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theatresweetheart · 5 years ago

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Homeward Nightmares

Desperate Measures: Chapter 1

Fandoms: Sanders Sides, G/t

Summary: Logan suffers with nightmares of his time in a pet shop and Patton tries to help.

Warnings: Over-exhaustion, traumatic flashbacks, brief injury mention, blood mention, brief descriptions of blood, main character being treated like a pet, brief talk of death (being put to sleep), excessive swearing, fear, crying, panic attack.

Pairings: Romantic/Parental Logicality, Familial Moxiety, Familial Analogical

Word Count: 4686 words

Taglist: @isle-of-gold @anonymous-bean @sandersships @kaytikitty @picklesandbeyond @minty4green

A/n: For the taglist, I decided to just tag everyone that wanted to be tagged for the Desperate Measures story. If you want to be removed from/added to a certain taglist, shoot me an ask or a message and let me know! Otherwise, enjoy!

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The ever insistent tapping on the metal bars rattled through this core. The snide looks he would get from the other side of the cage; large eyes that held a malice for him and his kind, smiles that did not reach the patrons’ eyes.

Smiles that were dangerous and sharp.

But the child that stood in front of him, while she didn’t look dangerous to the average human adult, was a threat to Logan’s safety.

Kids did not take lightly to borrowers, especially not when their parents didn’t seem to care much about teaching them manners and decency. Children saw borrowers as toys and things to be physically manipulated—like a doll or an action figure. Something inanimate and therefore, not sentient.

The girl had entered the store about ten minutes ago and she had immediately searched for something in particular. It wasn’t until she was standing in front of Logan’s cage had he realized she was there for him. Or, if not him personally, then for Arthur who was quietly rocking himself back and forth on the other side of the enclosure.

She raised a hand and tapped at the bars again, trying to gain his attention. Logan stayed resolute with his back turned to her, but he could still feel her eyes digging into his back. The heat of the look she was giving him.

When the borrower stayed sitting, his knees curled up to his chest and his head ducked down, she relented for a moment. The thundering footsteps falling away behind him.

At this, he turned his head, watching as she went to tug at her father’s suit jacket. The man in question seemed to have his head bent forwards and his eyes glued directly to his phone as if it were the most important thing in the world. However, with a look like that, Logan could tell that this was the kind of man was that was ready to buy his way out of a problem if something went awry.

He wasn’t going to be bothered with her or her father until he saw that she was pointing in his direction.

He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he had an itching feeling that he knew what exactly she wanted.

The father had then turned to the shopkeeper after that, asking about something or other. The conversation was too distant for Logan to be able to make out what exactly they were saying but with the devilish grin the girl sent back over her shoulder, he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

“This is it,” Arthur mumbled to himself, his head in his hands as he kept rocking himself back and forth, as if he was trying to calm himself down.

Any conversation that he tried to have with the other male usually ended up with Arthur in some sort of anxiety-induced fit. One would have thought that Logan would have been better with that sort of reaction as his own son had suffered through the same thing, just in different circumstances.

Seemed that being away from them for four months had already taken a toll on his emotional well-being.

“We’re going to die here,” Arthur continued to bellyache and moan.

No, Logan wasn’t going to die here.

He wasn’t about to just kneel and keel over. Not when he had so much riding on getting out of this damned place.

It wasn’t long before the shopkeeper was coming over, the little girl and her father trailing behind. The keys jangled in their hand and the lock on the cage was undone before he could even think to say something.

“C’mere Logan,” the shopkeeper said in a condescending tone as they pulled the door open, before lowering themselves down to kneel with their hand palm up in front of the opening. “Little Eliza here would like to hold you.”

“Get lost,” he shot back, brown eyes sharp and distrusting.

The shopkeeper sighed, rubbing their free hand down their face. “I don’t want to play these games today, just be good for once and come here.”

Logan sneered at that, rolled his shoulders and deliberately turned his back to the three humans.

“Is he always like this?” The father asked, but he sounded more distracted and uninterested than he actually was.

“Unfortunately,” the shopkeeper replied, “Eliza, would you like to hold Arthur instead? He is better behaved.”

“No,” the girl said suddenly, with such vigor that it startled Logan. “I want him, not the other one. The other one looks like a nervous wreck.”

A quick glance over to the other borrower did solidify that truth. He really did look like a nervous wreck, shaking and shivering and muttering to himself.

“Logan,” the shopkeeper raised their voice again, trying to sound more authoritative. Like that had ever worked in the past. “Come here. Don’t make me reach in there and grab you.”

That wasn’t even a threat anymore.

“Allow me, sir,” Eliza said in that mock innocent voice.

Logan turned to look over his shoulder when the shopkeeper gave a surprised noise and the young man was instead welcomed with the sight of a hand coming directly for him. A startled yelp escaped him without his permission as the childish hand got far too close to him for comfort and he raised an arm as if that would defend him.

Of course he was disappointed when the girl’s hand wrapped around his form anyways, beginning to lift him off of the cage floor without a problem. As if he wasn’t a full grown man.

Vertigo hit far too soon and he was pulled out from inside of what had, sadly, become a safety net. While many people had stared in and pointed and laughed, no one had been able to touch and grab him before.

He was pulled up in a fist that was far too tight, that shoved his arms painfully into his sides, so much so that he knew he would have bruises by this evening.

“Gentle with him, kid,” the shopkeeper said, noticing the grimace on the smaller features, “he’s not as strong as you.”

“I’m being gentle,” Eliza lied through her teeth, that shark-like grin never leaving her features as she examined the borrower in her hands. “He just doesn’t know what it’s like to be held.”

“I shouldn’t have to know what that’s like,” Logan hissed up at her and she squeezed a bit tighter, shoving the wind from his lungs.

“Pets shouldn’t talk back, that’s what my always daddy says.”

“Very good, darling,” her father mused, scrolling through something on his phone before beginning to tap away at the screen.

While the shopkeeper did look initially worried about Logan’s well-being, they weren’t doing much to change the situation either. There was a lot that they could do to the kid, such as making her put him down. Making sure that she didn’t squeeze the life from him without meaning to—or completely meaning to, whatever her intentions with him were.

“Let me go,” Logan’s voice was hoarse from lack of a proper supply of air being taken in, but it wouldn’t stop him from making demands. Not when his safety was on the line.

Eliza giggled again, shaking her head and using her thumb to stroke up and down his back in a rough and careless motion, obviously trying to cause him discomfort. “Pets also aren’t allowed to make demands, my daddy says that too.”

Logan grit his teeth, frustration nipping at him. “Let. Me. Go,” he enunciated this time, as if he thought she didn’t understand him the first time.

He was trying to stay as calm as possible, as losing his temper was something that wasn’t going to help him at all in this situation, but he was so close. So fucking close to doing something he knew he would regret afterwards—not in terms of feeling bad, he couldn’t care less about the human child and her ridiculous feelings, but for the punishment that would be sure to follow instantly afterwards.

Eliza only shook her head, making her stroking motions a bit more painful and prominent. “Borrowers like you shouldn’t be talking back to their owners,” her eyes sharpened. “Daddy, can I have it?”

‘It.’

‘Can I have it.’

That was fucking it.

“Whatever you want darling,” the father said.

Logan’s eyes scanned the three humans and he was pleasantly surprised when he noticed how none of them were focused on him, far too busy with each other. Which gave him more of a chance. With those words shoving an icy knife into his stomach, he needed to make a split second decision. After a moment of deliberation and desperation and his survival instincts taking over, he—albeit hesitantly—bit down into the girl’s hand and held.

His nose wrinkled when he felt the hot rush of blood flood into his mouth and suddenly all he could taste was metallic and thick.

“Ouch!” Came the cry from the female and before long, her hand snapped open from its locked position around his form and, without anything keeping him upright, Logan was dropped back onto the tabletop where his cage was. “It bit me!”

“Disgraceful,” the father snorted, “keep that thing away from my daughter. You should put it down for biting an innocent child.”

“Innocent my ass,” Logan snarled, pushing himself up onto his elbows while his torso groaned at him in agony, before raising a hand to wipe the remnants of blood from the edges of his mouth. “Your hellish child could have killed me.”

“It would have been no loss,” the man spat back, picking his daughter up as she wailed and held her hand close to herself. “I demand something to make up for this tragedy.”

The shopkeeper, who had been frozen in their surprise, quickly gathered Logan up into their hands. “O-of course, sir, I’m so sorry! He’s never done something like that before, I didn’t think he would—”

“I don’t care about what you thought and what you didn’t think, I want something to compensate for the pain that it put my daughter through. You can start by getting her a band-aid.”

“O-of course, sir.”

The shopkeeper’s attention fluttered down to the borrower in their hand and Logan just glared right back up at them, brown eyes so full of hatred and fury that shone through chocolate brown bangs. Almost as if he was challenging them to do something to him.

“You are in so much trouble for this,” the shopkeeper said then, as Eliza and her father decided to browse the rest of the pet shop for something of better interest that wouldn’t end up biting her. “It’s going to be a world of hurt for you.”

“I fucking dare you,” was what they got back in response.

It was a challenge. Logan was challenging them to do something to him and they hadn’t thought that far ahead. They hadn’t expected Logan to say anything at all—in fact, they had sort been hoping that the borrower would be sulking like he usually did in his cage. Not this time, it seemed. This time he was ready to fight them every step of the way.

Though, when the shopkeeper’s eyes hardened on him, Logan finally felt something stir within him. The dangerous, cold look he was getting in return. A calculating stare he was used to giving, but not used to receiving.

“Maybe I will get you put down for this. That way, you’ll never get to see your family again. They’d never know what happened to you. And it would teach you not to mess with those that have such power over you. It would be your last mistake.”

The words hit him like nothing else had before. They sat like a heavy rock in his chest and anything about defying the shopkeeper that had wormed its way into him was gone.

————

Logan woke up in a cold sweat.

The taste of something metallic was overwhelming.

He blinked, panicked, trying to figure out where he was. The pitch black, save for the tiny bit of light seeping in from just above him, was making it hard to correspond that he was safe. It was hard to recognize what was surrounding him when he couldn’t see.

The blankets under his hands felt weighted and cold, thick and scratchy.

There was also a warmth beside him, a tired voice mumbling something, but Logan needed to get out. He needed out. He needed to get out.

He couldn’t do this.

He could not do this.

Unable to calm himself down quick enough, he threw off the blankets and sat up, using a hand to push his hair out of his face before reaching blindly for his glasses. It took a couple tries, but he managed to find them.

The sound of someone shifting behind him made the young man stand up, twisting to face someone that he hadn’t wanted to ever see again.

Bright, sharp, sadistic green eyes looked right back at him and Logan’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Maybe I should get you put down for this.”

Cold.

He was so cold. The look that he was getting from the other made him step back, eyes wide and terrified.

“It would be your last mistake.”

Hot.

The room was so hot. When had it gotten so warm? The thundering of his heart in his chest was the only thing Logan could focus on. Not the panting breaths, not the blood he could hear rushing in his ears.

Not the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Your family? Please. They’d never know what happened to you.”

He couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight and his mind was blank. Everything was blurring around him, the terror that seized his wrists was real and electric. Hot and cold all at the same time.

