on the 1935 musical), and It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963). In 1934, he starred in Hollywood Party, where he dreams he is Schnarzan, a parody of Tarzan, who was popular at the time due to the Johnny Weissmuller films.

On September 10, 1933, Durante appeared on Eddie Cantor's NBC radio show, The Chase and Sanborn Hour, continuing until November 12 of that year. When Cantor left the show, Durante took over as its star from April 22 to September 30, 1934. He then moved on to The Jumbo Fire Chief Program (1935–1936).

Durante teamed with Garry Moore for The Durante-Moore Show in 1943. Durante's comic chemistry with the young, brushcut Moore brought Durante an even larger audience. "Dat's my boy dat said dat!" became an instant catchphrase, which would later inspire the cartoon Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy. The duo was one of the nation's favorites for the rest of the decade. Their Armed Forces Radio Network Command Performance with Frank Sinatra remains a favorite of radio-show collectors today. Moore left the duo in mid-1947, and the program returned October 1, 1947 as The Jimmy Durante Show. Durante continued the show for three more years and featured a reunion of Clayton, Jackson and Durante on his April 21, 1948 broadcast.

Although Durante made his television debut on November 1, 1950 (on the Four Star Revue - see below) he continued to keep a presence in radio, as a frequent guest on Tallulah Bankhead's two-year NBC comedy-variety show The Big Show. Durante was one of the cast on the show's premiere November 5, 1950, along with humorist Fred Allen, singers Mindy Carson and Frankie Laine, stage musical performer Ethel Merman, actors Jose Ferrer and Paul Lukas, and comic-singer Danny Thomas (about to become a major television star in his own right). A highlight of the premiere was Durante and Thomas, whose own nose rivaled Durante's, in a routine in which Durante accused Thomas of stealing his nose. "Stay outta dis, no-nose!" Durante barked at Bankhead to a big laugh.

From 1950 to 1951, Durante was the host once a month (alternating with Ed Wynn, Danny Thomas and Jack Carson) on Wednesday evenings at 8 p.m, on NBC's comedy-variety series Four Star Revue. Jimmy continued with the show until 1954.

Durante then had a half-hour variety show - The Jimmy Durante Show - on NBC from October 2, 1954 to June 23, 1956.

Beginning in the early 1950s, Durante teamed with sidekick Sonny King, a collaboration that would continue until Durante's death. He often was seen regularly in Las Vegas after Sunday Mass outside of the Guardian Angel Cathedral standing next to the priest and greeting the people as they left Mass.

Several times in the 1960s, Durante served as host of ABC's Hollywood Palace variety show, which was taped live (and consequently included ad-libs by the seasoned vaudevillian).

His last regular television appearance was co-starring with the Lennon Sisters on Jimmy Durante Presents the Lennon Sisters Hour, which lasted for one season on ABC (1969–1970).

Durante's first wife was Jean "Jeanne" Olson, whom he married on June 19, 1921. She was born in Ohio on August 31, 1896. She was 46 years old when she died on Valentine's Day in 1943, after a lingering heart ailment of about two years, although different newspaper accounts of her death suggest she was 45 or perhaps 52.[9] As her death was not immediately expected, Durante was touring in New York at the time and returned to Los Angeles right away to complete the funeral arrangements.

Durante's radio show was bracketed with two trademarks: "Inka Dinka Doo" as his opening theme, and the invariable signoff that became another familiar national catchphrase: "Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are." For years no one knew who Mrs. Calabash referred to and Durante preferred to keep the mystery alive until 1966. One theory was that it referred to the owner of a restaurant in Calabash, North Carolina, where Durante and his troupe had stopped to eat. He was so taken by the food, the service, and the chitchat he told the owner that he would make her famous. Since he did not know her name, he referred to her as "Mrs. Calabash". At a National Press Club meeting in 1966 (broadcast on NBC's Monitor program), Durante finally revealed that it was indeed a tribute to his wife. While driving across the country, they stopped in a small town called Calabash, North Carolina whose name Jean had loved. "Mrs. Calabash" became his pet name for her, and he signed off his radio program with "Good night, Mrs. Calabash." He added "wherever you are" after the first year.

Durante married his second wife, Margaret "Margie" Little, at St. Malachy Roman Catholic Church in New York City on December 14, 1960. As a teenager she had been crowned Queen of the New Jersey State Fair. She attended New York University before being hired by the legendary Copacabana in New York City. She and Durante met there 16 years before their marriage, when he performed there and she was a hatcheck girl. She was 41 and he 67 when they married. With help from their attorney, Mary G. Rogan, the couple were able to adopt a baby, Cecilia Alicia (nicknamed CeCe and now known as CeCe Durante-Bloum), on Christmas Day, 1961. CeCe became a champion horsewoman and then a horse trainer and horseriding instructor. Margie died on June 7, 2009, at the age of 89.

On August 15, 1958, for his charitable acts, Durante was awarded a three-foot-high brass loving cup by the Al Bahr Shriners Temple. The inscription reads: "JIMMY DURANTE THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS COMEDIAN. A loving cup to you Jimmy, it's larger than your nose, but smaller than your heart. Happiness always, Al Bahr Temple, August 15, 1958." Jimmy Durante started out his career with Clayton and Jackson and when he became a big star and they were left behind, he kept them on his payroll for the rest of their lives.

Durante's love for children continued through the Fraternal Order of Eagles, who among many causes raise money for handicapped and abused children. At Durante's first appearance at the Eagles International Convention in 1961, Judge Bob Hansen inquired about his fee for performing. Durante replied, "Do not even mention money judge or I'll have to mention a figure that'll make ya sorry ya brought it up." "What can we do then?" asked Hansen. "Help da kids," was Durante's reply. Durante performed for many years at Eagles conventions free of charge, even refusing travel money. The Fraternal Order of Eagles changed the name of their children's fund to the Jimmy Durante Children's Fund in his honor, and in his memory have raised over 20 million dollars to help children. A reporter once remarked of Durante after an interview: "You could warm your hands on this one." One of the projects built using money from the Durante Fund was a heated therapy swimming pool at the Hughen School in Port Arthur, Texas. Completed in 1968, Durante named the pool the "Inka Dinka Doo Pool".

Durante was an active member of the Democratic Party. In 1933, he appeared in an advertisement shown in theaters supporting Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal programs and wrote a musical score titled Give a Man a Job to accompany it. He performed at both the inaugural gala for President John F. Kennedy in 1961 and a year later at the famous Madison Square Garden rally for the Democratic party that featured Marilyn Monroe singing "Happy Birthday" to JFK.

Durante continued his film appearances through It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and television appearances through the early 1970s. He narrated the Rankin-Bass animated Christmas special Frosty the Snowman (1969), re-run for many years since. The television work also included a series of commercial spots for Kellogg's Corn Flakes cereals in the mid-1960s, which introduced Durante's gravelly growl and narrow-eyed, large-nosed countenance to millions of children. "Dis is Jimmy Durante, in puy-son!" was his introduction to some of the Kellogg's spots. One of his last appearances was in a memorable television commercial for the 1973 Volkswagen Beetle, where he proclaimed that the new, roomier Beetle had "plenty of breathin' room... for de old schnozzola!"

In 1963, Durante recorded the album of pop standards September Song. The album became a best-seller and provided Durante's re-introduction to yet another generation, almost three decades later. From the Jimmy Durante's Way of Life album came the gravelly interpretation of the song "As Time Goes By", which accompanied the opening credits of the romantic comedy hit Sleepless in Seattle, while his version of "Make Someone Happy" launched the film's closing credits. Both are included on the film's best-selling soundtrack. Durante also recorded a cover of the well-known song I'll Be Seeing You, which became a trademark song on his 1960s TV show. This song was featured in the 2004 film The Notebook.

He wrote a foreword for a humorous book compiled by Dick Hyman titled Cockeyed Americana. In the first paragraph of the "Foreword!", as Durante called it, he describes meeting Hyman and discussing the book and the contribution that Hyman wanted Durante to make to it. Durante wrote "Before I can say gaziggadeegasackeegazobbath, we're at his luxurious office." After reading the material Hyman had compiled for the book, Durante commented on it: "COLOSSAL, GIGANTIC, MAGNANIMOUS, and last but not first, AURORA BOREALIS. [Capitalization Durante's] Four little words that make a sentence—and a sentence that will eventually get me six months."

Durante retired from performing in 1972 after he became wheelchair-bound following a stroke. He died of pneumonia in Santa Monica, California on January 29, 1980, 12 days before he would have turned 87. He received Catholic funeral rites four days later, with fellow entertainers including Desi Arnaz, Ernest Borgnine, Marty Allen, and Jack Carter in attendance, and was interred at Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City, California.

On June 25, 2019, The New York Times Magazine listed Jimmy Durante among hundreds of artists whose material was reportedly destroyed in the 2008 Universal fire.

Jimmy Durante is known to most modern audiences as the character who narrated and sang the 1969 animated special Frosty the Snowman. He also performed the Ron Goodwin title song to the 1968 comedy-adventure Monte Carlo or Bust (titled Those Daring Young Men in Their Jaunty Jalopies in the U.S.) sung over the film's animated opening credits.

While his own career in animation was limited, Durante's distinctive voice, looks and catchphrases earned him numerous depictions and allusions in animation: A character in M-G-M cartoons, a bulldog named Spike, whose puppy son was always getting caught by accident in the middle of Tom and Jerry's activities, referenced Durante with a raspy voice and an affectionate "Dat's my boy!" In another Tom and Jerry short, a starfish lands on Tom's head, giving him a big nose. He then proceeds with Durante's famous "Ha-cha-cha-cha" call. The 1943 Tex Avery cartoon "What's Buzzin' Buzzard" featured a vulture with a voice that sounded like Jimmy Durante. A Durante-like voice (originally by Doug Young) was also given to the father beagle, Doggie Daddy, in Hanna-Barbera's Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy cartoons, Doggie Daddy invariably addressing the junior beagle with a Durante-like "Augie, my son, my son", and with frequent citations of, "That's my boy who said that!" The 1945 MGM cartoon Jerky Turkey featured a turkey which was a caricature of Durante.

Many Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies cartoons had characters based on Durante. One Harman-Ising short from 1933, Bosko's Picture Show, featured a caricature of Adolf Hitler chasing Durante with a meat cleaver. Two examples from the 1940s include A Gruesome Twosome, which features a cat based on Durante, and Baby Bottleneck, which in unedited versions opens with a Durante-like stork. Book Revue shows the well-known (at that time) 1924 Edna Ferber novel So Big featuring a Durante caricature on the cover. The "so big" refers to his nose, and as a runaway criminal turns the corner by the book, Durante turns sideways using his nose to trip the criminal, allowing his capture. In Hollywood Daffy, Durante is directly depicted as himself, pronouncing his catchphrase "Those are the conditions that prevail!" In The Mouse-Merized Cat, Catstello (a Lou Costello mouse) briefly is hypnotized to imitate Jimmy Durante singing Lullaby of Broadway. One of Durante's common catchphrases "I got a million of 'em!" was used as Bugs' final line in Stage Door Cartoon.

A Durante-like voice was also used for Marvel Comics superhero The Thing in the Hanna-Barbera cartoon Fred and Barney Meet the Thing. The voice and appearance of Crispy, the mascot for Crispy Critters cereal, was also based on Durante.[17] In Mickey Mouse Works, a character named Mortimer Mouse (voiced by Maurice LaMarche) was based on Durante, complete with the "ha-cha-cha!". One of the main characters in Terrytoons' Heckle and Jeckle cartoon series also takes to imitating Jimmy in 1948's "Taming The Cat" ("Get a couple of song birds today...").

Since Durante's death, his songs have featured in several films. Dan Aykroyd and Kim Basinger performed impressions of Durante from The Man Who Came to Dinner singing "Did You Ever Have the Feeling" in 1988's My Stepmother Is an Alien. His performance of "Young at Heart" was featured in City Slickers (1991) and his versions of "As Time Goes By" and "Make Someone Happy" played over the opening and closing credits of Sleepless in Seattle (1993). Michael J. Fox performed an impression of Durante singing "Inka Dinka Doo" in 1994's Greedy. His rendition of "Smile" featured in the film, and trailer for, Joker (2019).

#jimmy durante #classic hollywood #classic movie stars #golden age of hollywood #old hollywood #1930s hollywood #1940s hollywood #1950s hollywood #1960s hollywood #classic television #frosty the snowman #hollywood legend

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ill-will-editions · 5 years ago

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THE FUNERAL OF SALVATORE RICCIARDI: Celebrating a friend and comrade, while taking over public space again

WU MING

A final farewell to Salvo, to the songs of Su, communists of the capital! "This rebellious city, never tamed by ruins and bombings…"

Of all the measures taken during this emergency, the ban on funeral services is among the most dehumanizing.

In the name of what idea of "life" have these measures been taken? In the prevailing rhetoric of these past few weeks, life has been reduced almost entirely to the survival of the body, to the detriment of any other dimension of it. In this there is a very strong thanatophobic connotation (from the Greek Thanatos, or death), a morbid fear of dying.

Thanatophobia has permeated our society for decades. Already in 1975, the historian Philippe Ariès, in his landmark History of Death in the West, noted that death, in capitalist societies, had been "domesticated", bureaucratized, partly deritualized and separated as much as possible from the living, in order to "spare [...] society the disturbance and too strong emotion" of dying, and maintain the idea that life "is always happy, or at least must always look like it”.