“Logan?” The voice didn’t match the features he was seeing, but his mind was in far too much of a frenzy to actually register who was saying it. The panic that just seemed so instinctual was far outweighing his rational thought. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Eliza was right there. Standing outside the bars of his enclosure and he had no hope of getting out of this mess alive. Not when she had been so upset the first time. He didn’t remember getting caught again. Or, no, maybe he hadn’t been caught again. He had never truly gotten back home in the first place. Everything had been far too good for that.

A human that cared? A borrower that trusted said human? Getting to actually hold Patton and Virgil again? It must have been some sick trick. His mind was playing games on him in his grief.

Using tactile hallucinations to torture him.

“Don’t come any closer,” he warned, his voice breaking.

He tried to sound demanding but it came out as more of a withered, desperate plead.

“Pets don’t make demands.”

But they weren’t listening to him. The movements, while sluggish and tired and obviously weighed down by the late night, had slowed down considerably. Almost as if she didn’t know what to do.

Though, they still came closer to him. Logan matched it instantly with a step backwards. Every time the person in front of him came closer, he tried to put more space between them. Before long, Logan had his back pressed against the wall.

He was cornered.

The hands then raised and were held up in a position that he recognized as a sign of surrender, which made no sense. Eliza had been far too persistent to leave him alone. She always had that sadistic grin on her features as her fingers had wrapped around his form, threatening to squeeze the life from him. To bruise and to tease and to taunt like he wasn’t a person with emotions or morals or sentience.

There was the ghost of her tight hold, compressing and forcing shorter breaths in and out. His panic was not helping the situation in the least.

He felt himself go weak in the knees and he slumped against the wall, staring up at the person in front of him with terror. The only emotion he was coherent enough to summon forward.

“Logan, you need to breathe,” the voice said again and the vision flickered between two vastly contrasting scenes.

There was the pet store in all its glory. The loud chirping from the other animals and the tinkling from that stupid bell above the door. Eliza, her father and the shopkeeper standing on the other side of him, all looking smug and victorious.

But then, the other scene was relatively relaxing. It was dark. He was back home. Patton was kneeling in front of him. Dark curls falling in front of tired features but soft gentle eyes pleading for him to relax. For a different reaction than what he was getting.

“Look at me,” the tone pleaded again and Logan shook his head.

“Don’t ignore me, Logan. You’re in no place to be making demands.”

“Can’t,” he choked out finally, his eyes squeezing shut as tears flooded forward, the echoing of the past six months were loud bells, ringing and chiming. Sharp reminders of what he had gone through.

There was too much going on. Eliza was taunting him, the shopkeeper was using this weakness against him. The moment he looked up would be the moment he let those damned humans win. He couldn’t let them win. He couldn’t let them break him.

The moment he broke would be the moment he lost his only chance to go back home.

He would lose everything.

A gentle breath was released in front of him. “Yes you can,” the voice was quiet, reassuring. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His shoulders were bunched, hands shaking as they stayed firmly pressed against the floor, trying to keep himself as far from the person in front of him as he could.

In what seemed like forever—possibly only ten seconds or so—Logan felt the presence get closer to him. He could feel their warmth, but in all honestly, he was too scared to open his eyes for a few different reasons.

If he were to look, it would leave no barrier between his un-shed tears and the person in front of him, thus causing him to lose any progress he had made with them by proving he was emotionless. Humans could use that information to manipulate you. He couldn’t show that weakness. He didn’t have an Achilles heel.

The other reason was that he was terrified to see Eliza again. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not anymore.

Before he could say anything, he felt the person grab him by the hand. A loving touch. A tender grasp that said more than words could. Logan had initially flinched at the sudden, somewhat unwelcome, contact.

This was a touch that he knew. A touch that he could trust.

A sob jumped in his chest as soon as reality set back in and almost immediately, the presence grew far closer.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, after convincing himself that he was fine—he was completely safe, nothing was going to happen to him—he saw Patton’s sad eyes, but it wasn’t just that. It was more than that. It was concern, grief and unsaid words. Whispers that neither of them had the heart to say to each other.

All within a second, Logan was being tugged into the sweet embrace of his husband, a hand pressed against the back of his head and keeping him safe. He was safe.

It wasn’t long before the one sob turned into two, then three, then four. And then they didn’t stop.

Logan reacted before his mind had caught up to him, but his hands dug into the back of Patton’s shirt, hiding his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder and just sobbing. Heaving, in and out without time or pace.

“Shh, shh,” Patton soothed him quietly, letting his free hand stroke up and down Logan’s back, shifting and rubbing circles instead. It went between both motions a couple times, but never was it unpredictable. “You’re okay, I’m right here. Everything is okay.”

It was painful, seeing him like this. So broken and scared. Nightmares had never really happened before Logan had been captured. They had been present from time to time, sure, but not to this extreme. Not to the extreme that one hallucinated someone else in the room with them.

Or to physically see the threat.

Or to physically feel the threat.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped quietly, sniffling as the tears finally began to slow down. He tried to regain his composure. “I— I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t apologize, Logan,” Patton didn’t pull back from the embrace until he felt Logan shifting. He didn’t want to take the comfort away too soon if Logan wasn’t ready to lose it. “It was a nightmare and you can’t prevent those. Don’t apologize for reacting the way you did. It’s okay.”

Once he felt him shifting, Patton allowed himself to pull back but he didn’t release Logan fully. He reached up, removing Logan’s glasses and setting them to the side before using the sleeve of his night shirt to wipe the water away to the best of his ability.

They sat in silence for a couple minutes, Logan allowing Patton to clean him up without fighting back or complaining, whether teasingly or seriously, at the mother hen-like actions.

Sitting in the peace and quiet of each other was only going to last (and help) for so long. After another moment of quiet deliberation, Patton was speaking—softly and with no sense of pressure—again;

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

The request was innocent, Logan knew that, but he shook his head. He really did not want to relive the past ten minutes so early in the morning.

Patton sighed quietly, before nodding. “Alright. Think you can get back to sleep?”

That was something he was less sure about, but it seemed there was no true harm in trying. He was exhausted, that much was obvious. Emotionally and physically drained.

“Yeah.”

There was an understanding shared between them and Patton handed Logan his glasses. There was that lingering heaviness in the air, but it was going to be like that for a while anyhow.

Trauma lingered and continually affected one’s day to day life. To expect Logan to just immediately heal because he was home would be absurd and irrational.

No matter how much it hurt Patton’s heart to see him loved one so distressed, the only thing he could do was support him. Ease him through the nightmares and continually prove himself a worthy and safe presence.

Without saying anything else and just as Patton was beginning to stand, the lightest knock from their bedroom door caught their attention. Virgil stood in the doorway, his over sized hoodie draped over his shoulders as he held tightly to a blanket like it was a tether. The little one also had his sleeve stuck in his mouth, a nervous habit.

Logan belatedly realized that it was the blanket he had made the boy for his fourth birthday.

The two adults watched as the little boy’s eyes moved between them, obviously reading the situation. They seemed to grow even sadder when what was happening registered.

Virgil was incredibly perceptive, which was admittedly an important trait in a borrower, but this only proved how much harder it was to hide things from him. Especially when he knew what to look for.

“Hey kid,” Logan croaked, his voice was practically gone by this point in the night. He raised a hand and waved as an invitation for Virgil to come in.

As soon as he had been given permission, Virgil immediately went to his fathers and sunk down to his knees, crawling into Logan’s arms and letting himself be held.

While it was reassuring and comforting for Virgil, Logan also felt better. Being able to hold his son so close, to cradle him in his arms. To feel the rise and fall of his breaths and the light patter of his heartbeat. It was solidifying the idea that he was truly back home, that this wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him.

His hold tightened unconsciously on the kid and Virgil responded by holding tighter to his father.

It was almost as if Logan was trying to shield Virgil from the horrors that he had seen. The horrors of the human world and their disgusting wants and needs. His son would never see that side of humanity, not if he had anything to say about. The most that Virgil would see would be the students that attended the University—at least the students only complained about midterms, homework and early mornings.

The third hand that suddenly appeared on Logan’s back surprised him slightly, but he leaned into the touch as well.

He was safe and the images he had seen were just that; images.

He did feel a twinge in his chest when he realized what had brought Virgil in here in the first place. It meant that Logan’s panic had been loud enough to wake him, even with his room down the hall. But the genuine concern that the boy had to come and see if he was doing okay was kind. Certainly something that Virgil had picked up from Patton, undoubtedly.

Patton stroked his fingers through Virgil’s hair a couple times, watching as he just seemed to melt into Logan’s embrace, the tired features were hidden in his shoulder.

“Let’s get you two back to bed, hmm?”

Logan’s eyes turned to Patton as his husband smiled lightly, sadly but genuine. He could agree that getting to bed would be the most logical course of action, as it certainly was not the time to be awake.

Patton pushed himself off of his knees and Logan was soon to follow, however a bit slower as he tried not to shift Virgil too much. He wasn’t sure if the kid was asleep or not, but he didn’t want to disturb him either way. Then there was the task of getting him back to bed.

As the blanket slid from Virgil’s hand, Logan was quick to attempt to get it before Patton picked it up for him.

“Mm,” the voice from his shoulder mumbled quietly. “Papa?”

Logan hummed in response, showing that he was listening. “Yes, Virgil?”

Virgil shifted his head a little bit, enough so that he could see the underside of his father’s jaw. “Can I stay here with you and Dad tonight?”

Logan didn’t even have to look at Patton to know the answer to that. “Of course you can,” he adjusted him a little bit more, so he could hold onto him a bit more comfortably and securely.

The bed that they had was big enough for three people, especially when one of those three was a six-year-old boy.

After a bit of readjusting the bed—since Logan had nearly torn it apart in his panic to get away—he set Virgil down beside Patton and immediately, Virgil clung onto him.

The sight was what gave him pause. It was what made him stop for a minute and really see just how lucky he was to be there in that moment.

To see his boys curled up together, safe and comfortable.

The grin that twitched the edges of his lips was genuine. Pulling his glasses off and setting them off to the side, Logan pulled at the comforter before slipping underneath as well. He wrapped his arms around both Virgil and Patton and tugged them both closer to him.

Logan was insanely lucky to be back home. He had watched countless others get adopted from the same cage he had been in, shared brief farewells with other borrowers who were never seen again. The thought was heavy and uncomfortable, but being able to say he was alive.

To be able to say that he was home.

That was what mattered the most.

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mvrcutios · 5 years ago

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— INTRODUCING:

➺ Alexandre Preston as M𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔬

Hi everyone! I’m Olivia, 24 from the pst timezone !! I love romantic foreign films and every incarnation of Skam ever created. Also, tik tok. Way way too much tik tok. This is my interpretation of Mercutio (loml tbh), Alexandre! A pretty boy with charm and brains and you bet your ass he knows it. Portrayed by the beaut that is Maxence Fauvel, i’m genuinely filled to the brim with muse for this boy so, without further ado, time for the main event! (as he prefers to be lbr )

name: alexandre henri preston

age: 21

birthday: July 28th, 1998

gender: male

pronouns: he/him

degree: double major of business & music composition (father currently aware of the 1st)

zodiac: leo.

languages: fluent in french & italian, attempting to swear in russian and japanese.

hobbies: piano, cello, running, sex, parties, reading

vices: whiskey, gin, socialites, card games, fast cars, midnight symphonies, menthol cigarettes

pinterest is here !!

the aesthetic: Dom Pérignon, lipstick stained shirt collars, blue eyes with darkened circles, menthol cigarettes, 2am melodies on a piano down the hall, bruised knuckles, hotel balconies, strobe lights and heavy bass, macarons flaked in gold, lips pressed to cheeks, 3am club invitations, lingering eyes, too bright smiles, bitten bruises soothed with a tongue,shattered mirrors, ripped fingernails, screaming into the silent night, laughter whispered into skin, pills pressed to tongues, platinum amex cards, chewed on pens, eyes growing distant, texts left on read, ink over his heart for his maman, naps under campus oak trees, flasks sipped in a lecture hall, hands on hips, backs, and his own throat.

➺ but what is in a name?

➺ { Alexandre } : The french translation of Alexander. Defender of Man. The irony of a name is not lost on him, nor the man who’d held it. He was named for his maternal grandfather, a man who had sold his soul (and his eldest daughter) for money, power, name, all under the guise of the importance of family. A name meaning man of honor. Certainly a strong name for a boy who’d been born to rule a soiled throne, but content to find ways to sneak sweets from the kitchen, trick a smile from his mother as she stared out the window yet again. But defenders are not born, no.They are made, and from the moment blue eyes opened for the first time he was destined to be just that. Made. Into his father’s visions, his mother’s dreams. And Xandre is no fool. All he wants — no, rather. All he desires from life is simple. Everything.

➺ { Henri } Ruler of households. Once again nothing but irony for a boy who grew up wanting for nothing in life, but knowing the expectations were to be just that. A leader. Who would be the one to tell him that the throne he was set to rest upon was built on the blood and bones of the lesser fortunate? More importantly, who would teach him to care?

➺ { Preston } Meaning priest, settlement, enclosures of God. Carried to England from Normandy after the great conquest. A name befitting to the family who in some circles considered themselves holier than most. Gods among men. Who turned whiskey to gold, words to bank notes, and blood into power. If you were a Preston, people knew it. And what could be better than that?

➺ for he is the devil in every detail

➺ ( + ) He was a boy of pressed shirts and dark windswept waves. Blue eyes that sparkled of mischief and peels of laughter that echoed down marbled halls. He was Alexandre Preston, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the world at his feet. Who when he smiled, his entire face lit from within and led to that hint of the devil sparkling just so from that gaze of his. Who smelled of citrus and whiskey and a bite of mint. Who adored beauty, in life and what it had to offer him. A man who’d grown into his looks and was taught by a wise mother just how to use them, a well placed kiss to a cheek or brush of skin, eyes meeting across a room enough to give them what they desired and more than ever, what he craved. He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, and knew how to get just what he wanted. Born with his father’s intellect and drive for more, padded by his mother’s beauty and ability to wield it for the weapon it could be. It made him anything but a bore, a useless first son too afraid to grasp what was before him. No, Xandre knew his fate. But in the meantime, he lived his life how he chose. If dearest dad was none the wiser, well. What’s the harm?

➺ ( + ) But let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Born on a warm evening in late july, Alexandre Henri was destined to be the only child of Simon Preston and Violette Dupont. A product of two passionate individuals and a loveless marriage, Xandre’s mother was the eldest daughter to a man of debt. The Dupont family had in name what they lacked in capital and with a marriage between Violette and Simon, had everything to gain. Xandre’s birth was a bright burst of fleeting color for a mother who felt caged into the world she’d sold herself to, doting on the little boy and doing what she could to leave him with a part of her, a piece of her own waning soul. Where Simon was boastful, she was wicked, demure. Where he was aggression, she was soft sighs and whispered curses. Two sides of what lead to be a machiavellian son. Destined to rule with a gilded fist and fleeting, passionate heart.

➺ ( + ) He was put into lessons as a boy to dwindle that energy that thrummed with his every step, sports and arts and languages but they were fleeting moments of time, hobbies cast aside once the obsessive grip of his mind released them. But his mother’s love of piano rang true to his blood, picking up the instrument even with some difficulty. It bothered him so, to have something he couldn’t master with minimal effort. It required a honed drive, a passion and ethic to create something magnificent through nothing more than hard work. It fueled him, the boy almost manic with the late hours he spent alone in the sun room, fingers dancing along keys and cursing with every missed note. As he grew, so did the realization that it was not something you could master. The great composers themselves went mad with trying. It was a never ending race, and one he still holds steadfast this very day. It is as much a part of him as anything could be. Alexandre is meant to be a leader, Alexandre blows thousands on parties and card games, Alexandre needs music like air to rattling lungs. His current double major at Ashcroft is a direct result. If he’s to live out this new version of day to day, he’ll do as he pleases. As long as his father remains where he belongs, ignorant as the rest are.

➺ ( + ) if music was a stronghold, most everything else in his world was a passing fancy, aimless ways to spend time and money and have fun in this life he was so destined to lead. High school meant parties and fun, learning the intricacies of the body and passion as girls and boys alike came and went from white rumbled sheets. For his mother had taught him to wield beauty for what it was; a weapon. And oh, did he learn with the best. A university career begun at Oxford (if only to spite his father), where the real fun began, nights spent in club after club until the sun rose again, liquor fueled nights of passion and fun, barred from certain clubs and embraced at others, heavyweight card games and street races with a bottle of dom in hand. Started a gambling ring in his dorm hall until the RA caught wind a year later. (But he eventually joined, so no harm no foul) He was at an all time high, never fearing the inevitable crash to follow. He welcomed it like an old friend, navigated the highs and lows with a long learned finesse. Now in Edinburgh, he chases the residual high with his normal vigor, finding drinking buddies to waste an evening with, occasional bodies to slip into his too high thread count sheets.

➺ ( + ) The very definition of love ‘em and leave ‘em. Xandre doesn’t do true relationships, has never truly given his heart to someone in any form. He doesn’t believe in it, the type of love that makes people do such foolish things. He does foolish things just fine on his own, heart be damned. He can be passionate, charming, attentive lover at the best of times, possessive fool at the worst of times. He loves to feel desired, wanted, needed even. But never aims to be someone’s entire world. That type of need, that type of love does nothing but wound. And every wound he will ever have will be of his own creation. Has had more than a few flings, even reoccurring instances of women or men a few times in a row. But the connections are shallow, surface deep. You don’t need to witness his soul to get into his bed, afterall.

➺ ( + ) It was all a beautiful distraction from the blood that stained every letter of his name. His cousin was allowed to live in blessed ignorance of the family means, but Xandre, he was thrown headfirst into the lion’s den and came out grinning, the truth of it never leaving past blood stained lips. He isn’t resentful of that fact. A part of him feels it was always meant to be this way. If his cousins were the sun, he was the endless night, the whispers of shadows and secrets meant to withstand. For he could take it, surely. Right?

➺ ( + ) while his fate may be anything but up for debate, he is anything but a too willing participant. Being at Oxford meant enough distance to gain a bit of the freedom he craved. The night his father was arrested, Alexandre was doing what was normal, even on a tuesday evening. Partying at a local hotspot four bottles deep in champagne and whiskey, pills pressed to lips in between fevered kisses of a woman who’s name escaped him the next morning. Sweetened black coffee in hand as he watched his phone buzz over and over, the news blaring the headline of what he’d always known would come to fruition. But his father was still kicking, and so the heavy head who bears the crown was not yet his own. So he went about his day, his week, his months. Until, octavia.

➺ ( + ) his cousins were the siblings he’d never had, and for a man who doesn’t truly believe in intricacies of love he loves them with all he has in him. Wolfie the brother he’d craved, the two stirring trouble with every laugh as they raced down the cavernous halls of their homes. Days spent listening to his whispered dreams, his own a hollow echo in response to the passion that thrummed from his cousin’s. The lectures of his poor influence never bothered him, his role had always been rather set after all. The shadow to the sun. Was he ever to be a leader? Possibly. But he was never born of the responsibility and dreams that lingered over his cousin, never expected to amount to anything rather spectacular beyond the built business reputation and blood that soaked the name Preston. He was too impulsive, too passionate to have it beaten from his bones, just always a little too much.

➺ ( + ) And Octavia – she held a special place in his heart. Daddy’s little girl, it was easy to see how she could bat her lashes and smile her smile and let the world fall at her feet. He admired it, respected it even. Game always has to appreciate the game. She and her brother leaving for Ashcroft was a blow he hadn’t anticipated, for they’d always had one another, the two musketeers and the girl who fought to be anything but a shadow. It was an unfamiliar ache, missing them. And with Octavia now gone, that ache has grown tenfold. Morphed into anger for what he knew she was up to, for somehow somewhere, she’d pissed off the wrong people to where even the Preston name couldn’t quite save her soul. But her essence is everywhere, haunting the halls and whispering in ears. It’s all so very dramatic, so very her. He’d pour one out for her if he didn’t think she’d simper about his distaste for wasted wine. Her spirit was a mild comfort, a balm over a roughened wound. a bigger amusement than anything, a middle finger to those who’d ended her bright existence. A Preston knew how to fuck you over, that was made all the more clear with each report of her sightings. And god, did he love her for it.

➺ ( + ) and that at the very crux of it all, is what has brought him to ashcroft. A new scene for parties, new faces, and a remaining cousin who could use a shoulder to lean on. & those all look lovely on paper, but the fine print? Always read it carefully. For the smiles and charm are all Violette without a doubt. But the danger that lingers, the passion and fire that fuel his soul and border on the precipice of mania? Alexandre is Simon Preston’s son, that was never to be denied for long. And someone has wronged them all, taken things they had no right to take. Someone he considered to be a part of his heart. He doesn’t take kindly to such things, and so to Ashcroft he’s come. He is passion, recklessness, a hidden grief fueled by fleeting love wrapped in a shiny veneered package. He’s here to revel, to discover, to maybe even punish. If deemed necessary. Blood will always be blood, and for a man who’s always willing to go a little too far? It is all that remains.

➺ ( + ) as for what has qualified him for such a prestigious society upon his enrollment well, that is a mystery to some and a hard headline to others. His family’s connections? His relation to Wolfie? His letters of transfer from his classical composition professors back in London? As far as Xandre is concerned, it’s nothing more than a certain Oberon Ashcroft seeing he has a role to play, and one he plays rather well. Unassuming at first, a disarming charm soothing the blunt edges of his words. He says what he feels, and what he knows must be said. And due to that, he knows his worth, what he brings to the table. Knows how poorly it would look if he hadn’t been inducted. He brings a good time, a laugh, a chance to rebel against the societal norms and oppressions that leak from every pore of Ashcroft. But he also brings a weighted name, a wicked ability to decipher through the purple prose people can preach, to the truth at the core of it all. And he plays a mean Chopin, what can he say?