To this end, he continues, it was strategic "to shift the site where we die. We no longer die at home, among family members, we die at the hospital, alone [...] because it has become inconvenient to die at home". Society, he said, must "realize as little as possible that death has occurred". This is why many rituals related to dying are now considered embarrassing and in a phase of disuse.

Even before the state of emergency we are experiencing, the rituality of dying had been reduced to a minimum. That is why we have always been so impressed by the manifestations of its re-emergence. Think of the worldwide success of a film like The Barbarian Invasions by Denys Arcand.

Forty-five years ago, Ariès wrote: "no one has the strength or patience to wait for weeks for a moment [death, Editor's note] that has lost its meaning". And what does the 2003 Canadian film depict if not a group of people waiting for weeks - in a context of conviviality and re-emerging secular rituality - the passing of a friend?

Eight years ago we undertook, together with many others, to set up an environment of conviviality and secular rituality around a dear friend and companion, Stefano Tassinari, in the weeks leading up to his death and in the ceremonies that followed. Much of our questioning on this subject dates back to that time.

If the rituality linked to dying was already reduced to a minimum, the ban on attending the funeral of a loved one had finally annihilated it.

Back on March 25th we shared a beautiful letter from a parish priest from Reggio, Don Paolo Tondelli, who was dismayed at the scenes he had to witness:

"And so I find myself standing in front of the cemetery, with three children of a widowed mother who died alone at the hospital because the present situation does not allow for the assistance of the sick. They cannot enter the cemetery, the measures adopted do not allow it. So they cry: they couldn't say goodbye to their mother when she gave up living, they can't say goodbye to her even now while she is being buried. We stop at the cemetery gate, in the street, I am bitter and angry inside, I have a strong thought: even a dog is not taken to the grave like this. I think we have exaggerated for a moment in applying the rules in this way, we are witnessing a dehumanization of essential moments in the life of every person; as a Christian, as a citizen I cannot remain silent [...] I say to myself: we are trying to defend life, but we are running the risk of not conserving the mystery that is so closely linked to it".

This "mystery" is not the exclusive prerogative of the Christian faith nor of those possessing a religious sensibility, since it does not necessarily coincide with the belief in the immortal soul or anything else, but something that we all ask ourselves, when we ask, 'what does it mean to live?' 'What distinguishes living from merely moving on or simply not dying?

That said, those who are believers and observers have experienced the suspension of ritual ceremonies - including funeral masses - as an attack on their form of life. It is no coincidence that among the examples of clandestine organization that we have heard about these days, there is the catacombal continuation of Christian public life.

We have direct evidence that in many parishes the faithful continued to attend mass, despite the signs on the doors saying they were suspended. One finds the "hard core" of the parishioners in the refectory of the convent, or in the rectory, or in the sacristy and in some cases in the church. Twenty, thirty people, summoned by word of mouth. In particular last Thursday, for the Missa in coena Domini.

The same can be said of funerals. In this case as well we have direct testimonies of priests who officiated small rites, with close family members, without publicity.

In the past few days, we have identified three types of disobedience to some of the stupidest and most inhumane features of the lock-down.

Individual disobedience

The individual gesture is often invisible but occasionally it is showy, as in the case of that runner on the deserted beach of Pescara, hunted by security guards for no reason that has any epidemiological basis. The video went viral, and had the effect of demonstrating the absurdity of certain rules and their obtuse application.

Continuing to run was, objectively and in its outcome, a very effective performance, an action of resistance and "conflictual theatre". Continuing to run distinguishes qualitatively that episode from the many others which offer "only" further evidence of repression. As Luigi Chiarella "Yamunin" wrote, the video brings to mind,

"a passage from Crowds and Power by Elias Canetti on grasping, which is indeed a gesture of the hand but also and above all is 'the decisive act of power where it manifests itself in the most evident way, from the most remote times, among animals and among men'. Later, he adds - and here comes the part pertinent to the episode of the runner - that 'there is nevertheless a second powerful gesture, certainly no less essential even if not so radiant. Sometimes one forgets, under the grandiose impression aroused by grasping, the existence of a parallel and almost equally important action: not letting oneself be grasped". The video [...] reminded me how powerful and liberating it is not to let yourself be caught. Then I don't forget that if you run away you do it to come back with new weapons, but in the meantime you must not let yourself be grabbed."

Clandestine group disobedience

These are the practices of the parishioners who organize themselves to go to mass on the sly, of the family members of a dearly departed person who agree with the parish priest to officiate a funeral rite... but also of the groups who continue in one way or another to hold meetings, of the bands who continue to rehearse, and of the parents who organize themselves together with a teacher to retrieve their children's school books. It's an episode that happened in a city in Emilia, which we recounted a few days ago.

In order to retrieve the books from a first grade school that had been left at school for the last month, a teacher came to the school, took the books out hidden in a shopping cart, and entrusted them to two parents who live near a baker and a convenience store respectively, so that the other parents could go and pick them up with the "cover" of buying groceries, avoiding possible fines. The books were given to the individual parents by lowering them with a rope from a small balcony and stuffed into shopping bags or between loaves of bread, as if they were hand grenades for the Resistance. In this way those children will at least be able to follow the program on the book with the teacher in tele-education, and the parents will be able to have support for the inevitable homeschooling.

After a phase of shock in which unconditional obedience and mutual guilt prevailed, sectors of civil society - and even "interzone" between institutions and civil society - are reorganizing themselves "in hiding". In this reorganization it is implicit that certain restrictions are considered incongruous, irrational, indiscriminately punitive.

Furthermore: at the beginning of the emergency, parental chats were, in general, among the worst hotbeds of panic, culture of suspicion, toxic voice messages, calls for denunciation. The fact that now some of them are also being used to circumvent delusional prohibitions - why shouldn't a teacher be able to retrieve the textbooks left in the classroom? why should a dad or a mom have to resort to subterfuge, self-certification, etc. to retrieve those books? - is yet another proof that the "mood" has changed.

Provocative group disobedience

The performance of the trio from Rimini - a man and two women - who had sex in public places and put the videos online, accompanied with insults hurled at the police, is part of this rarefied case history.

The police have since held a grudge against the case, as exemplified by their official social channels.

The only thing missing from this catalog of disobedience is, of course...

Claimed group disobedience

Here we have in mind visible, and no longer merely clandestine collective disobedience.

For a moment we feared that the fascists would be the first to bring it into play. Forza Nuova attempted to leverage the dismay of believers in the prospect of an Easter “behind closed doors,” and without the Via Crucis. However, when leaflets circulated calling for a procession to St. Peter's Basilica tomorrow (Sunday 4.12), accompanied by mottos such as "In hoc signo vinces" and "Rome will not know an Easter without Christ", they were dismayed to find that it wasn't the Fascists who were behind them. Instead, it was our comrades and friends from Radio Onda Rossa and the Roman liberatory movement who, this morning, in S. Lorenzo, greeted Salvatore Ricciardi with what in effect became the first political demonstration in the streets since the beginning of the emergency.

Salvatore Ricciardi, 80 years old, was a pillar of the Roman antagonist left. A former political prisoner, for many years he was involved in fights inside prisons and against prison conditions. He did so in a number of books and countless broadcasts on Radio Onda Rossa, which yesterday dedicated a moving four-hour live special to him. He continued to do so until even a few days ago, on his blog Contromaelstrom, writing about imprisonment and coronavirus.

Headlines about this morning's events can already be read in the mainstream press. A precise chronicle, accompanied by some valuable remarks, can be heard in this phone call from an editor of Radio Onda Rossa [here]. Among other things, our comrade points out: "here there are rows of people standing in front of the butchers shop for days and days, yet we cannot even bid farewell to the dead? [...] We're in the open air, while in Rome there's not even a requirement to wear a mask and yet many people had masks, and there were only a few people anyway"...Yet the police still threatened to use a water cannon to disperse a funeral ritual. The part of the district where the seditious gathering took place was closed and those present were detained by police.

During this emergency, we’ve seen so many surreal scenes - today, to offer just one example, a helicopter took to the sky, wasting palates of public money, in pursuit of a single citizen walking on a Sicilian beach - and even still, this morning's apex had not yet been reached.

For our part, we say kudos and solidarity to those who run, and are out running great risks to claim their right to live together - in public space that they have always crossed with their bodies and filled with their lives - out of pain and mourning for the loss of Salvo, but also out of happiness for having had him as a friend and companion.

"Because the bodies will return to occupy the streets. Because without the bodies there is no Liberation."

That's what we were writing yesterday, taking up the “Song of el-'Aqila Camp”. We reaffirm our belief that it will happen. And the government fears it too: is it by chance that just today Minister Lamorgese warned against "hotbeds of extremist speech"?

In her telephone interview, the Radio Onda Rossa editor says that the current situation, in essence, could last a year and a half. Those in power would like it to be a year and a half without the possibility of protest. They are prepared to use health regulations to prevent collective protests and struggles. Managing the recession with sub iudice civil rights is ideal for those in power.

It is right to disobey absurd rules

We should point out once again that, whilst keeping a population under house arrest, while prohibiting funerals, and de jure or de facto preventing anyone from taking a breath of fresh air - which is almost a unique phenomenon in the West, since only Spain follows us on this - and while shaming individual conduct like jogging, going out "for no reason", or shopping "too many times"...while this whole little spectacle is going on, Italy remains the European country with the highest COVID-19 mortality rate. Good peace of mind for those who spoke of an "Italian model" to be imitated by other countries.

Who is responsible for such a debacle? It is not a hard question to answer: it was the people who did not establish a medical cordon around Alzano and Nembro in time, because the owner asked them not to; it was those who spread infection in hospitals through an impressive series of negligent decisions; those who turned RSAs and nursing homes into places of mass coronavirus death; and lastly, those who, while all this was happening, diverted public attention toward nonsense and harmless behavior, while pointing the finger at scapegoats. This was blameworthy, even criminal behavior.

Everywhere in the world the coronavirus emergency has presented a golden opportunity to restrict the spaces of freedom, settle accounts with unwelcome social movements, profit from the behavior to which the population is forced, and restructure to the detriment of the weakest.

Italy adds to all this its standard surfeit of irrational ravings. The exceptionality of our "model" of emergency management lies in its complete overturning of scientific logic. For it is one thing to impose - for good (Sweden) or for bad (another country at random) - physical distancing as a necessary measure to reduce the possibility of contagion; it is quite another to lock the population in their homes and prevent them from leaving except for reasons verified by police authorities. The jump from one to the other imposed itself alongside the idea - also unfounded - that one is safe from the virus while "indoors", whereas "outdoors" one is in danger.

Everything we know about this virus tells us exactly the opposite, namely that the chances of contracting it in the open air are lower, and if you keep your distance even almost zero, compared to indoors. On the basis of this self-evidence, the vast majority of countries affected by the pandemic not only did not consider it necessary to prevent people from going out into the open air generally, as they did in France, but in some cases even advised against it.

In Italy, this radius is, at best, two hundred meters from home, but there are municipalities and regions that have reduced it to zero meters. For those who live in the city, such a radius is easily equivalent to half a block of asphalt roads, which are much more crowded than in the open space outside the city, if it could be reached. For those who live in the countryside, however, or in sparsely populated areas, a radius of two hundred meters is equally absurd, since the probability of meeting someone and having to approach them is infinitely lower than in an urban center.

Not only that: we have seen that very few countries have introduced the obligation to justify their presence outdoors by authorizations, certificates, and receipts, even calculating the distance from home using Google Maps. This is also an important step: it means putting citizens at the mercy of law enforcement agencies.

We have recorded cases of hypertensive people, with a medical prescription recommending daily exercise for health reasons, fined €500; or people fined because they were walking with their pregnant partner, to whom the doctor had recommended walking. The list of abuses and idiocies would be long, and one may consult our website for further examples.

Legal uncertainty, the arbitrariness of police forces, the illogical limitation of behavior that presents no danger to anyone, are all essential elements of the police state.

Having to respect an illogical, irrational norm is the exercise of obedience and submission par excellence.

It will never be "too soon" to rebel against such obligations.

It must be done, before it’s too late.

Translated by Ill Will Editions

#Italy #COVID19 #defiance #coronavirus #state of exception

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scotianostra · 5 years ago

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Today's first anniversary is about one of our most popular Folk singer-songwriters.

25th June 1936 saw the birth of Roy Williamson.

Roy Murdoch Buchanan Williamson was born in Edinburgh, the son of Archibald and Agnes Williamson. From a very well-to-do family of Aberdeen solicitors, Archibald had moved to the capital, where he soon established himself as a prominent advocate who was tipped to become a King’s Counsel. His mother was Agnes Cumming, the daughter of a master haberdasher from Haddington. Since Agnes was a talented pianist I think we can safely assume her son’s musical gifts probably came from her, as Archibald was described as a serious man and worked hard with very little time to play with his sons, Roy and his 1 year older brother Robert.

While the blend of creative genes and intellectual genes ultimately proved successful in the embodiment of Roy and his brother Robert, it did not serve a good combination for a happy marriage. Neither Robert nor Roy have ever commented much on their childhood, but sources say the household was a strained one, with tension and arguments between the husband and wife, and the boys relying on each other and the servants for love and affection. At age 8, the boys would lose his father, and it would not be until almost 30 years later that they would learn the truth. While the 1944 obituaries for Archibald Williamson that were carried in all the leading Scottish papers praised the achievements of the 45-year-old advocate, they delicately avoided the cause of death, describing it as “sudden” and “unexpected”, and it was not until the 1970s when Roy's mother died that he learned the cause of death was coal gas poisoning,at the time, the most common form of suicide in the at the time.

Although the marriage was strained Archibal's death had had a profound effect on Agnes, who suffered a nervous breakdown and was confined to a psychiatric hospital for almost a year.

Cared for by neighbours and relatives in Aberdeen during this period, it would be a short time before they were sent to Aberlour, a preparatory school for Gordonstoun, the boarding school in Moray. Despite having asthsma, Roy threw himself into sports, which was easily done as Gordonstoun largely emphasised outdoor activities and this time period would see him develop into a decent athlete who, while a student, was a winger for the Edinburgh Wanderers rugby side.

Although his mother was by now back in residence, Roy and Robert recalled that “our mother phoned up the school a day before we were due to break up for the holidays to say she couldn’t have us. Whether she couldn’t cope, or whether she wanted to push responsibility on to the school, I don’t know."

With no other family members willing or able to take the boys, their "family" memories of holidays were being "sent back to our old prep school and the headmaster took us in for Christmas and on another occasion we were put into the care of a young German master, and off we went to the Bannavil Arms in Newtonmore to spend Christmas and New Year there.”

While one brother seemed to take this in stride, Roy handled the situation by building a wall between his mother and himself, which never came down. When, after a brief spell teaching seamanship at Burghead, Roy became a student at Edinburgh College of Art, he moved into lodgings rather than stay at home. His mother reciprocated by refusing to attend his wedding in 1958, and when she died Williamson wasn’t among the mourners at her funeral.

While still a student, Roy met Violet Thomson, a fellow art student working in the laundry when he came to wash his clothes. They dated briefly and were still students when they married in Inverness. By now, as young art students, Roy and Vi, as she was known were two of the many of a generation that was entering into a scene that would change not only their lives, but the world's, the swinging sixties.

Casting off the conventions of Gordonstoun Roy and his wife’s lifestyle was becoming increasingly bohemian "generation of love and peace" penetrated Edinburgh’s Presbyterian defences. They embraced the times, and not even the very quick arrival of two daughters, Karen and Sheena prevented the Williamsons’ home from becoming a popular venue for parties. Their parties were frequented by such people as Marianne Faithfull and her date "Mick Jagger". As well, there was a particularly strong Irish influence, and Roy became great friends with The Dubliners, The Clancy Brothers and, later, Finbar Furey. It was listening to their passion for Ireland, at this heartfelt time when music reflected the soul, Williamson began to think more deeply about his own feelings for Scotland.

From an early age, with his mother having taken refuge in her piano, Roy had been exposed to and interested in music and one of the few things Agnes Williamson had done with her boys was to regularly take them to concerts at the Usher Hall.

In this interest Roy had also found an ally in Ronnie Browne. Although they directly opposed each other on the rugby field, as Browne was also a winger for Edinburgh rivals Boroughmuir, they were in the same art classes. With another friend, guitarist Bill Smith, the three formed the Corrie Folk Trio, they would later add singer Paddie Bell, but, circumstances would lead to arguments and by 1966 Williamson and Browne forged out on their own.

With the folk music scene in Scotland flourishing, adding their talent it was no surprise that within a short time the Corries were a hit. By now no longer art students, but teachers, with Roy Williamson at Liberton High School and Browne teaching in Musselburgh they found it increasingly hard to meet the demands of their on the road tour career and be present everyday at their day jobs. Nightly gigs along with a day job soon proved impossible and Williamson and Browne resolved to organise and run their own concert tours. Now, also appearing on television, with Browne's wife, an accountant, taking care of the business side, the Corries became an increasingly popular group as well as a successful business venture. Although the Corries gave the impression of performing easily and "off the cuff", rehearsals were meticulous and nothing was left to chance.

The Corries were a phenomenal success and most people can tell the story from here. Roy, talented but private, was in fact, the antithesis of his partner Browne, and off stage, they did not coexist. While oddly, on the surface, they had so much in common, with shared passions for painting, music, Scotland and rugby to this day Browne concedes he knows very little about Williamson’s life outwith The Corries, which is an astounding admission to make of his musical and business partner of 30 years.

Roy Williamson carried the spirit of the 60's for the rest of his life, however, his wife Vi did not, and the decade ended, so did the marriage. While a simple and pure folk singer on stage, Roy embraced the lifestyle of "wine, women and song" and partied as hard as he worked. Where Browne favoured financial and emotional security, ultimately being married for more than 50 years, Roy Williamson eschewed material possessions and had a much more nonchalant view about relationships. He would also have several serious dalliances in the next decade.

In 1980, Williamson would enter into a relationship which seemed to be detrimental to him and became a concern for all around him. With Nicky van Hurck, from Holland, he moved from Edinburgh to Forres, buying Mayfield, a large old stone house with a garden. Whether due to Nicky’s influence or not Williamson became more reclusive and he spent time painting seascapes, but did tour with Browne once a year.

It was during the Corrie's 1989 tour that Williamson's health started to decline. Diagnosed with a brain tumour, and having an unsuccessful surgery in January 1990, Roy Williamson died at the age of 54. I always feel a sense of sadness when someone who, like Roy, was a big part of my growing up, my mum was a big fan and her and her pal Nicky Bruce used to go see the Corries, I was never so lucky myself but am glad of Youtube so I can listen to them.

Let's finish the post with an upbeat tune, Bannockburn anniversary has just passed and this is the Corries doing a comedy song, the lyrics of which come from the late great Matt McGinn. The song might not be exactly correct history wise, but it's guid craic.

Bannockburn

In 1314, the twenty-fourth of Jue King Eddie says "We're ready now to steal the stone of Scone" He brought his biggest army but discovered he'd backed a duece At Bannockburn he found that he was up against a Bruce cho: Well, we raised our pipes and the English kept a-coming But they werena quite so happy when we gie'd the pipes a blaw Struck once more, they began a-running Ready steady Eddie, go, it's time to shoot the craw Well, we had a bowl of porridge and a wee bit pinch of salt We had a dram of whisky and it was the finest malt We each wore a tammy and we wore the philibegs Eddie was in terror when he seen the hairy legs Now poor King Edward, nearly had a fit When he seen his cavalry falling doon a pit His men looked up from the trap that Bruce had built And they were shocked to find out what was worn beneath the kilt He sent for his archers, a group of country folk They erred and they purred, what a funny way they spoke With those archers Eddie had a go But they were as effective as the ones on radio On the fastest horse that you ever saw King Eddie went a-racing o'er the Border and awa He was fond of Scotland, but he never did return He didn't like the welcome that he got at Bannockburn

#Scotland #scottish #folk singer #singersongwriter #the corries

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ksngdom · 5 years ago

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make me yours (ch. 1)

summary. life on the run is never easy, but it's even harder when you've got an assassin stalking you, a government agency on your tail and a billionaire turning up on your doorstep every few years -- like a vagabond cat she'd fed one too many times.

god, darcy lewis hates her life (she really doesn't).

authors note. a bdsm au with a fuck ton of plot. i know what i'm about, son.

word count. 2.5k

read this on ao3!

In the early winter months of 1965, bitter air and tendrils of ice gracing the point of every shard of grass in the expansive field, seven-year-old Darlene Lewis often spent her days chasing Elsie, her German Shepherd, around the grounds of Lewis Farm. The ranges of land and wood reached far and wide. Never did a day pass without the young girl spending hours exploring nature and losing herself in the depth of the land. It was okay, though; whenever Darlene got lost, Elsie always knew the best way to get them back home.

Born in August 1958, Darlene’s parents had been informed of her classification when she was three days old.

It was unheard of for a neutral to marry any classification other than their own, so when Janice, a neutral, announced her engagement to Ken, a dom, the news spread fast and wide. Nobody could quite believe that any self-respecting dom would ever agree to settle down with a non-sub, since it was often told that doms were hardwired to necessitate a sub in their lives. Some conspired about the true nature of their relationship and whether it was a cover for something much more complicated, but it became quickly clear that Ken and Janice were simply in love despite all of the odds stacked against them.

The Lewis family had been defying norms since the very beginning.

When their daughter was born, the couple swore to never force their girl to be anything she didn’t want to be. They’d experienced enough oppression during their life together to know certainly that they’d never wish it upon their daughter.

On paper, Darlene Lewis was a sub, but in actuality, she was so much more than her classification.

The little girl was a free spirit. She preferred trousers to skirts (much to her mother’s perpetual suffering) and took after her papa when it came to getting her hands dirty. Her mornings were spent feeding the livestock and riding on the back of the tractor before her mama would give her a shower and get her dressed for a day of homeschool and exploring.

The decision to privately educate their girl hadn’t been one that the Lewis’ had made easily, but once they’d weighed up the pros and cons and taken a cold hard look at the local school’s policies when it came to educating subs, keeping her home swiftly became an easy decision.

They ensured that she never lacked social contact and offered her a more enriched education than any of the public institutions ever would. Each subject was approached with sensitivity, especially the ones that delved into the history of subs and the harm they often faced in society, but each lesson had a purpose. By the time Darlene was five, she could say ‘no’ to her father without hesitation and held a stronger head on her shoulders than the vast majority of subs triple her age.

Though the farm was well-removed from the nearest town, hidden away beyond miles and miles of winding roads and cobbled paths, the Lewis family were cherished by the local community. Their vegetables were the brightest to grace the shelves of the local grocers during the spring and summer months and their cuts of meat were highly sought after throughout the entirety of the year.

Much to her parents’ unhinged delight, Darlene thrived at the farm. Her skin was tan and constellations of freckles adorned her cheeks. Her mother styled her hair every morning but by late afternoon it’d be hanging over her shoulder in its natural curls. Her skirts were only worn on special occasions, though she constantly complained until her mama gave in or her papa snuck her away to get her changed. Her dungarees were worn until they were hanging on by thin threads and she had more pairs of patterned wellington boots than she could possibly count.

The winter was always that little bit tougher at the farm. It took more effort to harvest the fields and the livestock needed to be kept well cared for even on the coldest of days. Preparation for the spring season started in November. Ken Lewis spent his days working hard, often with his little helper (Darlene) by his side, whilst Janice Lewis took care of the house and ensured that her family didn’t spend too long working without reprise.

It was during the second week of November when the initial symptom of things to come arose. Like she often managed to do, Darlene finished her studies early and begged her mama to let her go and explore the fields with Elsie. By the time she was wrapped up warm, a scarf around her neck, gloves on and a heavy thermal coat wrapped around her body, the fields were screaming her name.

Two hours of playing chase with a German Shepherd was bound to leave anyone exhausted, but Darlene had always had seemingly endless bounds of energy. Days working hard as a farmhands assistant and sprinting for hours on end meant that she had the stamina of a professional sportsman, easily.

That was why it was such a concern when after only ten minutes of chasing Elsie through the meadow, Darlene’s vision whited out and she collapsed into a heap on the frostbitten grass.

Her parents were quick to rush to her aid once they’d been alerted that something was wrong by Elsie’s remarkably powerful barks and howls. Janice had sobbed in terror, holding the limp girl in her arms as Ken did his best to remain calm and composed as he did his best to analyse the severity of the situation. To their aching relief, Darlene stirred after only five minutes, bleary-eyed and complaining of a headache so painful that it was making her eyes throb.

It took five months of exams and inquests before Darlene was officially diagnosed with acute childhood Leukemia.

In 1965, though the field of medical research was thriving, Leukemia survival rates in children remained abysmal. Ken and Janice were told that their daughter, once so full of energy and now bedbound with fatigue and sickness, wouldn’t live to see her eighth birthday.

It felt like all hope was lost.

Lewis farm closed down that summer season for the first time in three decades.

***

It was the summer of 1976. The Outer Space Treaty had been signed and the twenty-fifth amendment had been added to the Constitution. In Somerville, Massachusetts, the sun was setting and the coral hues of the scene were encompassing a wide range of land. A family of three stand together, lost for words as they take shallow breaths of warm air. The whistling summertime breeze sweeping through the shrubs and trees reverberates gently throughout the sparse meadow, enclosing the farm in a blanket of false pretences.

Darlene Lewis, twenty-one years old, swallows roughly.

There's so much that needs to be said but not nearly enough time.

At eighteen, the progression of age developing her physical appearance had halted without warning. In what her mama termed disbelief and her papa declared to be chosen-ignorance, it took two years for her to discern the undeniable fact that her body was stuck in time. At twenty she looked as young as she had two years ago and there was little expectation for that to change anytime soon.

Denial was sour.

Darlene Lewis stares down at the tombstone and swallows roughly.

A terrible boating accident -- that was the narrative her parents had fed to the town and the state, respectively. Darlene had been sailing with her father, dipping her feet into the ocean when a harsh current had swept her into the unforgiving depths of the rough waters. Her body would be impossible to find; the sea offered no second chances. It was a devastating, perfect cover story.

Nobody could question the empty wicker casket, nor could they wonder why they couldn’t bid a final farewell to the girl who’d become a special part of the local community over the years. It was a seamless cover-story that was undoubtedly plausible. After all, the percentage of boating accidents that ended in tragedy was considerable.

The grey-toned stone stands upon a freshly filled burial ground, cursive writing adorning the face of the plaque drilled onto the face.

Darlene May Lewis. Beloved daughter and friend. Gone but never forgotten.

A shiver of guilt climbs up Darlene’s spine as her hazel eyes trace the lettering.

The Lewis family had requested privacy during their period of mourning; far from unusual in such an unexpected circumstance. Their farm was blanketed in a wave of grief, though for a far different reason than everyone believed.

Darlene Lewis wasn’t dead but was having to say goodbye to her parents anyway.