➺ ( + ) there is no way to wrap up all that he is, to summarize a man who is nothing short of a dichotomy, a symphony in fractured parts. Perhaps a jekyll and hyde of his own making, two heads of the same beast he wielded within his soul. for there was something to be said of being seen, eyes drawn to your every move, to feel the power of being adored, desired, craved. He is the devil on your shoulder, crooning saccharine words and screaming in triumph in a breadth. A gleam of mania tinging those baby blues when he pushes just so to get his way. He is that very symphony, a concerto who’s pace continues to drive faster and faster, upward and onward until its very PEAK, a cacophony of beauty and agony as notes ring out, clash, COLLIDE. and then, the briefest moment of silence. He has discovered the distractions his body can wield, but also the power to be found in stillness, in silence. At his lowest he craves it, aches to be surrounded by masses just once more to drown out the roaring in his mind, to draw it to ecstasy, to blissful silence. All leading up to the final, ringing note. Before the applause, of course. never deny yourself the applause. That had always been Lesson One.

➺ A LETTER TO OCTAVIA:

Tavia —

Where do I start? You always knew how to make an entrance, tav. should’ve figured your exit would be the same. But…why the fuck wouldn’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the extent of just how bad shit had gotten so quickly? You knew no matter what I said, or how I complained or warned you off to be careful I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. You didn’t have to do this alone. I should’ve seen that and come the first time you called. Don’t haunt me for that. And that police chief mentioned a baby, Tav. You never– me of all people would have understood. You were the only one I ever told about Clara, how my dad paid her off. You never judged me for him, you understood. Let me get wasted and cry it out in that shitty suite in London. We could have made a club of it, you and me. Poor little Rich kids with secret kids. Poetic, no? Poetic justice is bullshit in hindsight. And I just really, really miss you.

I’m sure everyone in these letters are telling you the reasons they adored you, how they’ll never forget you, the wild memories they’re sharing with you, that they say they’ll never forget. I don’t need to say all those things. You know I do, and you know I won’t forget. You’re a part of my heart, as battered and shriveled as we liked to joke it is. But apparently death makes us sentimental fools, so here’s this for you, because it’s 4am and the memory won’t leave my mind no matter how many times I close my eyes. That summer we spent, all of us, vacationing in that house on the riviera. Remember? I spent the day running around the grounds with Wolf and we’d laugh and tease like elder brothers do when you’d seek us out, pouting those lips and crocodile tears until we included you in our games. But when the sun set and dinner was long gone, you’d drag me into the tea room with that baby grand in the corner and demanded I play. You always were a determined thing, you brat. But you’d smile that smile and even I couldn’t fight the urge to sit and play your favorites.You sang along and danced and danced and danced until you were breathless with it. Only you could make dancing to britney fuckin’ spears look like an artform you know? You’d call me your co-star, and never let me hate myself for the mistakes, never laughed if I stumbled on a note. You were my biggest supporter that summer, but I was only one of your many adoring fans. That’s how it was supposed to be. That won’t change, I promise.

( A few tears stain the edges of that previous paragraph, angry, bitter droplets that he wipes away and slips the paper further to defend the onslaught of them. He sighs deeply, clears his throat. )

And look at you now, huh? Haunting your friends and your brother with the best of ‘em. Leave it to you to find a way to remain the star of the show even in death. I can see how it’s unravelling them. The ones who look too pale to be innocent, everyone here has a fucking secret. Thanks to you maybe we’ll see them all sooner than later. And what fun that’s gonna be. But do me a favor and haunt some hot freshman for me, will you? Whisper sweet nothings of my beauty in their ears, make it a good one. I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for it.

I’ll watch over Wolfie. Of course I will. I’ll get him piss drunk at that club you mentioned last time we talked, bring a few lines and a bottle of dom all just for you, gorgeous. I’m here now for him, for you. I’m here for what I should have done from the beginning. If you had to leave him —had to leave us, it won’t be for nothing.

I miss you, cherie. Visit me tonight in my dreams, alright? You can dance for me, I’ll play you a song.

We’ll make it a happy one, for old times sake.

-Xandre

#spectreintro #𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔵𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔦 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫 ╱ 𝘴𝘵𝘶��𝘺 .#if you read this whole thing ur a god and i am sorry

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poems-and-pillows-and-puppies · 5 years ago

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Song of the Sea: Chapter 2- Scabbard

Hello there! This is chapter 2 of the Pirate!AU inspired fanfic. The original AU’s mastermind is @thenerdyalchemist. I hope you enjoy! Here’s the link to the Ao3 chapter- https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967113/chapters/54936304

Rayla was falling. Falling, like a feather from the seagulls she loved to watch so intently with her parents. Deep, in the cold darkness of forceful rest. Her hands felt feather light, her eyes felt like lead. She knew she had to reach her fathers, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t touch, couldn’t reach- She could see nothing, but she could see everything. She could see her Papa, unconscious on the floor, and her Dad, pacing back and forth in a frenzy. She could see the looks of horror in the eyes of some of the men that had hurt her Papa, hurt her Dad, made her cry. She couldn’t help but forgive them. She was sure that this was all an accident. That they meant to snatch another girl. But the hooded guy’s words echoed in her subconscious. They said they wanted her, and it made her feel… terrified? Sad? She didn’t know, just like how she didn’t know how to comfort Dad when he was sad and sniffly and all messy. Just like she wanted to know then, she wanted to know now, how to hold her Daddy’s hand and tell him that everything was alright, that their little girl was safe and sound… But no matter how hard she tried, her mouth would not open and her vocal chords refused to play a single note. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to understand why her Papa was running away, hiding in the bustling crowd, from Dad. Why her Dad and her Papa were crying, alone in the masses, separated from each other even as they mourned in tandem for her fate. She wanted to feel the rough calluses of the crewmates again, the soft feathers of the seagull that always followed her around. She wanted to taste the briney spray from the sea that she refuses to dive into, the cold treats that she and Papa loved to seek out from their nomadic adventures through the local markets. But, even as she drowned in air, hair whipping around her face like the sail in a powerful storm, she wanted OUT. She wanted to be released from this prison, the shackles of sleep that bound her to her unconscious. She tugged at the chains, feeling hysteria clawing its way up her throat. With one final sigh, she stopped resisting the flow of time and allowed herself to fall down, down, down….

A shiver snapped her back into the physical word, and each waft of cold air brought her closer to full consciousness. ‘Where.. am I?’ She opened her eyes, trying- and failing- to blink out the film that covered her violet eyes. She felt cold bars around her, and she shifted slightly in order to stop the rusty metal bars of her cage from digging into her thighs. The rope binding around her wrists chafed her flesh slightly, and she winced from the friction. The sound of mature voices, both male and female, caught her attention. “The girl is only 10! You can’t possibly…”

“We must...Pirate..”

“Your Majesty…. Hasn’t been trained..”

Rayla strained to hear what they were saying. ‘Their accents are so different compared to Dad and Papa’s…Am I still in Alorminia?’

“The girl couldn’t possibly become the next Pirate King!”

Oh, their voices were getting louder.

“Yes, she can. Any pirate could become the next Pirate King!”

That man.. His voice sounds familiar, but she couldn’t quite place from where.

“Normis.”

“The Pirate King’s partner was no better. He flashed his weaselly eyes at me when I was spying on them!”

Oh, now she knew. ‘That roundish merchant was a spy? I didn’t think about his behavior that deeply.. No wonder Papa and Dad had been able to stay safe for so long! But then..’ She frowned. ‘Then I came along. They had to worry about me. That’s why Papa got hurt in the first place.’ She bowed her head from the uncomfortable position she was in. ‘It was my fault that this all happened. He was hurt, and it was all my fault. All my fault… All my fault.’ The thoughts rattled in her mind, destroying all of her other thoughts. ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have had to defend me. It was all my fault.’ Her eyes began to itch, and she struggled to wipe them without creating any noises that would alert them to her consciousness. She heard a clatter, and her heart dropped in tandem with the spike of fear that impaled it. The dreadlocked man, the one they kept calling ‘King Harrow’, had stood up from his ornately-decorated chair. His forehead flashed with sweat, and beads of the fluid had traveled down the man’s chiseled face, much to the confusion of the young girl. ‘It’s cold in here. Why is the man sweating?’ He cleared his throat, a deep “ahem” rumbling through the air like the panther’s growl. The entire room went silent. “We must not think too hastily. We must not execute the girl. She is too young for us to determine what she will be like as she grows up.” His baritone voice was deep and strange, but it comforted Rayla like a rough-shod fiber blanket on a cold and starry night. She relaxed, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly. ‘I don’t know what ‘eggs-e-cute’ means, but it sounded bad. Or maybe..’ She tilted her head, confused. ‘Cute eggs? I’ve heard someone call me that. Are they.. complimenting me?’ Perplexed by this turn of events, she chose to stay silent instead of voicing her confusion out loud, an action that would most definitely speed the debate up. “My lord!” A woman shot out of her seat like one of Runaan’s cannonballs. “What would decide to do instead? Keep her within these castle walls to spy on us? We cannot trust-” King Harrow held up a gold-encrusted hand, and she halted her barrage. “Opeli.” The lady, newly dubbed ‘Opeli’, shifted at the mention of her name. “We will not let her stay in the guest chambers.” Opeli’s tense position softened, and she began to take her chair once more. “But.” She stopped moving as if she had been frozen in time. “We will not execute her until a final decision is made. Take her to the jail cells.”

“M-my lord! I-”

“Opeli!” The firmness made clear in his tone made everyone in the room flinch, including Rayla. “Do your duty and take her to the jails. She must not be interrogated until a final order is made. Have I made myself clear?” King Harrow looked upon her in annoyance. Opeli curstied hastily and squeaked out a feeble “Yes, my lord.” She turned toward Rayla’s cage. Rayla’s eyes widened in fear. ‘What are they doing to me?’ Opeli kneeled down to open the cage and was met with a small growl, not unlike a young guard dog. She recoiled slightly, then bent down to see the young girl baring her teeth toward her like an enraged hunting dog. “Your Majesty. The girl is awake.” Murmurs of shock and worry reverberated around the room. “How will we transport the girl there?” A voice pierced the tense atmosphere. King Harrow frowned. “Try to take her out. If she struggles, keep her in the cage.” Rayla shuddered. She did not like the cage. It felt so alien, so different from the open seas and decks that she loved to roam. Opeli kneeled down and ruffled around in her robes. After a few moments of searching, she pulled out a small copper key with a quiet “Aha!” She gently inserted the key into the lock that kept the cage’s door shut and began to turn it in different directions. A soft click signalled that her efforts were not in vain. She slowly opened up the cage door. Rayla cowered in the very corner of the small enclosure, terrified of the woman who was now reaching into her space. Opeli noticed her apprehension and drew back, worried. Rayla uncurled herself to take a better look at her. Her long, flowing hair was touching the ground, cleaning the smooth stone floor of the throne room. It framed her oval face like curtains, reminding Rayla of the caramel-colored curtains that Ethari had bought for the couple’s 5 year anniversary. She smiled, no longer the scary woman that had been arguing with the king not long ago. She extended her hand out tentatively, and the woman’s much larger, rougher hand tenderly clasped it. “Hey, there.” Her melodic voice calmed Rayla down a little, quelling her fears temporarily. She took a deep, calming breath. ‘Maybe… everything will be fine.’