On her left, long hair tied into a loose plait, her mother stands with red-tinged eyes. On her right, her father stands tall but keeps a grounding hand on Darlene’s shoulder steadily.

They stand in taciturnity as a wave of impassioned tautness encompasses them.

When her father draws in a sharp breath, Darlene knows what he's thinking and that nothing she says will halt his self-deprecating train of thought. Remaining quiet, she pushes her lips together and purposefully re-directs her gaze away from the gravestone.

Attending her own mock funeral was going to give her a complex, no doubt about it.

"I love you, Darlene." Janice Lewis says. The silence that envelops the trio is heavy. She's speaking to the headstone, as though her daughter isn't stood by her side. Darlene’ss heart twinges. "And I will love you for the rest of eternity."

The woman takes a deep breath when her mother begins to cry soundlessly.

"If I had done things differently--"

"Don’t do this to yourself." Darlene interrupts, voice unsteady as she spares a glance up at her father. "If you'd done things differently, I wouldn't be stood here today."

Ken Lewis grunts, sweeping away a stray tear with the back of his hand. "You can't know that for sure, Darcy-girl." He speaks. "I should've found another way. I could’ve found another way. But you were so small and so sick. They told me you were dying and I swear my heart truly broke into millions of pieces.”

Janice Lewis weeps into her hand at the memory.

"And then you saved me." Darlene reminds him, tenderly. She reaches out blindly to take her mother’s hand, desperate to give the woman as much comfort as she could. Her chest burns. "You gave me the chance to live a normal life, papa."

Because no matter what anyone in the past of future had to say about it, Darlene Lewis had defied all odds and lived a normal childhood. She’d eventually entered the public school system and made friends and memories that she’d remember for the rest of her life. She’d babysat for people in their town and saved up her allowance for two years in order to buy the perfect prom dress. She’d lost her virginity to a neutral (all of the teenaged doms in town had given her the heebie-jeebies). She’d graduated with a 3.5 GPA and decided to forgo college, which is where the majority of her friends had flocked to following the completion of high-school.

For argument’s sake, there were certain aspects to her life that were more unusual than others. Her heightened senses and agility were the most prominent as she was growing up, but the no-ageing thing had hit hard at eighteen and taken the mantle as the most apparent anomaly that separated her from the general population.

"There is nothing normal about you, Darlene." Her father says, shaking his head. The woman almost cracks a small smile, desperate for a sense of normalcy, but his defeated tone is deplorable. "I will never forgive myself for what I did to you. I was reckless and desperate but I should’ve known better."

Momentarily, Darlene lets her gaze flicker to the horizon. She briefly wonders whether a comparable metaphor can be drawn from the sun setting below the horizon and marking the end of a day, a week, an era.

Leaving everything behind wouldn’t be easy, she’d always known that, but they’d be safe. That was what she had to keep reminding herself, again and again. Loneliness was a small price to pay in order to keep the two people she loved most in the world safe.

"You saved me," Darlene repeats, meeting her father’s eyes. "You loved me too much to let me die. You loved me so much that you spent a fortnight in a lab finding a way to save my life and you actually did. You loved me so much that you recreated the serum that made Captain America and used it to cure my cancer, papa. You did that for me and I won't ever be able to thank you enough for it."

A lull falls over the meadow. In the far distance, a flock of birds begin to chirp and a deer sniffs at the trunk of a tree. Darlene gets lost in the depth of her senses until her mother sets a gentle hand on her arm and squeezes.

"Where will you go?" She asks. Her voice is raw with emotion as, for the first time in what feels like centuries, she fixes her eyes on her daughter.

Darlene breathes softly. "I'll go anywhere. Everywhere."

The possibilities were endless and though she painted a smile on her face to appease her worrisome parents, her stomach twisted uneasily at the concept.

She'd always wanted to travel the globe but never imagined having to do it alone.

Her mom’s hand falls from her arm to grasp her hand and Darlene forces herself to breathe evenly.

They'll be safe when she's gone. They'll be safe when she's gone.

She repeats the phrase like a mantra in her head. Again and again, until her temples begin to throb. It hurts but she doesn't stop, she can’t stop, because if she doesn't keep reminding herself why she's doing this, walking away will be impossible.

They'll be safe when she's gone.

"Will we ever see you again?" Her father asks, solemn. It's selfish to ask, he knows it, but the strained words fall from his mouth before he can filter them.

"I love you both," Darlene says. Her parents wince at the obvious deflection. It hurts her and it hurts them just as much. "I always will."

"Be safe, my girl." Her father places a kiss on her forehead, an act of familial dominance that makes her heart warm. Being a sub in a society governed by the two other secondary-genders had always been tough, but her papa had never let anyone treat her like anything less than the smart, beautiful woman she was. "If you ever need anything, we'll be here."

Her throat tightens when her mother leans in and kisses her cheek but doesn't manage a word between her silent sobs.

On June 18th, 1976, Darlene Lewis was officially registered dead with the state.

On June 23rd, 1976, Darcy Mae was born.

#wintershock #darcy x bucky #darcy lewis #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #darcy lewis imagine #bucky barnes imagine #darcy lewis fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #wintershock edit #wintershock imagine #wintershock fanfic #avengers #the avengers

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marshmallowbee13 · 5 years ago

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Love Like Yours Fest

Ch3 Say It Like You Mean It

Years passed and as life does, it finds a way for even the closest of friends to drift.

Somehow, Lucio had finally gotten to Ramona's friends. Asra left for the palace to work for Lucio. He didn't give Ramona much information on why he finally gave in, but Ramona still sent him off with the strongest protection charm she could make.

Muriel wasn't so lucky. He didn't get the posh luxuries of the palace. He was sent to the Colosseum as Lucio's champion, "The Scourge of the South." Ramona's gut clenched whenever she heard the cheering from the terrible building. She prayed that Muriel would be safe. So far, he seemed to be doing pretty well.

Worst of all, a plague began to spread through Vesuvia. And one of its first victims was Ramona's aunt. It hurt watching her aunt wither into a lifeless husk, red staining her eyes and skin. No matter how many times Ramona tried healing her aunt, the sickness always came back. It seemed she could only heal the broken blood vessels, not cure the disease itself. Maria's funeral was perhaps the saddest day of Ramona's life. If Asra hadn't been there with her, she didn't know what she'd have done.

The only thing that prevented the trio from drifting too far over the years apart was Faust relaying secret messages between them. They were rare, but Ramona's mood always lifted, seeing Faust arrive with a new message.

It was a balmy fall day when Ramona saw Asra for the first time in what felt like forever. She was sweeping the shop floor when there was a frantic knocking at the door. Ramona opened the door, surprised to see a panicked Asra waiting on the doorstep.

"Ramona! It's Muriel! He got hurt real bad." Asra said between pants. He must have run all the way to the shop. "Can you help him? Like you did when you first met him?" Ramona nodded. She grabbed a pep up potion and her bag and ran out the door after Asra.

He led her to the Colosseum, down into the dark cells where they kept the prisoners between fights. In a cell near the end of the hall, Muriel laid bleeding in a too-small cot, nearly unconscious. Deep wounds gouged into his skin from his neck to his stomach. It looked like he was mauled by a tiger.

"What happened to him?" Ramona asked.

"He was mauled by a tiger." Oh. "He won, obviously, but he's in bad shape. You can help him, right?" Asra asked. Ramona nodded and kneeled before the cot.

"Muriel, can you hear me?" Ramona got a strangled grumble in response. "You're gonna be okay, I promise." Ramona laid her hands on his chest and Muriel's muscles tensed under her touch. She whispered soothing words and closed her eyes. As it had before, her hands and Muriel's wounds glowed bright gold, like the sun, and the wounds slowly stitched together until there was no trace of him ever being hurt, save for the older scars crossing his body. Ramona let go, slumping backwards. She took out the potion and drank it to regain some of her energy.

Asra caught her from behind, both supporting her and thanking her for helping their friend. Unfortunately, they didn't realize they had eyes watching everything. Ramona was too busy seeing how much Muriel had changed. His hair was longer, almost longer than hers, and his muscles more defined. He'd always been tall, but now he looked enormous.

Asra helped Ramona off the floor and she saw he'd changed, too. The softness of youth faded from his face. He was lean and at least a few inches taller, as well. He looked nervous, too. His beautiful lilac eyes darted to the door before settling on her.

"I'll walk you home." He said, keeping close and trying his best to keep her out of view of any guards. On the way home, he kept looking back, as if they were being followed. It made Ramona nervous.

When they got to her shop, she held onto him.

"Asra, don't go, yet. I... I miss you." Ramona admitted. Asra sighed and wrapped his arms around her.

"I know. I miss you, too. It's just... I don't want him knowing about you." Him. Lucio. What was he doing to Asra? Asra kissed her forehead, smoothing out her worried brows. "Go back inside. I promise I'll see you soon."

"Be safe."

"You, too."

...

Count Lucio was sick. He had sent word to all doctors and even magicians to cure the plague. Ramona had no interest in helping the Count. She had her hands full making and selling protection charms for those who were desperate to keep the plague from their houses. But life had other plans for her.

It was the day of the masquerade. Ramona felt disgust that the Count could even think of partying when more and more citizens were dropping like flies from the plague. He himself was infected, as well. Did that mean nothing to him?

There was a knock at the door and three guards walked into the shop. Ramona knew this wasn't good.

"Can I help you?" Ramona asked nervously.

"Count Lucio requests your presence at the palace." one of the guards stated. Ramona's stomach dropped. She remembered Asra's warning words about the Count. Ramona wanted to run, but she didn't want to cause a scene. And she needed to lock up the shop.

"Give me a minute to lock up, please?" Ramona asked. The guard who spoke nodded. Ramona grabbed her bag and one of her aunt's shawls and followed the guards out. She paused to lock the door behind her and followed the guards into a very fancy-looking carriage.

Ramona felt terrified as she sat there in silence. How did the Count know about her? What did he want her for? Her magic? Something else? Sex? She didn't think she could stomach it if it were the latter. She was taught to save herself for marriage. She worried the fringe of her shawl throughout the ride.

"It'll be alright," one of the guards spoke up. "Just follow directions and your visit won't be so bad." Ramona nodded her thanks. She took some calming breaths. Out the window, the palace got closer and closer, and before she knew it, she was being escorted inside.

Her escort led her to a room with crimson walls and curtains. On the massive bed laid a sickly man. It wasn't until Ramona saw the golden arm did she realize who it was. Count Lucio himself. He looked... like crap. His eyes were red and his skin looked almost grey. He looked nothing like the man she'd seen in the past.

"My Lord," The first guard spoke. "The magician you sent for." Lucio leered at Ramona, looking her over. He stood up from the bed and circled her before standing before her.

"You look like a tasty little morsel." Lucio commented.

"Excuse me?" Ramona voiced. "What exactly did you summon me for? Um... My Lord?"

"Look at me. Look at what this disease has done to your glorious Count. I was wasting away when I heard of a sneaky little minx who could heal anything. Is this true?" Lucio raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"I can heal wounds, yes. But I tried to heal my aunt of the plague, but it only helped the damage that the disease caused on the body. By the next day, it started all over again. If you are asking what I think you are asking, I'm sorry. I can't help you."

"But you can make me look healthy, can you not?" Lucio asked.

"Um... Yes." Ramona replied.

"Excellent!" Lucio exclaimed, followed by a coughing fit. Ramona's stomach churned at the blood he coughed up. When he caught his breath, he looked at her expectantly.

"Well? Are you not going to help your Count?" Lucio sneered.

"Um... I have to touch you for this." Ramona informed.

"Touch me wherever you like." he grinned. Ramona ignored his sleazy comment and placed her hands on his chest. As always, she closed her eyes to concentrate. The golden glow lit up the room and Ramona's magic ran through Lucio. It warmed him up from the inside, like feeling the sun on his skin on a summer day. He felt his strength returning, his lungs clearing. When the light faded, he broke away to look at his reflection in the nearest mirror.

He looked... healthy! His eyes were white again. He looked exactly as he did before this damned plague took over. He laughed with joy, turning to scoop Ramona up and spin her around. Her weakness after healing and him spinning her made her feel dizzy. He planted a kiss to her cheek before dropping her to the floor again. He was scratchy from stubble and Ramona wiped her cheek when Lucio wasn't looking.

"How long does this last, again?" Lucio asked, admiring his reflection once more.

"About a day."

"I want you to come in every morning and do your healy thingy. I don't care what you do for the rest of the day. And I want you to be my special guest tonight." Lucio turned to the guards who brought Ramona in. "Get her set up in a guest room. And have someone bring her a costume for tonight!" The guards bowed and escorted Ramona out of the Count's rooms.

...

Asra felt incredibly nervous. He had sent Faust to Ramona's shop, only for her to come back to him saying Ramona wasn't there. It was very possible she could have been out at the market or dropping off orders to her more elderly customers, but there was a pit in his stomach telling him otherwise. He felt ridiculous dressing up for the masquerade when his mind was on other things, but Lucio specifically requested his presence tonight. So Asra put on his mask and left his room.

"Asra!" A tall red-headed doctor called. He was dressed in his costume, ordered by Lucio to attend, as well. "You look... nice." Oh, yes. He also had a not-so-subtle crush on the magician. But Asra's heart belonged to another.

"Thanks, Ilya. I have a bad feeling for tonight." Asra replied.

"Yes, I was quite suspicious when I heard Lucio's orders that our attendance was mandatory. He claimed he had a surprise in store." The doctor said.

"Let's just get this over with. I have something else I need to do tonight." Asra said, walking towards the ballroom.

"Does it have something to do with your secret lover that you won't tell me about?" Julian grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

"She's not my lover. She's just... very special to me. Faust said she wasn't at her shop today and I'm worried."

"I'm sure she's fine. You magician types are very clever and resilient." Julian said.

Once in the ballroom, it wasn't long before Lucio made his grand entrance.

"Vesuvia! Did you miss your beloved Count?" Asra gasped. It couldn't be! Lucio, dressed in a gold-trimmed white outfit, looking as healthy as ever. But how?

"We have this little beauty to thank for my sudden recovery." Asra's eyes went wide. Ramona emerged from behind Lucio, dressed in a crimson form-fitting dress. Her mask was nothing more than fancy gold wire shaped into a design that did nothing to hide her identity.

"Ramona!"

After Lucio's grand entrance, Asra sent Faust through the crowd to get Ramona to follow her. Upon seeing the little snake, Ramona excused herself from the growing crowd around her and Lucio, claiming she needed some air. Ramona followed Faust through the garden to the maze's center.

"Asra!" Upon seeing her friend, Ramona closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him.

"Thank goodness you're okay." Asra pressed kisses into her hair, smelling her usual flowery perfume. "I sent Faust to your shop, but she said it was empty. I was worried something had happened."

"Lucio found out about my healing powers. He wants me to keep healing him to keep him looking healthy. Maybe until someone finds a real cure to the plague." Ramona said. Asra huffed.

"I didn't want you getting involved in all this. Lucio is dangerous."

"I didn't want to go, either, but I'm only needed by him in the mornings. I plan on leaving for the shop right after. Though, I admit, I'm glad to be able to see you more often. I miss those days when we were practically joined at the hip. I miss seeing you every day. I hate having no one to talk to or laugh with like we used to."

"Ramona, I... I'm sorry, but..."

"Asra, please... I love you. I don't wanna be away from you." The confession of love broke Asra's emotional dam. Asra kissed her. Properly, like their first time at the masquerade. He backed her up until she was pressed against the willow tree. They parted for breath.

"I love you, too. I promise to never go where you can't follow." They kissed again, getting lost in the other.

@lovelikeyoursfest

#the arcana #the arcana game #lovelikeyours2020 #Apprentice Ramona

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join-the-joywrite · 5 years ago

Text

Time After Time -- 8

a boy a girl a time turner

when a time turner is shattered in a small fight, it’s up to the unlikely pair to figure out how to survive until the end of the war. it’s their only shot at breaking the loop.

masterpost prev

Chapter 8 - When Hermione died in the end

Surprisingly, Hermione and Draco both made it to the hall before Harry revealed himself.

They survived Pansy, the flood, the Fiendfyre, watching Snape's death, saving Fred and the eventual raid of the Death Eaters.

Once again, they found themselves standing at the edge of the debris, overlooking the waves.

Draco looked out to the castle, to the clock that still stood. "Five minutes. Are you sure you don't want to--"

Hermione stepped down and pulled Draco with her. "I've cheated death so many times. I won't deny that I've been selfish about it. I could've tried harder to save Lavender sooner. But I knew as long as I still failed, you'd never suspect why I kept resetting. With the flood, I could've thought of the answer too, but I kept drowning, knowing I'd soon see you again."

"Hermione, please."

"I've been selfish, Draco. Abusing the loop. Cheating death. It's a pity it took my death for you to come to me. But we've run out of time. I'll be surprised if I live past the next two minutes."

"No. I'll jump off the bridge."

Hermione tilted her head. "Then you'll have let our love be forgotten. I promised you I'd be with you forever if I survive. Promise me that if I don't, you'll live. For me."

"I can't. I can't do that. No one here would accept me the way you do."

"Then run away," Hermione pleaded, squeezing Draco's hands. "Leave the Wizarding World. Live with Muggles. Start anew. Be yourself, whoever that is, whoever you want to be. Just . . . live. For me. Please don't follow me this time."

In the square, Ginny let go of Harry after at least ten minutes.

"Since when is Malfoy even a friend?"

"It's a long story," Ron said, watching the pair in the distance. He turned back to see the time.

5:45.

When Hermione slumped forward into Draco's arms and he called out her name, Ron reached past Ginny to grab Harry's arm, stopping them both from moving any further forward. They stared at him questioningly.

"Long story."

In the middle of the bridge, Draco sank to the floor, cradling Hermione. "You should have survived."

"Some things are meant to happen no matter what."

"Shut up," Draco whispered, "stop hurting yourself further."

"You promised."

"I didn't."

"You didn't have to say it. I know you did. Muggles are fascinating. You'll like it among them."

"I'm not leaving you."

Hermione took a shuddering breath. "You know, I was almost a Slytherin too."

"Hermione, please."

"I'll be fine."

"Don't go."

Hermione smiled. She closed her eyes. "You promised," she reminded Draco one last time. "I love you."

Draco refused to accept it as Hermione's body stilled. He waited for the familiar tug, to find himself standing in the cottage, jug and glass in hand.

It never happened.

How was he supposed to live without the person who had saved his life so many times -- the first two, or ten, without the knowledge that she would live past that? How could he go on without her? How could he live amongst the kind of people that had raised her? The Muggles.

Draco froze. Muggles! In some ways, Muggles were better than wizards. It was his last chance. He had nothing else to try.

Ron, Ginny and Harry watched as Draco vanished from sight.

"Why'd you stop us?" Harry asked, "she's our best friend. We barely even know him. Just because we helped each other these last few hours--"

"There's more at play here than you know, Harry. Come on, there's a lot to explain."

///////////////

Nearly four months later, well after Hogwarts had been fully reconstructed, Harry received a letter to his home via the post.

The envelope had no return address and merely had his last name on the envelope. It was a miracle the letter had even made it to his letterbox. Perhaps the letter's true state had been concealed to look like those of the Muggles -- if it was sent by someone from a magical community somewhere.

"What is it, Harry?"

"Dunno yet," Harry said as he made his way back to the living room, where Ron and Ginny were sitting with their tea.

"Any word from Malfoy?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "Pass me a wand, please."

Ginny held hers out with a sigh. "You've lost your letter opener again, haven't you?"

With a sheepish grin, Harry stabbed the envelope. Holding the letter and shaking the envelope off, he passed Ginny's wand back to her.

While the siblings picked up their conversation, Harry read through the letter.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, startling the Weasleys.

"What?" Ron asked, panicked. "What is it?"

"Privet Drive, now!"

"What?" Ginny said. "Where you used to live? For what d'you want to visit those pigs?"

"Meet me there! Number four, Privet Drive!" Harry yelled, already heading to the front door so he could apparate from outside the boundaries of the protection charms around Godric's Hollow.

Ron reached for the letter Harry had dropped and held it between himself and Ginny.

Harry I do regret not sending word sooner. I've only just received word that you'll be attending Hogwarts to complete your final year. She's quite proud of you and Ron, no doubt. I know she's your best friend and it's been incredibly selfish of me to try and keep her all to myself. If you're wondering how I know about Hogwarts and where you stay, I just have one name for you: Luna. I'm writing this letter to apologise for keeping silent all these months. It was wrong and I know she's going to make me pay for it. Number four, Privet Drive. I trust you know it. Come when you please, she's not getting out of bed anytime soon. Malfoy.

Ron glanced at Ginny. "We should go to Privet Drive."

"Already on it," Ginny said, snatching up the keys to the house and walking to the front door.

///////////////

Harry stared at the front door. Ginny nudged him forward.

He'd barely knocked before the door opened.

"Wards caught you," Draco explained, "I wondered how long I was going to have to wait before you actually knocked. Hermione's asleep. I wasn't expecting you to show up immediately."

"Why are you in my old house?" Harry blurted.

Draco shrugged. "They moved out. Who knows where? I needed a place and it was available. Don't worry, Hermione . . . redecorated."

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Harry knew the entire house had changed since he last stepped foot in it.

"I'm confused," Harry said, "I thought you vanished off the map because Hermione died. Ron thought you were dead too."

"Almost," Draco said, locking the door again and walking in the direction of the kitchen. "Tea? Hermione bought this awful stuff and I've been giving it to everyone that visits. Try some."

Harry, Ron and Ginny shared a confused glance as Draco vanished into the kitchen, returning with three steaming cups. Ron sniffed the cup before emptying it into the small palm tree's pot against the wall.

"Fair enough," Draco said, nodding as he produced a bottle of Firewhiskey. "Will this do?"

Ron held out the cup. "You're not delusional, are you?" he asked as Draco filled the cup with the liquor.

"Surprisingly, no. Hermione may be bedridden, but she's pretty well known up and down the street."

"How?" Harry asked.

"Oh, she made me take her to some stupid barbecue thing and took down everyone's numbers before we came back."

"No, I meant how is she alive?"

"Oh." Draco sat down on the sofa and gestured for the trio to sit. "Wizards are shit, mate. Absolute garbage. Hermione would've died because they'd be looking for some convoluted problem to solve."

"So, what happened?" Ginny asked.

"Heart attack," Draco said, leaning back. "It took the Muggles nearly twenty minutes to restart her heart. She'd slipped into a coma and . . . well, they said she might never wake up. Some said I was wasting finances on keeping her alive." Draco shrugged. "Then, two weeks ago, she just . . . woke up."

"Just like that?" Ginny raised her eyebrows.

Draco shrugged again. "Pretty much, yeah. Stunned the doctors quite a bit. Stunned herself."

"If Hermione woke up three weeks ago," Harry said, "why only send a letter now?"

"I said she woke up three weeks ago. I only brought her here two weeks ago. After that barbecue, she couldn't even get out of bed for longer than a few minutes. She started walking again a few days ago only. She needed the space to get used to living again. Before, coming back from certain death was an easy thing."

Ginny shuddered, catching Draco's attention. Her cheeks tinged slightly pink. "Sorry. I still can't get my head around the whole thing. Ron's explained it to us but . . . it's still strange to think about."

Draco nodded. "I suppose that's fair. Could you imagine, losing Hermione Granger to a heart attack? She's battled monsters and dragons and all sorts of things--"

"MATE, WE HAD A FUCKING FUNERAL!" Ron burst out.

Draco paused. "I did not know that. I should have expected that, though."

"She's got a bloody headstone! And flowers! I mean, the flowers are dead now 'cause we've been in Scotland most of the time rebuilding Hogwarts, but that's beside the point!"

"Ron?"

The four of them turned to see Hermione come around the wall, leaning against it. She looked quite shabby in her rumpled pyjamas and her hair was in all sorts of knots, but her face was full of colour and her eyes were as vibrant as they'd ever been. Hermione turned to Draco as he stood up and walked over to her. "You could've told me they were coming. I'd have brushed my hair."

"I didn't think they'd come as soon as they got the letter, love," Draco said, offering Hermione his arm.

"What really happened?" Ginny asked, watching as Hermione sat down in the corner of the couch and curled up into it.

"I died," Hermione said simply, "for the eighty-seventh time."

"Eighty-seven," Harry murmured, "that's ridiculous."

Hermione shrugged. "I couldn't figure out how to stop Pansy from killing Draco. Half of those deaths were spent thinking I was in the loop alone."

Draco recoiled as Hermione shot him a scalding glare. She was still bitter about it.

"I'm honestly surprised to still be here. I thought I was going to die for real there on the bridge. However, having been stuck in a time loop where I repeatedly died in various ways, I'm not about to question the fundamentals of my survival. I'm just thankful to be alive and lucky to be able to go back to being me."

"You realise we're going to have to get that headstone, as well as that empty coffin we buried, demolished," Ron said, "right?"

Hermione smiled. "So, I hear you're both going back to Hogwarts when it opens in a week."

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding, "We figured you'd want us to."

"You're right. I do want that for you. But . . . if you can find your means without Seventh Year, then you don't need to go. You don't have to do this for me."

Ginny frowned. "You're not coming with, are you?"

Both boys stared at Hermione. She shook her head.

"Well, then what are you gonna do? Sit around here all day, counting the lines on the walls?"

"No, Ron. We've decided to stay here, in the Muggle world. For that, we'd need Muggle jobs."

"You're going to college," Harry said, studying them both, "aren't you?"

Hermione and Draco nodded.

"What are going to do?"

Hermione glanced at Draco. "Medicine," he said.

"And you?" Harry asked, turning to Hermione.

She shrugged. "I'm . . . undecided."

"You should try teaching -- or nursing. Ron says he watched you with the younger students while I was in the Pensieve."

Ron nodded. "You were really good with them. A lot of them wouldn't sit still to let anyone else treat them the way they did for Malfoy. You'd make a great teacher, though. Brightest witch of her age, teaching Muggles how to spell."

Hermione laughed. "I promise to visit for dinner at least once a month."

"Mum's going to hold you to that," Ginny said.

Draco leaned forward. "So, Luna says we're to expect wedding invites soon?"

"Yeah," Ginny said, "I do suppose yours will return from one of those Muggle print stores soon."

Hermione snickered. "You deserve that."

"Shut up," Draco grumbled, glaring at the coffee table.

"Make me," Hermione said cheekily, sticking her tongue out at Draco.

Draco raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at her. "Love, we have guests. Maybe later."

"Oh, gross!" Ron cried. "In front of my Firewhiskey! Don't you have any self-control?"

Draco grinned. "Oh, yeah, can't wait for dinner."

And so they spent the rest of the day in the living room of Number 4, Privet Drive, laughing, joking, playfully insulting, and reminiscing.

Harry had never felt more at home than he did, surrounded by his two best friends, his girlfriend, and the unlikeliest of friends he could've possibly made.