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Everything was most definitely NOT FINE. Rayla whimpered underneath the board that doubled as her bed. ‘I don’t like this.. I don’t… don’t…I want Papa...Dad..’ Tears brewed in her eyes, and she let them fall, crystalline droplets twinkling like diamonds in the night-time. “I want to go home…” She curled up into a ball, wishing with all her heart to be back in her parents’ arms, to be back on the ship, frolicking with the crewmates… anything but this. The cold stone sucked away her heat, her love, her happiness… She weeped, letting her sniffles echo into the unyielding stone walls. Her dad was always holding back his emotions, but she wasn’t him, and she let the tears flow like twin rivers, moistening her bluish tattoos. The sound of sniffling echoed back to her, but it sounded… different. Soft footsteps padded on the stone-covered ground, and she shot up, ears perking up ever-so-slightly. ‘Dad? Papa?’ The sniffles continued, and Rayla realized that there was no way it could be her parents. She sighed and fell to the floor, tears continuing to flow freely down her face. She turned her head and gasped silently at who it was. It was a small boy, younger than her for sure, toting a small satchel-sketchbook and a long, winding scarf that trailed down every stair he had previously stepped on like a bridal trail. The boy himself looked no better than her, nose red and yellow in the torchlight, eyes puffy and swollen. He hiccuped, a pathetic noise that would’ve driven her to comfort him, if she wasn’t trapped in a cell. With a jolt, she realized that there were no guards accompanying him. ‘If he hadn’t done something wrong, like me, then why is he here?’ She watched, confused, as the boy plodded over to a nearby jail-bench. He unwound his scarf and turned to the side, revealing his rounded ears. He disappeared into the shadows of an adjacent cell, leaving Rayla to wonder what the boy was doing. A few minutes passed, then she heard a quiet ‘twang’ sound from within. The boy walked out, holding a wooden instrument that Rayla couldn’t recognize. ‘What is he doing?’ He began to pluck it, turning one of the four pegs in tandem. Once he had finished playing that peculiar tune, he reached into the darkness and pulled out a… long… stick? Rayla, at the expense of being redundant, asked herself, ‘Just WHAT is he DOING?’ He placed the stick straight in the middle over the instrument and took a deep breath. And, in the next breath he took, took her breath away. As his stick moved, his fingers danced upon the instrument. The indescribable melody took Rayla on an adventure. She felt the rush of wind and the feeling of leather upon her skin, of crows and green pastures that she had never- and would never- see. She saw cattle grazing, people playing with fans and cherry blossoms in the chill of midwinter, feathers dancing around an awestruck crowd. She ran and laughed and twirled in the petals of the hyacinths, played with people who she had never seen before, flew- then it all stopped. The boy stood, sobbing for breath, as his last note pealed through the air. He stood, panting, as the notes died away and the echoes began to fade. He began to pack his instrument up. Rayla looked on in wonder. ‘That was.. a song?’ She felt her cheeks and they came back wet, even more soaked than before he had came down to serenade the empty walls. As the boy scaled the stairs, she began to wonder. ‘Who was this kid? Why did he come down just to play that for me?’

‘Did he know I was there?’

As the thoughts swirled and hatched in her mind, she closed her eyes, finally content with the heat of the stone below her. How it became that warm, she will never know. However, she knew that it must have had something to do with that boy. She faded into a dreamless sleep, her face finally peaceful in her slumber. Opeli smiled from her place at the scrying bowl. “Callum, what have you done?” She stood up. “I must go. The step-prince awaits.” Her boots clacked against the floor, and the scrying bowl was clear once more, the final wisps of bluish magic fading away from its rim. “And so does she.”

#thenerdyalchemist #tdp #thedragonprinceofficial #the dragon prince #fanfic #pirate!au #ruthari #runaan #ethari #tdp pirate!au

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riverdaleroundup · 7 years ago

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Riverdale Roundup: 2x05 “ When A Stranger Calls”

Alright here I am once again, watching this damn show almost a week late. I honest to god don’t really remember what happened last time.

Oh right the Black Hood gave Betty a call and was like “ Hey girl, it’s me. Ya boy”. And he’s all like your sisters Uterus is FULL of sin so like if you don’t behave i’m going to kill that bish.” Alice comes in and assumes Betty is on the phone with her boyfriend like a normal girl instead of a mystery psycho killer and is like okay “ I pretended to like your boyfriend for like 3 minutes but honestly you should dump him. “

The writers remember that Betty and Archie are supposed to be freinds and they walk to school together and Betty is like I have tea to spill. Archie is like “you gotta go to the police” and Betty is like” nah i’m good. I’m fifteen and a grown up so like I can handle a literal murderer.”

So the Lodge family is gathered in Daddy's study and plotting about getting some other richie rich family to give them money for their SoDale(?) project and i’m like I STILL don’t know what the fuck that is.

Jughead meets up with the cast off B league teenage string of the South Side Serpents and it’s confirmed to me that Dilton confirmed did stab himself like a little attention seeking whore. I was unsure about that. So the Serpents think that the next reasonable step after the rumble at midnight with the Riverdale high school Bulldogs is to blow up a LITERAL building. That makes good sense. The slithery little snakey snakes are all like “ we aren’t the bad guys and to prove it to you we’re going to blow up the local newspaper with a pipe bomb our bros cousin made in his garage.”

Veronica starts going off about her old life with this Nicky bish back in nam where they went on crazy adventures and stayed up all night and i’m like oh last year? When you were 14?

Jughead rolls up to the South side Serpent bar and is like ‘okay i’m in put me in the gang’, and they’re like “ okay but first we’re going to haze you like you’re a pledge at Alpha Sigma Phi at Centeral Florida State University. “

The black hood is all like “Betty publish this story about your mother and her past on the south side” but like he literally sends her a newspaper clipping from back in the day. So don’t people already know about this? Why is it a big deal? Riverdale is small and gossipy as we’ve already seen so like did no one read the newspaper that day or did Alice gather them all up and burn them before anyone got their morning paper from their doorstep?

The Sinclairs roll up and “ Nicholas” as Veronica calls him at least 11 times in the span of this 45 second scene is like “ this hotel sucks” and Veronica is like “ The five seasons is lovely.” So this is supposed to be a play on the four seasons which are VERY fancy hotels. In what world would a town like Riverdale have anything close a four seasons or anything close to the kind of apartment that the Lodges live in? Nicholas should be complaining about having to stay at a Best Western or as this show would probably call it a Best Eastern or some bs like that, because that is far more plausible and riverdale is nothing if not completely plausible. So where do I know this Nicholas guy from? Okay so I JUST discovered that his name is St. Clair and not Sinclar. Fucking sue me. I’m not going back to change it. that’s just too much work and I literally could not care less. He was that kid DJ in XOXO and in Staten Island summer. Oh shut the fuck up he was in 13! The musical. That’s fucking hilarious. Mirder me.

So Alice (whose bangs are once again different and I can’t handle it omg pick a style and stick to it) is all like Betty did you write this letter yourself for attention you sneaky little bish. Honestly it’s not going to shock me if the person who is calling Betty isn’t the real black hood and just someone fucking with her. How iconic would it be if it was Cheryl being like “ you threatened me in the bathroom so now i’m going to ruin your whole fucking life”. That would honestly make sense. So either Alice or Betty are getting Black Hood notes from a copy cat. OR there are two blackhoods. Who the hell knows?

Archie is in his bedroom pumping iron because you know he’s a man.

Jughead is trying to learn the serpent pledge and honestly shouldn’t it just be like “ I promise to share and be a friend” ala the girl guides. That’s so much simpler. So Jughead has to take care of hot dog and get spat on while what’s his face screams in his face and to top that all off he has to put his hand in the Rattle snake enclosure and i’m like okay i’m out. No gang for me. Toni calls Jughead Juggie and honestly i’m cringing.

Betty keeps coming for her mother and i’m like chill bish.

Veronica, Nick, and Archie are hanging out in her bedroom and it’s the strangest trio ever. Veronica turns down a line of coke because she’s too full from eating copious amounts of pasta at dinner i’m sure.

If Betty could change her ring tone I would be like SUPER grateful. Okay thanks. She finds out she would recognize the face under the hood and i’m like no shit don’t like 11 people live in this town? The black hood is like “ I’m your only friend so cut Veronica loose” and not going to lie that’s totally something I would do.

Jughead and Betty greet each other like they’re coming back from war in the middle of Pops dinner and they both just sit across the table from one another and feed each other lies. So healthy. So not annoying.

Nick is throwing a party and Cheryl is like fuck you all i’m coming to this thing. She’s Riverdale’s “ Resident IT girl” and she wants EVERYONE to know it.

It’s like three minutes into the party and Nick is like “ you’re friends are boring let’s all get high” and Veronica is like let’s pretend to be normal and i’m like is it normal that 15 year olds get high in hotel suite off pixie stick esque mystery drugs?

Betty tears Veronica a new asshole and is honestly SUPER harsh but honestly pretty honest and i’m like Betty did you have to be so brutal? But whatever. Into it.

Toni rolls up to warn Jughead about joining the gang but all I could focus on was the dog in the background.

Nick is coming on to Veronica and she’s like lol we’re friends, no bro. Then he’s like “listen up bitch. If you don’t blow me i’m going to tell my daddy to tell your daddy to go fuck himself.” So like yikes.

The black hood is like defs not #Teambughead and is like okay Betty dump him. She’s like shit, and basically begs Archie to break up with Jughead for her and I would be judgy but I once made my sister quit my job for me so like bitches in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

So Alice rolls up to this gala in a very TS style fashion owning the snake label in a romper that basically goes down to her belly button. She promptly tells her good for nothing husband to shut up and continues to act as if she owns the place. I love it.

Nick is like “ omg so sorry for trying to blackmail you into sleeping with me V. I’ve been to rehab btw” and Veronica is like “ Okay we can be BFFs again. Let’s drink some ginger ale.”

Archie breaks up with Jughead for Betty in front of his whole new posey and it’s ice cold. The Serpent's proceed to beat the living shit out of Jughead and i’m like cute. Best way to gain loyalty from your new member.

Nick and Cheryl are chatting and it’s going well until he’s like “ hmmm she seems into me. Guess I’ll roofie her.” Like what the actual fuck you monster?

Josie and the Pussycats + Veronica decide to pull out a cover of a song from Rent and i’m like i’m not mad but why? It just seems like such a random choice. They note Nick taking a clearly fucked up Cheryl “ out for some air” and i’m like are you not in a literal tent?

They run through the halls of the 5 seasons and discover a master set of keys because all hotels just leave those hanging around. They rescue Cheryl and beat the living shit out of Nick which like good on you but that’s like super illegal and he’s so the type to lawyer up with Daddys money.

Black Hood tells Betty to go to this abandoned house to find out who he is and i’m like bitch this is SUCH a bad idea. Obviously he was never going to tell her who he is. Like what did she expect she’d put the mask on turn around and be like “ OLD MAN SMITHERS!” like this is some Scooby Doo type shit? Clearly not you silly bish.

Okay so we all gather around Cheryls bedside and Archie is ready to go FULL red circle on Nick and honestly betty is almost just sitting there like “ why am I here?”