///////////////

Years and years later, when they all had hair the colour of snow and wrinkles all over, long after they'd welcomed great-grandchildren into their families, Draco Malfoy planted daisies and marigolds at his wife's grave. He followed her not long after, but for every day they were apart, he visited the grave and took care of the flowers.

#time after time #dramione #harry potter #second wizarding war #time loops #kenny-writes

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ghostimoth · 6 years ago

Text

Just a ghost {Midoriya Izuku x ghost!reader}

Before you read this please know that there will be slight spoilers for the manga in this short story!

You sighed, your tired (e/c) hues glazing over the students in the newly built common room. There were having so much fun with each other. Laughing, playing….. Touching. The red haired one- you think his name was Kirishima- wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the angry blond boy- Bakugou Katsuki. How could you forget him? He always made you shiver despite him not being able to actually see or hurt you.

With another side sigh, you turned around and headed back outside, phasing right through the door. After all, you were a ghost.

You had been haunting the place of your death for nearly… how long had it been? Fifteen years? Sixteen? It was hard to keep track, but… you think you would’ve been about 31 this year along with your childhood friends…. Friends who were now pro-heroes and teachers at the school you once attended.

Anger and frustration filled your heart and before you knew it you were ravaging the area around you, the ground being toiled and the branches from nearby trees snapping off and flying away from you.

But just as quickly as the anger appeared, it faded away and was replaced with sadness.

You shouldn’t have died. You were supposed to grow up with Shouta and Hizashi and become pro heroes with them. Back in high school the three of you were the trio that everyone knew would make it big. Even by the middle of first year, a lot of your classmates speculated that the three of you would be the Big Three… and two people were.

You had died at the end of first year. You could still remember Shouta and Hizashi’s reactions at the funeral held at UA. God how you wanted to hug them, wipe away their tears, and tell them that everything would be okay, but you couldn’t.

Letting out a sad sigh, you sat on the steps of the dorm building you had decided to call your home. Well, more like you just floated on top of the steps.

You couldn’t physically touch anything or anyone, sure you could manipulate them, but it wasn’t the same as feeling the warmth of another human being. And it was frustrating.

The only beings you could touch and feel were other ghosts in your realm, but they would always disappear as quickly as they had appeared.

You are alone

You weren’t sure how long you sat on those steps, the only indication of time passing by was the lights of the dorms rooms that were slowly flicking off. Standing up, you phased back inside the door, starting to make your nightly rounds.

Every night, you’d go to every room and check up on each of the kids of Class 1A. Hell, you might be dead, but your want to help those around you was still as big as ever. Plus… you needed a sense of significance, so if you could help these kids somehow in anyway… you would feel needed.

You had already helped a multitude of kids when they were in their rooms crying their eyes out by making a ruckus so the others would hear and comfort them, hell you’ve even finish homework for a couple students and dragged them to their bed after they passed out at their desks.

Because of this ritual you’ve done since you’ve died, at this point, you were a genius at the UA curriculum in all the departments. You knew how mechanics worked from the support department, you knew how to run a small company from the business department, and strangely enough you knew all the bones and muscles in the human body from the general department- guess that’s what you get for haunting a student who wanted to be a doctor for three years.

But you would always be best at your hero work. Nothing would take precedence over that. Phasing through the ceiling of the common room, you found yourself in the second-floor hallway. Turning towards the first door you saw, you started with the girl who had way too many instruments for her own good.

Peaking in, your eyes scanned over the room. The digital clock near Jirou’s bed read “11:42 PM”. And just as you’d expect, the purplenette was asleep in bed.

Nodding to yourself, you floated back out of the room and moved to the next one, the dorm with the invisible girl. Hagekure was asleep and fine, just like Jirou.

You repeated this process to each floor, your eyes peeking at the girls once before leaving their private space. The only thing you had to do was move Yaoyorozu, the rich girl who was too good looking for your own mental health, over to her bed since she had fallen asleep at her desk.

You repeated the same process with the boys’ side of the dorms, starting from the very top floor this time and making your way down. Now, this was bit more of a process. Most of the boys were very responsible and didn’t need your assistance, but the ones that did… dear god those were the worst.

An annoyed sigh left your lips as you entered Kaminari Denki’s room, realizing you’d have to do the same thing as last night and the night before. First, you moved the electric blond from the desk over to his bed, making sure to wrap the blanket around him snuggly so he wouldn’t knock them all over the floor like usual. Then, you organized his books and school supplies. At least as much as you could without Kaminari becoming suspicious that someone else was doing this.

If you made it too neat, he’d know that someone was the reason for his complete homework and nicely made bed.

After you finished, you moved on, hoping that the night would go quickly. And it did. It seemed the boys were able to take care of themselves fairly well with the exception of Kirishima, who seemed to be having a nightmare.

You sat down next to his head and cooed quietly, humming him back into a quiet sleep. His clock read “1:38 AM”.

Before you knew it, you were on the last floor. You quickly floated by the door with the label “Mineta’ on it. The one and only time you went in to check on the boy, you were permanently scarred.

“Never again.” You thought, a shiver going up your spine.

Taking a quick turn, you peaked your head into the room whose owner’s head was a bird. As usual, he was fast asleep while Dark Shadow was wide awake. He turned his head to you as you peeked in. You weren’t sure why, but this thing that was apart of Tokoyami’s quirk could sense you. It wasn’t able to see or talk to you, but he would always turn to your direction whenever you were near Tokoyami.

Phasing back out into the hallway, you continued on, going to the last room on your list.

Midoriya Izuku.

This boy… he had lots of issues. Ever since the dorm rooms have been built, you’ve found him in his room multiple times in distress. Sometimes it was clear with tears running down his face and other times it was less obvious as his eyes would just be staring blankly at the wall.

He seems to have been through a lot from what you can gather with his conversations with All Might and notebooks, and as a result, his mental state is less than fine. Just last week his quirk went haywire while he was sleeping and he wrecked his room. (Manga readers you know what I’m talking about lol)

So now you were keeping a close eye on the boy. Like a mama hen watching her baby chick.

You phased through the door slowly, this time floating all the way in. The uniform you wore swished back and forth as if there was an actual breeze, but you knew it was just your ghostly apparition.

Looking around the room, nothing struck you as odd and everything seemed to be in order. Every All Might statue that wasn’t broken (you were still trying to fix the one with his First Age costume, whose head had flown during Midoriya’s incident. If anyone were to find your stash of stuff, there would be a huge scandal at UA), was in its correct place and all the posters were straight on the wall.

But there was something missing and that was the boy himself. Fear began to bubble in your veins as you tried to think of where the boy could be.

“Is he fighting that blond kid again? Wait no, I just saw Bakugou in his room above, he was sound asleep! Maybe he’s in the gym? If so I better get the attention of the rob-”

The sound of a toilet flushing shook you out of our thoughts, the sound of a faucet turning on joining the sounds. You let out a relieved sigh, happy that Midoriya was only using the bathroom.

As you turned to leave the room, you couldn’t help but stop and stare at the pictures on Midoriya’s work desk. They were different than the posters of All Might and other pro heroes on the wall. No these were of family and friends. A photo of Midoriya and a woman with green hair just like his framed with gold; another photo of him sitting on All Might’s photo framed by an All Might frame, of course; another photo of his with his two friends Uraraka and Iida at what looked like an amusement park; and a photo of the entire class. The boy sat at the front, flashing the camera a peace sign.

Sadness filled your heart as you stared at the photo. You wanted to see your friends again. You wanted to see your family.

You didn’t want to be alone.

The door to Midoriya’s personal bathroom opened, but you didn’t move. There was no use reacting to something that couldn’t even see you. There was a quick intake of air and then…

“Who are you?” Midoriya asked. You blinked and looked towards the door to see if anyone else had come inside. But it was still closed shut. Next, you looked towards the window that lead to the balcony. It was still shut, hell it was even locked! So just who was Midoriya talking to?

“H-hey? A-are you okay?” Midoriya asked.

Your eyes widened. There was no way… was he…”

Slowly, you turned around, your eyes catching onto Midoriya’s forest green hues. “Can you… see me?” You asked slowly, hope filling your heart.

Midoriya looked you up and down, taking in your appearance.

“Am I not supposed to?”

You are alone

Author’s note: Trying out a lil something, even though it is after halloween lol. I had the idea last night so hopefully this little mini-series will work out

#midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mini-series #short story

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bellatrix-la-strange · 6 years ago

Text

Lee Jordan’s Untold Love Story

Also on ao3 and ffn.net

Fred Weasley’s funeral was held on a Wednesday, two months after the Battle of Hogwarts.

His entire family was in attendance, as were his friends from Hogwarts, acquaintances he’d made in the brief stint of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and trusted comrades brave enough to house and hide three escaped freedom fighters from Voldemort’s forces.

And that’s what they’d been—Fred, George and Lee. Freedom fighters.

There was a casket with Fred’s body in it. As per wizarding tradition, every member of Fred’s family had touched their wand to the wood and inscribed his last resting place with a piece of their magic. It could take on many forms, each one unique to the person who left it and their relationship with the deceased.

(When it was George’s turn, a line of fire snaked out of the tip of his wand and burned the silhouettes of a hyena and a coyote lying on their sides, heads resting on each other’s tails and turned towards each other so you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. A perfect yin-yang.)

In the back, on the outer edge of the last row, was Lee Jordan. He sat unnaturally still, only the slightest swish of wind ruffling his hair betraying his statue-like demeanour. He didn’t have a very good view of the Weasleys up ahead, but his seat was precisely positioned so as to let him see straight past the sea of bowed heads and extravagant hats to the coffin containing his late best friend.

Lee’s mourning was a silent one. He kept his lips sealed shut by mere force of will and didn’t let a single sound escape even as Fred’s casket was engulfed in white flames and the last remains of the man he’d loved were burned off the face of the earth.

George turned back and caught his gaze then, as though he, too, could sense the change in the air, a sudden heaviness, a dulling of colours as the last thing left tying Fred’s soul to their plane of existence was brutally severed.

You should be up here, George’s eyes seemed to say. With us. You’re his family, too.

Lee shook his head and lowered his gaze. While the ceremony continued around him, he concentrated all his attention on the bouquet of white dittanies and forget-me-nots squeezed between his hands.

“We can’t just stand by and do nothing! There are people dying out there, Lee, and my entire family is right in the thick of it,” Fred exclaimed, pulling at his hair with one hand and waving his wand around the air with the other. “Fucking hell, my brother is out there, running around with The Boy Who Lived, the only person in this entire fucked up world the Dark Lord wants to see dead more than anything. My little sister—Ginny—she’s…”

“Hey hey, stop. This?” Lee pointed a finger at Fred. “This stops right now. It’s not helping anyone if you worry yourself to death. We’re at war, Fred, as you so aptly pointed out, and everyone is in danger. You’re a pureblood traitor and I’m a mudblood mutt—”

“Don’t you dare call yourself—”

“I don’t believe it,” Lee hastened to add, “but it’s the truth for now. How long do you think it’ll take before they come for us? We’re not exactly hard to find.” Shrugging his shoulders, Lee turned around on the spot, arms spread wide, and pointedly looked around the colourful joke shop.

Despite himself, a hint of a grin pulled at the corner of Fred’s mouth. “I just feel so useless tucked in here, hiding, while the rest of my family is out there fighting for their lives.”

“All right,” Lee said, nodding, “I can work with that. So what do you want to do?”

Fred’s head snapped up from staring holes into the ground. “What?”

“You’re not the only one who’s been feeling restless lately. I can tell George is about two days away from blasting through the front door, Death Eaters be damned, and while there are some things I’ve enjoyed about being holed up in here for days on end with nothing better to do other than enjoy each other’s…company, there’s only so much more I can take of these four walls. So what do you want to do?”

“I want to help in any way I can,” Fred stated. “We don’t have to fight to be useful, there are other ways to help people. We opened up this store because we wanted to bring laughter and joy to other people’s lives, remind them that no matter how hard things get, they could always find a pocket of brightness in here. But they took that away from us, too. We need a way to bring that back, spread the word that we’re not gone and we’re not done. Not by a long shot. They need to know there are other people out there who are fighting, too.”

“Hope.” Lee said softly. “They need a reason to have hope.”

Fred nodded. “And so do we.”

“So it’s decided, then? We’re going to go out there and spread hope to anyone who will listen.”

“In any way we can.”

Lee and Fred stared at each other then, taking in every detail of the person they loved most in the world, one of the many they’d risk certain death with.

“I’ll go tell George.”

“I feel like James Bond.”

“You’ve mentioned him before. Is that another one of your Muggle celebrities? Oh, wait, no— is he the one who’s a spy and goes on adventures around the world? There’s a number on the cover of the book, right? Seven-something.”

Lee grinned, pleased Fred had remembered one of his favourite characters. “Double-oh-seven. That’s the one.”

Fred snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s the one. You’re going to have to lend me the book some time. How else am I supposed to keep up with you if I don’t get half of what you’re saying?” he teased.

“I don’t know, you seem to have no trouble at all keeping up with me any other time.” Lee turned heat-filled eyes on Fred and watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed past a sudden dry mouth.

“For Merlin’s sake!” hissed George. “We’re in the middle of a mission and you two can’t even keep your flirting to yourselves for the few hours it would take us to finish here?” There was a noise then, a crunch of twigs underfoot, and the robed figure of a Death Eater passed by their hiding place, completely unaware of their presence thanks to the many protective charms in place. Still, the trio waited ten minutes in silence before George continued. “It’s been years, surely you’re past the honeymoon period.”