Toni and Jughead admire his new tattoo while he ices his now fucked up face and then suddenly they're making out and i’m like okay murder me i’m not here for this.

Black Hood is like “ Betty what the fuck you’ve been telling Archie we’ve been wheeling! That’s so rude. I’m going to murder your whole family if you don’t give me the name of someone to murder” and she’s like “ Nick the would be rapist” and black hood is like “ yas good one. We are totes twins.”

Boom. Episode over. There’s a new episode in like two days so like a bitch will be back.

#riverdale #riverdale roundup #Bughead #jughead jones #betty cooper #archie andrews #veronica lodge #the cw #the cw riverdale

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therakeisnogentleman-blog · 7 years ago

Text

One Act of Kindness: Part 1

Harry Potter, aged eleven, was once again locked in his cupboard under the stairs of Number Four, Privet Drive. A horribly unfair predicament in his opinion, it certainly wasn’t his fault that his enormously fat cousin, Dudley Dursley, had fallen through solid glass and into the snake enclosure at the zoo during his birthday trip to see the rare animals that were larger than he was. As Harry himself had said when his Uncle Vernon had forcefully pulled him aside for an explanation, it had just happened, as if by magic. That had done it. The m-word. Harry stewed as he lay back on the mattress he called a bed and flicked on the uncovered lightbulb that served as his only light. It had seemed a tremendously funny thing to say at the time. Now he was regretting not keeping his mouth shut.

“There’s no such thing as magic!” Uncle Vernon had roared as he’d shoved his nephew under the stairs and drawn the bolt. But he had been wrong. Or he’d lied, Harry was never sure which. What he did know was that Vernon Dursley, and by extension his wife Petunia and his son Dudley, was deathly afraid of the merest mention of magic. But Harry also knew something else, magic was real, this he knew with every fibre of his being. And what was more, Harry Potter, eleven years old, could do that magic. And not tricks or party games, two things expressly forbidden in the Dursley house, but real magic. Harry flopped over onto his stomach and reached under the lumpy mattress, feeling around until he found the dented biscuit tin that contained his most precious and deeply hidden secret. He knew if Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia ever found out about its contents, a locked door would be the least of his worries. He brushed the ever-present spiders that were his only real friends in the house and delicately popped the painted metal lid from the scratched body of the tin. Carefully, almost reverently, he reached in with shaking fingers to stroke the glossy, crumpled paper within. He unfolded the photograph, for photograph it was, and allowed a smile to turn the unhappy frown of his face to match the happy faces of those crowded into the picture. He mimicked a wave to the crowded people and they waved back.

This was Harry Potter’s most precious position, his lifeline in the dreary years spent under the stairs at Number Four. His Magic Picture. He’d memorized every crease, every detail, every face, but still he would spend entire nights after the Dursley’s had gone to bed staying awake and gazing at it. He often pondered the meaning of the gathered boys and girls in their strange black robes. What could the inscription written on the back in flowing letters, “Hogwarts, Gryffindor, 78” mean. He’d puzzled at that one ever since he’d learned to read. Back then, of course, the smiling faces hadn’t moved. That hadn’t happened until just a few years ago, on his seventh birthday. While at first it had been a nasty shock, it had also been undeniable truth that despite what the Dursley’s said when they were certain none of the neighbors could hear, he wasn’t a freak, and he wasn’t crazy. He was just Harry. Magical Harry. Even if he didn’t have the picture, Harry thought, he would have at least suspected. Strange things happened around him, things that filled people like his Aunt and Uncle with fear and dread. On top of that, Harry had wild, jet black hair that resisted any and all attempts to tame it, even being completely shaven off, which had happened more than once when Aunt Petunia had demanded he not look like a ‘scruffy vagabond’ on school picture day. He also had a thin scar that slashed across his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt. It was Harry’s favourite thing about himself. Other than the fact that he could do magic, of course.

He traced his fingers across the glossy surface, careful not to smudge the ink, not to flake away the singed edge at the top of the picture. It had been that way for as long as he could remember; another mystery of his Magic Picture. Finally, as they did without fail, his eyes came to rest on the two standing at the very front of the frame. On the left, a boy, his hair dark and unruly, his face open and carefree as he occasionally wrestled with the long haired boy beside him or playfully ribbed the sandy haired boy with the worn down robes in the row above him. On the right, a girl, dark red hair alight in the pictures eternal early summer sunshine, bright green eyes set in a smiling face as she whispered to a girl at her right or grasped the hand of the boy to her left. Harry had a name and a personality that he’d made up for everyone in the photograph, from Richard for the lion-haired boy on the topmost row, to Ratface, who hovered over the shoulder of the Raggedy Boy. But he’d never been able to bring himself to name those front two. Something about them just felt too real, too close. Maybe it was all the similarities he’d begun to see between that boy and girl and himself. On his more hopeful nights, he even allowed himself to daydream that those two might be his parents.

“Boy, get out here now!” Uncle Vernon roared in a voice that declared despite his wrongful imprisonment, he’d still be expected to cook dinner. Harry hurriedly placed his Magic Picture back in its tin and hid it beneath his mattress. He just had time to hop back onto the bed when the bolt withdrew and the door was pulled open.

“Coming, Uncle Vernon,” he said dully. Under his Uncle’s watchful eye, Harry trudged towards the kitchen where the hot stove and a night’s worth of pots and pans awaited his attention. Much to Uncle Vernon’s obvious and very smug satisfaction, he did not mention magic. Because of course, outside his safe haven pressed within that glossy sheet of paper, magic didn’t exist. At least, not while the Dursleys were watching.

Xxx

It was almost the end of June. Or at least, that was what the calendar pinned to Harry’s wall with half a broken paperclip said. It was getting hard to tell, because Harry was still confined to his cupboard barring being let out for meals and trips to the toilet ever since the incident on Dudley’s birthday almost a month before. It was becoming distressingly routine, though Harry supposed as he awoke one morning to the thundering of his obese pig of a cousin running down the stairs that since nearly everything he held dear was within arm’s reach from where he lay it was no great loss. If there was anything he did miss, it was the chance to get outside and as far away from Privet Drive as possible for an unattended eleven year old. Preferably somewhere uphill to discourage pursuit by his cousin. In the past, he’d often spent his rare free days in the local parks and amongst the thin, pruned trees that tried to pass for ‘the woodlands,’ partly as an effort to get away from Dudley’s gang, but also for the thrill of exploration and discovery. And, though he would never admit it, he had a secret hope that one day he’d recognize one of the faces from his Magic Picture.

“Get up, Potter, it’s time for breakfast!” Dudley bellowed raucously as he ran up and down the stairs above Harry’s head. It was a time honoured tradition in the Dursley household. Harry sighed and wiped his glasses, planting them on his face and running a hand through his unruly hair. Harry had learned early on that it was best to wait before leaving his cupboard, usually until Dudley grew tired of running up and down the stairs and waddled off to the kitchen. Admittedly it didn’t take very long these days, which was good because Harry knew that if he waited too long his cousin would be replaced by his much less pleasant and much angrier uncle. Harry counted the seconds. He hadn’t been counting for long when the clomping above his head stopped, followed quickly by a desultory rattle of his cupboard door as an increasingly irritated Dudley made one last attempt to get a reaction from his trapped cousin. At the slamming of the kitchen door, Harry slipped from the dusty confines of his prison and readied himself to cook another meal for his ungrateful hosts. (Bacon and eggs for the Dursleys, dried toast and as many scraps as he could carry off for Harry.)

At that moment, the post dropped through the letterbox, landing loudly atop the folded issue of the Daily Mail. Briefly Harry considered leaving it there on the rug, but he soon thought better of it. If he showed up without it he’d only be sent out for it later. And it would be harder to hide the three strips of bacon he planned to be smuggling back to his cupboard with his hands full of postcards and letters anyway. He trudged down the hall, one eye fixed on the kitchen door. He stooped to pick up the pile, taking his time to flip through the letters. He was not a particularly nosy boy, but he did have a natural curiosity that life with the Dursleys had not quite been able to stomp out. Today it looked like his curiosity was going to go unsated; the top of the pile was frightfully dull. Bill. Bill. Postcard. Bill. Advertisement for a new brand of toothpaste… And a letter addressed to Harry. That last one stopped the boy in his tracks, just as he crossed the threshold into the Dursleys’ kitchen. There it was, his name written in neat script, marked in bright green ink.

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Harry’s heart beat fiercely in his chest as he turned the letter over. The back was sealed with wax, a coat of arms adorned with a lion, an eagle, a snake, and a badger. And above them all the words Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hogwarts. Just like his Picture. Harry had always had his suspicions. With its uniforms and its ordered rows, his Picture was undeniably a school picture of some kind. That it was a school of magic followed from that. Magical school picture, magical school. But to have it proven to him before his very own eyes was almost too much for young Harry to bear. He suppressed a shudder of joy.

“What’s that you’ve got there, boy?” His uncle’s voice pierced the bubble of happiness that had swelled about him as the prospect of leaving the Dursleys’ to learn real magic at a real magic school filled his head. Harry landed from his place amongst the clouds so fast it nearly sent his head spinning. Too late he realized that he should have hidden this precious thing. Tucked it under his mattress to discover under the safety of torchlight. Briefly he considered running for it anyway, hiding in his cupboard and reading the letter before it could be snatched away from him. But he saw that Uncle Vernon had already seen something in his hands. The man’s eyes narrowed, the gears of suspicion already turning in his head. If Harry ran now he’d only be chased, and with nowhere but the cupboard to go, he’d be caught. Then Uncle Vernon would find the letter. He might even find the Picture. Harry felt his shoulders slump under the realization. He held out the letter with trembling fingers, offering it to his bellicose relatives. Uncle Vernon snatched it away and held it away from him to get a good look at it. As his piggy eyes fell on the neat green script something dawned behind them. Over his shoulder, Aunt Petunia and Dudley saw it two. Dudley only looked on, blankly confused. But his Aunt and Uncle blanched. They recognized the words and for the first time Harry saw a strange new thing in their eyes. Harry saw the glint of what could only be fear.

“What a load of nonsense,” his Aunt said stiffly. She plucked the letter from her husband’s hands and tore it neatly to small, unreadable pieces before throwing them in the bin. “Really bad taste, these advertisers.” She sniffed and turned up her nose as she gathered up the bin bag.