“It’s all about keeping the romance alive, brother. After all, how can I truly call myself a proper prankster if I don’t find the time to seduce my fiancé on the outskirts of the Death Eater camp we’re scouting?” Fred philosophized.

“Fiancé?” asked George, eyes opened so wide Lee was afraid his eyeballs would plop out. “As in, actual fiancé? With a ring and a wedding and a marriage licence?”

“A candy ring,” Lee supplied. “I’m afraid it’s all eaten up now and I really doubt we’ll find time to plan a party anytime soon—are we even allowed to get married in the magical world?—but other than that, yes, proper fiancé.”

It was a good thing they’d used so many enchantments on their hiding spot in the end. Though no one could have foreseen it, only the strength of a thrice reinforced Silencing Charm was able to keep George’s whoops and cheers contained.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

“That’s funny, I recall you saying the exact opposite countless times before.”

Lee shrugged, shoulder scraping against the door-jamb. “I stand by all those other times, by the way, but it’s hard not to make a comment when you start scrunching up your face in a way I’ve never seen before.”

“Never? Are you sure?” Fred leaned back against the couch, legs spread and arms hugging the backrest as he looked up at Lee from between the locks of ginger hair falling on his forehead. They’d been on the run for months now, moving their radio operation from place to place every few days to make it harder for the Death Eaters to catch up to them. Needless to say, self-grooming had fallen on the wayside in favour of survival.

“Positive.”

Fred snorted, bringing up a hand to scratch at the weeks old scruff on his cheeks. “Harsh. I have feelings, you know? I’m not just some beefcake built for your viewing and playing pleasure.”

It was Lee’s turn to snort, but he sobered up quickly and levelled his fiancé with a sober stare. “You’re thinking bad thoughts again. I can tell when you do that, you know. You get clingy and distant at the same time. You wake up in the middle of the night and hardly get any sleep.”

“You notice that, huh?”

“We’ve been friends—best friends—for just shy of a decade. I know you better than you know yourself at this point. Only George and Molly would be able to give me a run for my money.”

“No, they couldn’t,” Fred said softly. A tap of his hand against his leg and Lee was settling down on his lap, hands interlocked behind Fred’s head and neck bent down so their foreheads were just shy of touching. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” said Lee, in that same tone of voice that one uses when confessing a deep secret. “Me too.”

“So what do we do?” asked Fred, rubbing circles on Lee’s back.

“We push through it. We don’t let it control us, but we also don’t forget that it’s there. We use that fear to our advantage because it’s always great to have just a tiny bit of it in the back of our minds; when the time comes, that little nugget of fear might just end up saving our lives,” said Lee, his voice calm and sure as his fingers teased out the knots in Fred’s hair.

“Mmm,” Fred sighed. “See? This is why I’m marrying you.”

“My superior intellect and sage-sounding advice?”

“And your smashing bod,” Fred grinned, pulling Lee in so they were chest to chest and allowing his hands to wonder and squeeze.

Not to be outdone, Lee grabbed a handful of Fred’s hair and pulled, catching his lips when his head was tilted back. They kissed for a while, lips parting, hands wandering and hips rocking smoothly, as if they had all the time in the world. Eventually, the kisses slowed to pecks and the pecks morphed to content, lazy nuzzling.

“This is what we have to look forward to,” murmured Fred, eyes half closed so only a sliver of blue was visible through a curtain of fine lashes. “After the war is over, we can do whatever we want. The shop was doing well, once we open it back up we could definitely afford our own place, one close enough to the Floo network so I can travel to Diagon Alley in the mornings and you can get to whichever news station was lucky enough to land you—maybe the Daily Prophet, after they get rid of all the Death Eaters—”

“I’d rather work for the Quibbler, thank you very much,” muttered Lee, afraid that if he spoke above a whisper his voice would break and betray the tsunami of emotions he was drowning in.

“Right, so no Daily Prophet. You go to the Quibbler and I’ll go to the shop and and since I’m my own boss, I’ll probably get home before you which means that I will cook dinner—”

“That chicken dish I like?”

“Exactly,” Fred smiled, closing his eyes and leaning back so they were now lying on the couch with Lee’s head resting on his chest. “So I’ll cook us dinner and by the time you get home everything will be ready and maybe George will have come back with me from the shop and on some nights we can invite Ron with Hermione, and Harry will be back with Ginny at that point for sure, and Percy will be just around the corner at the Ministry so maybe he’d like to join as well—”

“This place we live in, is it a home or a halfway house for wayward Weasleys?” asked Lee.

Fred shrugged and said, “Why can’t it be both? In any case, mum will insist on seeing us at least once a week so Sunday nights will be spent at the Borrow and that leaves Saturday nights at your parents’ house...which doesn’t leave that much time for us, so maybe we can push it down to just twice a month?”

“Agreed,” said Lee. Then, almost shyly, “You’ve really given this some thought.”

“It’s the rest of our lives, Lee,” said Fred, “there’s nothing better to think about.”

“...and that’s it for tonight, our dear listeners. Remember to keep your wireless at hand to catch more from Potterwatch and I know we can’t make any promises, but I’m making this one anyway: we will be back. So keep fiddling with those dials: next password will be ‘Umbitch’. Keep each other safe. Keep faith. Good night.”

George let out deep breath and removed the headphones covering his ears, shaking out his hair like a wet dog and wiggling a finger in his ears. Sitting across him on the same dilapidated table, Fred and Lee were going through the same rituals, the former stretching out his back against the chair while the latter picked up and put away their equipment.

“I think that went well,” George said. “We had twice as many people listening in than last time. With any luck, those aren’t all Death Eaters plotting out ways to find us and tear us apart limb from limb to then use our skulls as ceremonial cups.”

“You should write poetry, George,” said Lee, “who wouldn’t want such vivid imagery of their own demise planted in their mind as they’re on the run from the most dangerous wizarding organization of all time?”

“You think so? Thanks, mate,” George smiled from ear to ear and said, magnanimously, “I’m sure you have some talent too, and when you find it, I’ll make sure to encourage you as much as you did me. I won’t forget this.”

Lee shared an eye roll with Fred, who was chose to keep silent, looking on in amusement, and said, “I’m sure you won’t, George. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself useful and—” The colour drained from Lee’s face as the words got caught in his throat. He turned panicked eyes on the Weasley twins and brought a finger up to his lips, taking out his wand and moving on light feet to the door.

The twins exchanged puzzled looks of their own but followed the protocol they had in place for situations just like this one. They charmed their feet silent with a mumbled spell and went about the room, packing up their stuff and removing any evidence that they’d been there in the first place.

When all was said and done and Lee still hadn’t moved from his vigil by the door, Fred walked up to him and whispered, “What’s going on?”

“I-I’m not entirely sure,” Lee stammered, “I thought I heard something—a cough.”

“That’s what we set up the perimeter alarm to sound like,” Fred supplied.

“I know! But it’s been almost fifteen minutes and nothing’s—”

A mild-mannered cough interrupted Lee and was followed by a feminine sneeze. Lee could feel the tension in the room suddenly reach an all time high as the three of them processed their predicament.

“Someone’s coming,” hissed Fred, “and they’ve set up Anti-Apparition wards. We can’t apparate away.”

“Any ideas?” asked Lee, shuffling lightly on his feet so his body was covering Fred from anyone bursting in through the door.

There was a resounding boom around them, followed by the house shaking on its foundations and the windows blowing out to pieces. George, Fred and Lee locked eyes and nodded their heads as one.

“Get the brooms out, Freddy,” said George, “we’re going flying.”

Dust covered every surface of the great hall. There were beds set up on the floor; the right side for the injured and the left side for the dead.

Fred was lying on his back on sheets of white, features soft and relaxed, as though he were dreaming the most wonderful of dreams. He was resting on the left side of the hall.

He was surrounded by his family. His mother held his head between her hands and rocked herself over his prone body, barely coherent enough to recognize the arms wrapped around her torso as those belonging to her husband who had his face buried in her hair, darkening her auburn tresses with his tears.

His siblings were arranged close by in various forms of distress. Ron was holding onto Hermione like she was the only thing keeping him up while Ginny had her head tucked into the crook of Harry’s neck, fingers idly tracing shapes on the palm of his hand as they both stared blindly into the distance. Percy and Charlie were sitting back to back on the dirty ground, the former with his head bowed down to his chest and hands grasping at a bleeding leg while the latter was inspecting the new ugly burns running up and down his arms. Bill was standing tall and weary with his wife in his arms and George…

George was lying down next to his dead brother, legs out straight, arms at his sides and face looking up at the enchanted ceiling. No one would be able he wasn’t as dead as his brother if it weren’t for the tear tracks continuously running down the sides of his face and disappearing into his hair.

Lee watched this all from a distance. He couldn’t tell where he was in relation to his dead fiancé and would-be family, but he couldn’t just see it all; he could feel it, too. It was a gaping wound in his chest, festering and growing by the second until it became so large it felt like it was swallowing him whole and any life he had left was being choked out of him by grief and heartbreak.

The war was won. Voldemort was dead and his remaining Death Eaters were being rounded up by the vengeful families of their victims and if they weren’t caught tonight, there always tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and the one after that one and so on.

They had all the time in the world now.

But for Lee, within the cavernous walls of Hogwart’s great hall, at that very moment, time stood still. And he didn’t think it would ever start again.

Lee woke up with a shuddering gasp. His legs moved of their own accord and propelled him from the bed, running to the bathroom where they landed on the floor with a resounding smack as his stomach hacked up its contents into the porcelain bowl. He spent a few seconds catching his breath before flushing his vomit down the toilet and stumbling to his feet.

The cold water felt wonderful on his overheated skin. He let it run over his hands then washed his face and cleaned out his mouth. Supporting himself on the edge of the sink, he lifted his head and stared at the reflection looking back at him in the mirror.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he muttered.

“I’ll say. I’ve been waking up to this for the past three months and I never get tired of it.”

Lee smiled and relaxed for the first time since waking up as two wiry, freckled arms wrapped around his stomach from behind and brought his bare back against an equally bare chest.

“What was it this time?”

“Another nightmare,” Lee murmured.

“The same one?”

“Mhmm,” Lee hummed.

“I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Really? Because I’d consider getting hit by a deadly, rare curse which has my family thinking I’m dead and nearly succeeds in actually killing me, leaving you with recurring nightmares of my death and the ensuing life without me, to be kind of my fault.” Fred’s voice was gritty from sleep and his breath was warm against Lee’s neck as he leaned forward and placed a kiss there.

“You’re right, I should be coming to you for restitution,” said Lee, his face betraying nothing after years of experience pulling pranks alongside the Weasley twins.

“Damn bloody right you should.” Fred turned Lee around so they’d be face to face. “I’m sad to say I’m all out of money at the moment and unfortunately Gringotts doesn’t open until well into the morning.”

“I can’t possibly imagine waiting that long,” Lee announced. “How will I cope?”

“Therein lies my problem,” said Fred, nodding his head solemnly. “

Fred levelled Lee with his best ‘come hither’ look, wiggling his eyebrows for extra effect, and Lee couldn’t take it anymore. He snorted with laughter and said, “Really? Now? And that’s what you’re going with?”

“I’m standing by it and after all, there’s no time like the present,” Fred winked. “Even if we do have all the time in the world, best to sometimes live in the moment, don’t you think?”

Lee thought back to his nightmare, to the very real memories sprinkled in between the nightmarish sequence of Fred’s death and his funeral. He remembered all those moments stolen in between missions and Potterwatch broadcasts and fights with Death Eaters. He recalled the flash of memories, one more precious than the other, which had run through his the second he’d walked into the great hall and spotted Fred’s body among the dead.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes catching on the band of gold on his finger and dashing to catch the same glint on Fred’s own finger. “We can live in the moment. For now.”

#harry potter #harry potter au #before the final battle #after the final battle #on the run #potterwatch #after hogwarts #lee jordan #fred weasley #lee jordan/fred weasley #george weasley #romance #angst #fluff #one-shot #allusions to ptsd #canon compliant until it's not #ao3 #ffn.net

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samuel-roth · 4 years ago

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If you’re pro Trump you’re not pro military.

Just some of the great things he’s done or said during his presidency and life.

• ⁠Trump knew since March 2020 that Russia paid bounties to kill American troops, yet has done nothing

• ⁠May 2020, the White House attempted to end National Guard deployments one day before they could claim benefits

• ⁠The Trump admin seized 5 million masks intended for VA hospitals. Kushner distributes these masks to private entities for a fee, who then sells the masks to the government

• ⁠Trump fired the captain of the USS Theodore Roosevelt after warned superiors that COVID19 was spreading among his crew. The virus subsequently spread amongst the crew

• ⁠After Iran's retaliatory strike, 109 US troops suffered brain injuries. Trump dismissed these as "headaches"

• ⁠20/7/2017, in room 2E924 of the Pentagon, told a room full of Generals, "You’re a bunch of dopes and babies"

• ⁠Pardoned multiple war criminals, which stomped on long standing military values, discipline, and command. Trump has no military experience (May&Nov, 2019)

• ⁠Trump mocked Lt. Col. Vindman for his rank and uniform. threatened said purple heart officer, resulting in the Army providing him protection

• ⁠Trump’s Chief of Staff worked—in secret—to deny comprehensive health coverage to Vietnam Vets who suffered from Agent Orange

• ⁠There's a facility in Tijuana for US veterans that Trump deported. Wounded war vet, Sen Duckworth (D) marked Veterans Day 2019 by visiting this facility

• ⁠Russia took control of the main U.S. military facility in Syria abandoned on Trump’s orders. Russia now owns the airstrip we built

• ⁠10/7/2019, Trump abruptly withdrew support from America's allies in Syria after a phone call with Turkey's president (Erdogan). Turkey subsequently bombed US Special Forces

• ⁠Trump sent thousands of American troops to defend the oil assets of the country that perpetrated 9/11

• ⁠Sept 2019, made an Air Force cargo crew, flying from the U.S. to Kuwait stop in Scotland (where there's no U.S. base) to refuel at a commercial airport (where it costs more), so they could stay overnight at a Trump property (which isn't close to the airport). Trump’s golf courses are losing money, so he's forcing the military to pay for 5-star nights there

• ⁠7/2019, Pentagon pulled funds for military schools, military housing funds, and daycare to pay for Trump's border wall

• ⁠Aug 2019, emails revealed that three of Trump's Mar-a-Lago pals, who are now running Veterans Affairs, are rampant with meddling. "They had no experience in veterans affairs (none of them even served in the military) nor underwent any kind of approval process to serve as de facto managers. Yet, with Trump’s approval, they directed actions and criticized operations without any oversight. They wasted valuable staff time in hundreds of pages of communications and meetings, emails show. Emails reveal disdainful attitudes within the department to the trio’s meddling."