“Yes,” Vernon agreed, “someone’s idea of a good joke,” he said hurriedly and in a tone that he thought it a particularly poor joke. “No doubt selling brain rotting fairy stories to dull children. I’ll have none of it, not in my house, no sir.” He looked back to Harry. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Fix the breakfast things and go back to your cupboard.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.” Harry gritted his teeth and started up the stove. His mind was not on the eggs and bacon, however. All he could think about was the letter. Behind him he heard his Aunt open the door and saw her walk to the curb with the bin bag in hand; something Harry couldn’t recall her ever doing for herself. Outside, a large brown owl perched atop the white painted fence post, watching her make the walk up the narrow path that led between Number Four and Number Six. Harry flipped the hissing bacon as he tried to come up with a plan to search the bin before the trucks came to take it away, but came up blank. By the time he served the slightly overcooked food onto four plates and retreated with the smallest of them to the cupboard under the stairs, he still hadn’t come up with anything workable. He had to sit in the dark as the sound of hissing brakes and squeaking wheels rolled up outside accompanied by the laughter of the bin men. He took out the folded Picture and looked at it again, letting loose a small defeated sigh. His Uncle’s words repeated in his head. What if it had been a cruel joke? He read the words on the back again. The letter had definitely said Hogwarts, he was sure of it. Harry slipped the Picture back into its tin so that it wouldn’t be ruining by the tears that threatened to spill past screwed closed eyelids. Harry rarely cried, not when he was punished for outperforming his cousin, not when he was kept in the house when the weather was nice and sent out when it was raining, not even when Dudley’s gang cornered him at school. But now the unfairness of the situation was simply too much to bear. Harry wiped his eyes defiantly, refusing to let the tears fall. He was going to find out what was in that letter whether the Dursleys wanted him to know or not. He just wasn’t sure how to go about it. He fell asleep to the sound of owls hooting softly outside, his head filled with half-formed plans and schemes.

Xxx

The arrival of the mysterious letter caused quite a stir in the Dursley household, much to Harry’s confusion. One the one side, his Aunt and Uncle were treating him far more unpleasantly than usual. Uncle Vernon especially was growing increasingly agitated around his nephew, especially in the mornings or when they had the ill fortune of meeting anywhere in the vicinity of the letterbox, which the piggish man watched like a hawk every minute of the day. On the other hand, Harry’s confinement had been broken, and on top of that he had been moved to Dudley’s spare bedroom upstairs. His guardians had muttered something about “needing the cupboard for storage,” but Harry didn’t buy it for a second. Aside from his healthy skepticism about anything his Aunt and Uncle told him, their excuse had the fatal flaw of Dudley’s spare bedroom being used for nothing but storage, at least of a sort. The upstairs room that Harry now found himself in was dominated by a ramshackle collection of all the old toys that Dudley had broken, grown bored of, or required any sort of physical excursion. Harry now shared a room with a half dozen old yo-yos, half a skateboard, and other assorted bric-a-brak. But still, it was a step up from a dusty cupboard full of spiders. He had been surprised with the move the morning after his letter had arrived at Number Four, dragged from his bed by a dressing gowned Uncle Vernon and given scant minutes to gather up a few armfuls of his things, thankfully including the battered biscuit tin. That had been the first thing he’d picked up, careful to keep it out of sight of his relatives as he ascended the stairs with it nestled in a bundle of castoff clothes. Now it was safely hidden deep within the writing desk that had seen neither paper nor pen during Dudley’s ownership.

Right now, Harry was sitting at the desk, slowly striking out potential plans for getting his hands on a copy of the letter from Hogwarts. He’d let the matter drop since the day he’d been moved out from under the stairs, resigned to preparing to attend Stonewall High come September. That is, until by chance he had spotted the pile left by the postman on Wednesday morning. It had contained no fewer than five of the emerald inked envelopes. Uncle Vernon had quickly gathered them up before he could grab one, but just seeing one had been enough to reignite Harry’s need to see what was inside. At first he had been elated that he hadn’t missed his one chance. Then he had been angry that more letters had been arriving and that they were being hidden from him. Now he had settled on determined. He struck a line through sneaking out in the morning before his Uncle was awake and getting the letter directly from the postman himself. He’d tried that yesterday, only to step on a sleeping and very cross Uncle Vernon who’d been lying in front of the door. Harry leaned back into his chair. Downstairs he heard the sound of a drill running. Curious, he padded over to the room’s door and peeked out. Down the stairs, he could see Uncle Vernon crouched down in front of the letter box, his prized electric screwdriver in his hand. He was muttering to himself as the thing whirred noisily in his hand. He looked up onto the landing with a strange look on his face and nodded to Harry as he withdrew from the door. To his dismay, Harry saw a slat of wood haphazardly affixed across the brass letterbox. Uncle Vernon grinned widely as if immensely proud of himself, whistling as he spun the screwdriver by its cord. Harry closed the door on the sight of the boarded up portal and slouched over to his desk. He crumpled up the list he’d been working on and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

“Plan G,” he muttered to himself as he began to scrawl across the page.

Xxx

Harry shivered miserably. Plan G hadn’t worked. Neither had plans H and I. Not that it would have mattered in the end anyway. Harry was quite convinced that his uncle had gone mad, and by the looks plastered across the faces of both his aunt and cousin, he wasn’t alone in that conviction. Uncle Vernon muttered darkly as he hauled on the oars of the small rowboat that he’d forced them all onto. His face was manic, his bristly mustache askew in the whipping winds and icy salt sea spray that battered the boat. Stuffed amongst the haphazardly packed suitcases that filled the prow of the rowboat was a long, thin package wrapped in brown paper along with a fresh bundle of nearly a hundred green inked envelopes that had been waiting at the front desk of the small hotel they’d stayed the previous night. Harry’s uncle caught the line of his gaze and smiled a wicked grin. Very deliberately, he grabbed handfuls of the Hogwarts letters and pitched them overboard. Harry watched forlornly as the paper slipped below the pitch black waves in flurries and drifts. He resisted the urge to reach out and pluck one of them from the water, lest he join them in their trip to the bottom of the Channel.

Harry pulled his thin plaid shirt around himself and shivered again as a fresh wave of icy water spilled over the edge of the boat. By now the entire family had become soaked through and there was still no sight of their destination. Harry peered out into the gathering darkness of the sunset but could see nothing in the rain lashed plain of the open sea. It was a surprise to all but Uncle Vernon when the boat ran aground with an ugly gnashing sound.

“Aha, it looks like we’re here,” Vernon said, almost giddily. In the dim light, Harry could almost make out the low outline of a rocky island. For a moment, lightning flashed in the sky and peals of thunder crashed. The sky lit up, silhouetting a rickety one-story hut slumped over in the center of the humped landmass. Harry’s shoulders slumped. He hadn’t thought that the week could have gotten any worse, but here he was. Uncle Vernon hopped from the small boat and was marching up to the hut on the rock, a spring in his step, leaving Petunia and Dudley to haul up the cases. Harry followed them morosely, for once left without the bulk of the chores. Still, he felt the blame of his relatives falling on him. As if it was his fault that Uncle Vernon had hauled them out into the middle of nowhere. He could have just handed over the first letter. Or one of the set that came after. Or any of the dozens that had flooded Number Four the day before. He brooded all the way up to the threshold of the hut. The inside was lit by a single bare lightbulb which swung gently from the ceiling, casting light and shadow around the room. Harry pulled the door closed behind him. The door was ill-fitting in the doorframe and continued to let in a draft. Outside the rain continued to beat against the thin roof with a dull roar.

His Aunt and Uncle were crouched down in front of a narrow chimney grate across the room, their lowered voices agitatedly snapping back and forth between them. Dudley had retreated to the corner, where the rustling of crisp packets and gnashing jaws revealed that he had found his way into the paltry fare that his father had bought from a roadside petrol station. Harry felt his spirits fall even further as he surveyed the room. The only furniture was a musty looking and moth eaten sofa and a thin rug on the floor before the fireplace. An open door revealed another room, smaller than the first. A lumpy bed was just about visible there. The whole shack was filled with the wet, sour smell of seaweed and the damp air had a salty aftertaste. The fireplace emitted a sad cough of dirty black smoke as Uncle Vernon tried and failed to light the empty crisp packets and banana skins that were the remains of their lunch and dinner. Apparently when Vernon had somehow managed to find the owner of this place to rent, he hadn’t inquired as to whether it had any heating. Or was even stocked with firewood. Harry found a spot on the ground and sat down, pressing his back to a reasonably dry patch of wall as his Aunt and Uncle’s argument grew louder and snappier.

After about an hour of failing to get any kind of warmth out of the fire grate, Uncle Vernon threw up his hands and declared he was going to bed. He and his wife tucked their overweight son into the sofa and threw Harry a blanket and a dirty look before disappearing into the other room with a slammed door. Dudley offered him a look of malevolent glee before rolling over and promptly falling to sleep. His loud, porcine snores filled the hut as the rain continued to fall. Harry picked up the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Quietly, he got up and shuffled over to the small bag he’d been allowed to take with him when he’d been dragged from the house. He returned to his place on the floor and untied the repurposed shoelaces holding his bag closed. Out spilled a few bundles of fresh socks, a brown paper bag, and the faded biscuit tin. Harry quickly concealed the latter under his blanket and unrolled the bag. Inside was a particularly dry sandwich and a handful of miniature satsumas. It wasn’t much, but it was all that he had been able to smuggle out of the kitchen in preparation for the trip. Harry tucked into the sandwich with the relish of a starving man. He left the satsumas, he had no idea how long he’d be stuck out here.

Xxx

Harry was still awake as the numerals that glowed on Dudley’s new digital watch approached midnight. His food was now safely hidden in the folds of his thread bare blanket, and he had taken out his Photograph. He watched the smiling faces and cheerful waves of the neat rows of students with a dull ache somewhere in his chest. What he would give to join them, just for a day. Perhaps tomorrow, that would be the greatest gift Harry could ever imagine. Tomorrow it would be July 31st, Harry birthday. Harry looked over at the watch that hung around his cousin’s hammy wrist. 11:59. Harry let out a long, dispirited sigh and lifted up the photo until it covered up the room. Just for a minute, he pretended that he was there with them. He was standing behind an old timey camera, the kind with a big wooden box and a cloth hood. He smiled as he directed them to settle down, to smile. Unbidden, the memory of Uncle Vernon tearing up his Hogwarts letter smashed the happy fantasy. Harry’s good mood soured and he lowered the picture carefully. He murmured into the darkness, voicing a silent wish that had been bubbling up inside of him for the entire week.

“I should have just opened that first letter when I found it. If I could just get my hands on another one…” Harry felt foolish even before the words had escaped his lips. Looking at where he was, what Uncle Vernon was willing to do to stay ahead of the flurries of owl delivered envelopes. Realistically, Harry was never going to be able to read whatever was in that letter.

Something creaked loudly outside. Harry’s eyes snapped to the rickety door.

BOOM… BOOM… BOOM…

The door shook on its frame as something knocked with enough force to shift the hut’s foundations. In his moth-eaten sofa, Dudley sprang awake with a frightened squeal, his piggy eyes fixed on the door. In the other room, something thumped loudly against the stone floor. The something outside knocked again. This time, it was simply too much for the hut’s tortured hinges. The door fell to the ground with a slam revealing the thing in the doorway. Lightning crashed again, illuminating a great, hairy face beneath a massive thatch of hair. The giant stepped through the open portal, water streaming from his tangled beard. There was something oddly familiar about the man, his dark eyes struck a chord of memory somewhere deep in Harry’s mind. The giant looked around the room, wrinkled his nose, and turned to pick the door up as if it weighed nothing. He slammed it back into place and shook off a massive pink umbrella that seemed out of place beside the fur overcoat he wore.

“Sorry about that,” the massive man boomed. His voice was warm and friendly, despite his great size. At that moment, Uncle Vernon burst from the adjoining room with something held out in front of him. Harry gaped, his mouth open in shock. His uncle was holding a rifle and pointing it at the giant. Not the intruder seemed at all intimidated by the weapon. Instead he walked confidently into the room, tossing his maned head about. “I don’t suppose you could fix me up a cuppa tea do y’? Only it’s been a bit o’ a rough journey.” Silence filled the shack. “No? Well at least you’ve got a seat. Budge up yer great lump.” He said to Dudley. Harry’s cousin scurried away from the giant to join his parents. The interloper sank down into the much abused couch, crushing it until it bowed in the middle until it almost touched the floor. “And here’s Harry.” The giant looked right into Harry’s eyes and his face split into a wide smile.

Harry swallowed hard and rose from his position on the floor. “H… hello,” he managed to squeak. “How, how did you know my name?” Harry searched the giant’s face, looking for what it was that was so familiar about the man. Hazy images of a great hairy man with his beard wet with tears and feelings of flying echoed back to him from some of his earliest remembered dreams.

“Did y’ think I wouldn’t recognize that Potter hair of yers? And of course you’ve got yer mum’s eyes. Ain’t no one you could be who weren’t the son of Lily and James. O’ course, you probably don’ remember me. You were jus’ a baby when I last saw you. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

“When I was just a baby? Hogwarts?” Harry asked. The images were sliding into place behind his eyes. Harry looked back towards the rumpled pile that was his blanket. “Did you…” Harry rushed back to the blanket and threw it aside to reveal the crumpled biscuit tin. He picked it up with shaking hands and held it closely to his chest. He realized when he turned around that the Dursleys would discover his deepest and longest held secret, but in the presence of the giant, he didn’t care anymore. He could almost feel how close he was to getting the answers to questions he had held for so long. “Did you give this to me?” He popped open the dented lid and pulled out the delicate folded paper, carefully flattening out the creases. He held it out in front of him, drawing gasps from the Dursleys and another brilliant smile from the giant.

“Yer kept it after all these years?” The man boomed, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. His eyes glittered slightly with the seeds of happy tears. “Yes, Harry, I gave you that picture. Jus’ thought it would be nice to give you sommat’ to remember them by, yer’ know.” He pulled a massive polka dotted handkerchief from the inside of his coat and daubed at his eyes. He beckoned for Harry to come closer with a hand that looked like it could wrap around Harry twice, patting the sofa beside him. Harry approached, the photo held back to his chest. He dropped down onto the lumpy seat. The man pointed at the two in the front row with a thick finger. “Look, there they are. James an’ Lily. Those are your parents, ‘Arry.”

A feeling erupted in Harry’s chest. A curious mixture of manic happiness, sadness, emotions he didn’t even have a word for coiled inside him all at once as he looked down at the faces of his parents. He’d always had this feeling that this was who they were, but to know it for a fact was overwhelming in a way that he never would have thought possible. Harry felt a broad smile turn the corners of his mouth and his vision blurred slightly. He rubbed away the wetness with the cuff of his sleeve. Of course, as it often did in Harry’s life, the world decided to butt in on his small moment of happiness. Its chosen instrument, as per usual; Harry’s Aunt.

“Where did you get that?” She hissed angrily, like a cat with a trodden tail. “We took that away from you when we took you in. I threw it away myself!” Her voice rose as her eyes locked onto the small folded piece of paper. She clutched at her husband’s arm. “You saw me do it, Vernon, remember?”

Whether Vernon remembered or not was not revealed. Before the man could respond to his wife, Hagrid spoke up. His voice was quiet, but dangerous. “You tried to throw it away? Throw it away?” He repeated.

Aunt Petunia apparently missed the edge to the giant’s question, because she replied with an angry screech. “Of course we tried to throw it away! How could we not? Just another reminder of that school, that school for freaks. Freaks like my sister! I wasn’t going to have any of that in our house, not after what happened to…” She stopped with a choking sound. At ‘school for freaks,’ Hagrid had risen from the sofa and rounded on the scrawny, horse faced woman. A storm cloud of anger gathered between his thick caterpillar brows.

“Don’ you finish that, don’ you dare.” He pointed a meaty finger at her face; his other hand was clasped about the massive pink umbrella as if it were a sword. “An’ don’ you listen to ‘em ‘Arry. Ain’t nothing freakish about doin’ magic. Not that I’d expect a bunch of great muggles like these would know anything about that. No, you can do magic, an’ that makes you a wizard. And on top of that yer’ gonna be learning magic at Hogwarts, from Albus Dumbledore ‘imself!” His voice was still rising, cutting off an attempted retort from Uncle Vernon. “An’ there’s nothing you can do tha’s gonna stop it.” Hagrid sat back down heavily, apparently exhausted from his tirade. Its impact had made itself felt, however, as the Dursleys stood still and stunned. Quavering under Hagrid’s continued glowering, Petunia tugged at her husband’s sleeve. Vernon cast his head around angrily, unwilling to back down from such an open threat to his authority. But even Vernon was pigheaded enough to pick a fight with the strange giant who had knocked down his front door tonight. Instead he set his jaw, puffed out his chest, and pulled the rest of his family with him as he retreated into the other room. The door slammed on Harry and Hagrid, shaking the shack. Harry blinked owlishly and looked back at the man who was turning out to be his favourite person in the whole world.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Hagrid said, shaking his head and running a hand the size of a hubcap through his tangled hair. “I don’t often blow up like tha’. Dumbledore says I’ll be judged by my temper, given… Never mind that now.”

Harry shook his own head. “Don’t be sorry. That was amazing!” His face split in a wide grin as he looked back towards the door behind which his Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin cowered. His face was beginning to ache (he’d never had much practice smiling) but he didn’t care. “I’ve never seen the Dursleys so scared before. So, I’m… a wizard?” He almost whispered the word. It was just too good to be true.

“Ye are indeed,” Hagrid said, his jolly demeanor back with the swiftness of flipping a switch. “An’ I’ll tell you a secret, I am too.” He put a thick finger to his lips and jabbed the pink umbrella at the empty fire grate and muttered under his breath. Harry’s face lit up with delight as the umbrella gave a rattling cough and spat out a stream of little flame balls. The flames burst upon the grate and within seconds there was a cheerily roaring fire in the place of the sad jumble of blackened crisp packets. Hagrid rubbed his hands together and warmed them by the blaze. He fixed Harry with a meaningful glance and muttered. “You’ll… you’ll want to keep that a secret between us. Only I’m not really supposed to do magic in front of the muggles. Tha’s non-magic folk to you an’ me.”

Harry nodded emphatically. He wasn’t about to tell on the man who had scared the Dursleys into behaving. “So Hogwarts is a school for magical children then?” He asked, probing for more confirmations of his long held hopes.

“A school?” Hagrid guffawed. “’Arry, Hogwarts is the school for magical children. And its headmaster is Albus Dumbledore, the finest wizard of our age. It’s where yer mum an’ dad learned magic too. O’ course, yer Aunt would have already tol’ you all about tha’. No?” The giant seemed taken aback by Harry’s sad shake of the head. He growled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Dursley!’ under his breath. “Hav’ they not tol’ you nothin’ about what y’are, who y’are?”

“Aunt Petunia doesn’t like magic very much,” Harry said honestly. He looked down at his shoes as they drew little circles in the dust. “She said that me and my parents were freaks, and that I was dumped on the Dursleys when mum and dad died in a car crash.” He trailed off as Hagrid shuddered beside him.

“Lily an’ James Potter weren’t killed in no car crash,” the giant said after composing himself. “They were… well, it’s not really something you’d want to talk about on yer’ birthday, is it? Now don’ you worry, I’ll tell you what I can later. But for now, I think I have somethin’ you’ve been interested in getting’ your hands on.” Hagrid reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope marked with ink as green as his eyes.

Harry took it with shaking hands and carefully, almost reverently, peeled back the sturdy paper so that it wouldn’t tear. Inside, a folded sheaf of parchment paper lay nestled. Harry took it out and unfolded the first sheet. Across the header was a wide coat of arms decorated with a lion, a snake, an eagle, and a badger. Beneath that, the words Dear Mr. Potter. Harry wiped a spot of water from the letter, probably from the leaky roof. He wiped a sleeve across his eyes and continued to read. He was going to Hogwarts in September, but they needed his owl (his owl?) by the thirty-first of July. But that was today. He looked up at Hagrid, who shook his head, apparently divining his concerns.

“Don’ you worry ‘Arry. When we go into London, you can send your return owl. London’s where you’ll be getting’ yer school things.” He said matter of factly. Harry wondered where in London he was supposed to buy the things written on the enclosed list, things like school robes, a magic wand, and a set of cauldrons. Hagrid seemed quite sure that they would find them there though, so Harry didn’t question him further. He quickly scanned the rest of the letter before carefully folding it back up and slipping it back into its envelope. He placed the envelope and his Photo into the biscuit tin and popped the lid on. Hagrid cleared his throat.

“I.. uh, I made this for you as well. ‘fraid I might have sat on it a bit, but it should still be good. Here.” The giant held out a very squashed cardboard box. Inside was a round, slightly flattened chocolate cake. Happy Birthday Harry was misspelled in brightly coloured icing on the top. Harry’s face lit up. He took the cake carefully in his hands. It was the first time he’d ever gotten a cake for his birthday. In fact, it was the first time he’d ever had a sweet to himself that wasn’t a third helping that Dudley didn’t want to finish, or the cheapest item in the shop bought to assuage what the Dursleys called ‘bloody busybodies.’ Harry’s empty belly rumbled noisily and his mouth watered. Hagrid smiled and made a motion, encouraging him to take a bite.

“Would you like some too, Hagrid?” Harry asked, still not taking any. Despite the preciousness of the gift, it still felt greedy not to share. Hagrid made protesting noises, but Harry persevered. “Please, it’s too much cake to eat all by myself, and I’ve never had anyone to share a treat with.” Or a treat to share with anyone, he kept to himself. At this, Hagrid buckled and took the crumpled box. With a dexterity that belied his great frame, he tore the box’s lid off to make a second container and split the cake in two. He did take the smaller piece, but Harry didn’t complain. The two of them sat in compensable silence, eating the sweet dessert with their fingers. Hagrid chuckled as Harry tucked in greedily. He’d never enjoyed food so much in his life. After the two of them had finished eating and licked the last of the frosting from their sticky fingers, Hagrid let loose an enormous yawn.

“Blimey, ‘Arry, is that the time?” He said, looking at a pocket watch large enough to have served as a dinner plate in a pinch. “I know you must have a few more questions, but we must be up early in the morning if we want to get to Diagon Alley. Much ter do, much ter do. I hope you don’t mind if I take the sofa.” Harry had more than a few questions, but between the late hour and the full stomach he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

“I don’t mind,” Harry replied, motioning toward the crumpled blanket in the corner. Hagrid looked at it dubiously.

“Here, take my coat. It might wriggle a bit, mind, but it’ll keep yer warm.” The giant swept his furry brown overcoat from his shoulders and draped it over the boy wizard before he could protest. The garment swamped Harry completely. Had he a few poles and some string, he was half convinced he could make himself a quite roomy tent to sleep in. But it was warm and surprisingly comfortable and before long Harry found himself sinking to the floor right where he stood as he let the weight of the coat bear down on him. He curled up under its many folds and pockets and was soon fast asleep.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #fanfic #butterfly effect

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