• ⁠Veterans graves will be "dug up" for the border wall, after Trump instructed aides to seize private property. Trump told officials would pardon them if they break the law by illegally seizing property

• ⁠Children of deployed US troops are no longer guaranteed citizenship. This includes US troops posted abroad for years at a time (28/8/2019)

• ⁠2/8/2019, Trump requisitioned military retirement funds towards border wall

• ⁠31/7/2019, Trump ordered the Navy rescind medals to prosecutors who were prosecuted war criminals

• ⁠Trump denied a U.S. Marine of 6 years entry into the United States for his citizenship interview (Reported 17/7/2019)

• ⁠Trump made the U.S. Navy Blue Angels violate ethics rules by having them fly at his July 4th political campaign event (4/7/2019)

• ⁠Trump demanded US military chiefs stand next to him at 4th of July parade (reported 2/7/2019)

• ⁠June 2019, Trump sent troops to the border to paint the fence for a better "aesthetic appearance"

• ⁠Trump used his D-Day interview at a cemetery commemorating fallen US soldiers to attack a Vietnam veteran (6/6/2019)

• ⁠Trump started his D-Day commemoration speech by attacking a private citizen (Bette Midler, of all people) (reported 4/6/2019)

• ⁠Trump made his 2nd wife, Marla Maples, sign a prenup that would have cut off all child support if Tiffany joined the military (reported 4/6/2019)

• ⁠27/5/2019, Trump turned away US military from his Memorial Day speech because they were from the destroyer USS John S. McCain

• ⁠Trump ordered the USS John McCain out of sight during his visit to Japan (15/5/2019). The ship's name was subsequently covered. (27/5/2019)

...and going...

• ⁠Trump purged 200,000 vets' healthcare applications (due to known administrative errors within VA’s enrollment system) (reported on 13/5/2019)

• ⁠Trump deported a spouse of fallen Army soldier killed in Afghanistan, leaving their daughter parentless (16/4/2019)

• ⁠20/3/2019, Trump complained that a deceased war hero didn't thank him for his funeral

• ⁠Between 12/22/2018, and 1/25/2019, Trump refused to sign his party's funding bill, which shut down the government, forcing the Coast Guard to go without pay, which made service members rely on food pantries. However, his appointees got a $10,000 pay raise

• ⁠banned service members from serving based on gender identity (1/22/2019)

• ⁠denied female troops access to birth control to limit sexual activity (on-going. Published 18/1/2019)

• ⁠tried to deport a marine vet who is a U.S.-born citizen (16/1/2019)

• ⁠When a man was caught swindling veterans pensions for high-interest “cash advances," Trump's Consumer Financial Protection Bureau fined him $1 (26/1/2019)

• ⁠called a retired general a 'dog' with a 'big, dumb mouth' (1/1/2019)

• ⁠increased privatization of the VA, leading to longer waits and higher taxpayer cost (2018)

• ⁠finally visited troops 2 years after taking office, but only after 154 vacation days at his properties (26/12/2018)

• ⁠revealed a covert Seal Team 5 deployment, including names and faces, on Twitter during his visit to Iraq (26/12/2018)

• ⁠Trump lied to deployed troops that gave them a 10% raise (26/12/2018).

• ⁠Tried giving the military a raise that was lower than the standard living adjustment. Congress told him that idea wasn't going to work. Then after giving them the raise that Congress made him, lied about it pretending that it was larger than Obama's. It wasn't

• ⁠fired service members living with HIV just before the 2018 holidays

• ⁠tried to slash disability and unemployment benefits for Veterans to $0, and eliminate the unemployability extrascheduler rating (17/12/2018)

• ⁠called troops on Thanksgiving and told them he's most thankful for himself (Thanksgiving, 2018)

• ⁠urged Florida to not count deployed military votes (12/11/2018)

• ⁠canceled an Arlington Cemetery visit on Veterans Day due to light rain (12/11/2018)

• ⁠While in Europe commemorating the end of WWI, didn't attend the ceremony at a US cemetery due to the rain -- other world leaders went anyway (10/11/2018)

• ⁠used troops as a political prop by sending them on a phantom mission to the border and made them miss Thanksgiving with their families (Oct-Dec, 2018)

• ⁠stopped using troops as a political prop immediately after the election. However, the troops remained in muddy camps on the border (7/11/2018)

• ⁠Trump changed the GI Bill through his Forever GI Act, causing the VA to miss veteran benefits, including housing allowances. This caused many vets to run out of food and rent. (reported 7/10/2018)

• ⁠Trump doubled the rejection rate for veterans requesting family deportation protections (5/7/2018)

• ⁠Trump deported active-duty spouses (11,800 military families face this problem as of April 2018)

• ⁠forgot a fallen soldier's name (below) during a call to his pregnant widow, then attacked her the next day (23-24/10/2017)

• ⁠sent commandos into an ambush due to a lack of intel, and sends contractors to pick them up, resulting in a commando being left behind, tortured, and executed. (Trump approved the mission because Bannon told him Obama didn't have the guts to do it) (4/10/2017)

• ⁠blocked a veteran group on Twitter (7/2017)

• ⁠ordered the discharge of active-duty immigrant troops with good records (2017-present)

• ⁠deported veterans (2017-present)

• ⁠said knows more about ISIS than American generals (10/2016)

• ⁠Oct 3, 2016, Trump said vets get PTSD because they aren't strong (note: yes, said it's 'because they aren't strong.' didn't say it's 'because they're weak.' This distinction is important because of Snopes)

• ⁠Trump accepted a Purple Heart from a fan at one of his rallies and said: “I always wanted to get the Purple Heart. This was much easier.” (2/8/2016)

• ⁠Trump attacks Gold Star families: Myeshia Johnson (gold star widow), Khan family (gold star parents) etc. (2016-present)

• ⁠Trump sent funds raised from a Jan 2016 veterans benefit to the Donald J Trump Foundation instead of veterans charities (the foundation has since been ordered shut because of fraud) (1/2016)

• ⁠Trump said has "more training militarily than a lot of the guys that go into the military" because went to a military-style academy (2015 biography)

• ⁠Trump said doesn't consider POWs heroes because they were caught. said prefers people who were not caught (7/18/2015)

• ⁠Trump said having unprotected sex was his own personal Vietnam (1998) For a decade, Trump sought to kick veterans off of Fifth Avenue because found them unsightly nuisances outside of Trump Tower. 1991

• ⁠Trump dodged the draft 5 times by having a doctor diagnose him with bone spurs

• ⁠No Trump in America has ever served in the military; this spans 5 generations, and every branch of the family tree. In fact, the reason his grandfather immigrated to America was to avoid military service.

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cinema-tv-etc · 4 years ago

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Station Eleven

Station Eleven is a 2014 novel by Emily St. John Mandel.[1][2][3] It is Mandel's fourth novel. The novel takes place in the Great Lakes region before and after a fictional swine flu pandemic, known as the "Georgia Flu", has devastated the world, killing most of the population. It won the Arthur C. Clarke Award in 2015.[4]

The novel was well received by critics, with praise emphasizing the understated nature of Mandel's writing. It appeared on several end-of-year lists as one of the best novels of 2014.

Plot summary

During a production of King Lear at the Elgin Theatre in Toronto, Jeevan watches as the actor playing Lear, Arthur Leander, has a heart attack. Since he has begun training as a paramedic, Jeevan tries to resuscitate Arthur, but is unsuccessful. Instead, he comforts one of the child actors in the production, Kirsten. After leaving the play, Jeevan goes for a walk in the snow and receives a call from his friend, a doctor. He warns Jeevan to get out of the city as the mysterious Georgia Flu is spreading rapidly and will soon become a full-blown pandemic. Jeevan loads up on supplies and goes to stay with his paraplegic brother. Many of the actors, actresses, and others that had gathered to mourn Arthur's death die within the next three weeks.

Twenty years later, Kirsten is part of a nomadic group of actors and musicians known as the Travelling Symphony. Kirsten, who was eight at the time of outbreak, can remember little of her life before Year Zero, but clings to a two-volume set of graphic novels given to her by Arthur before his death, titled Dr. Eleven. The troupe operates on a two-year cycle touring the Great Lakes region, performing Shakespeare plays and classical music, while Kirsten scavenges abandoned homes for props, costumes, and traces of Arthur in tabloid magazines.

The troupe intends to reunite with two members they left behind - the pregnant Charlie, and her husband, Jeremy - at a small town. Upon arriving, they are disturbed to find that their friends are missing, and the town is now under the control of the Prophet, who rapes the young girls he claims as his "wives". The troupe quickly leaves town, and goes off-route to the 'Museum of Civilization', a settlement where they believe they might find their missing friends. However, en route, they discover a young stowaway who fled the town, as she was promised to the Prophet as his bride. Shortly after, members of the troupe begin to disappear until finally the entire troupe is gone, leaving only Kirsten and her friend August. Frightened, they continue on to the Museum hoping to be reunited with others.

Unbeknownst to Kirsten, the graphic novel Dr. Eleven is an unpublished passion project by Arthur's first wife, Miranda. Fourteen years before the collapse of civilization, Miranda left an abusive relationship and married Arthur. As Arthur's fame as an actor hit its peak, Miranda realized he was having an affair with the woman who would become his second wife, Elizabeth. The night that Miranda discovers the affair, she walks out of her home and asks a paparazzo outside if he has a cigarette. The paparazzo turns out to be Jeevan. Years later, when Jeevan is trying to reinvent himself as an entertainment journalist, Arthur gives him an exclusive interview; he is leaving Elizabeth and their young son, Tyler, to be with another woman. Jeevan reflects on this while he and his brother Frank are quarantining in Frank's apartment. After weeks, they realize that no one is coming to save them. Frank, a paraplegic, commits suicide so Jeevan doesn't feel responsible for him. Jeevan embarks on a journey south, and after many years, finds a new settlement where he marries and becomes the town doctor.

In Year Zero, one of Arthur's friends, Clark, informs Elizabeth that Arthur is dead. Clark, Elizabeth and her son Tyler, happen to be on the same flight from New York City to Toronto to attend Arthur's funeral, until it is grounded at the Severn City Airport due to the pandemic. The passengers, having nowhere to go, create a settlement in the airport, and Clark becomes the "curator" of the Museum of Civilization, where he gathers artifacts such as iPhones and laptop computers. While most of the airport survivors adapt to their new life, Elizabeth and Tyler embrace religious zealotry, believing that the pandemic happened for a reason and spared those who were good. After two years, they leave with a religious cult.

In the present, Kirsten and August find a group of the Prophet's men holding Sayid, a member of their troupe, hostage. They kill the men and free Sayid, who explains that their friend Dieter was killed, while another hostage escaped, warned the troupe, and sent them on another road, explaining how they went missing. Kirsten, August, and Sayid leave for the Severn City Airport, but Kirsten is soon discovered by the Prophet himself. Just before he is about to kill her, he refers to the "Undersea," a place from the Dr. Eleven comics. Kirsten quotes lines from Dr. Eleven, distracting the Prophet long enough that a younger sentry (having a crisis of faith) shoots and kills him, before taking his own life. The trio continues to the Museum of Civilization where they are reunited with Charlie, Jeremy and the rest of the troupe. Clark, who has lived in the museum for twenty years, realizes who Kirsten is, her attachment to Arthur, and that the Prophet was Tyler Leander. Clark takes Kirsten up to the watch tower of the airport, where there is a town to the south with electric lights, showing that civilization is beginning to take root again.

Five weeks later, Kirsten leaves with the Travelling Symphony for the town to the south. She gives one copy of Dr. Eleven to Clark's museum, as he begins to read it and recognizes a scene that is borrowed from a dinner party which he, Arthur and Miranda once attended.

A film adaptation of the novel is in development by Scott Steindorff.[

On October 18, 2019, it was announced that Station Eleven would be adapted into a 10-episode miniseries that will premiere on HBO Max. Hiro Murai is set to direct, with Patrick Somerville as showrunner and writer. They will both also serve as executive producers alongside Scott Steindorff, Scott Delman, and Dylan Russell. The miniseries will star Mackenzie Davis as Kirsten and Himesh Patel as Jeevan. Gael García Bernal has been cast as Arthur, and David Wilmot as Clark.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Station_Eleven

#Station Eleven #BOOK

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