Ah, the nineties... Written a long time ago for the prompt "summer music festival."
No infringement intended, of course.
The adults in this family have never been properly suspicious of Charlotte. Because she stands very straight and only speaks when she's spoken to, they assume she can only be a good influence. They don't know about her vices, which I enjoy, or her politics, which I don't, so, when we wander off beyond sight, Daddy doesn't spare a thought.
In the cluster of trees beyond the garden, I ask her if she's heard the news. There is a crackle of burning paper, the pop and flying ash of an exploding seed.
Her eyes narrow as she offers me the thin, white cylinder. "Rumours," she rasps, exhales.
"Facts," I say, then suck in a long lungful.
"You lot, with that pure-blood garbage," she says, stubbing the lit end out against the sole of her shoe. She tucks the remainder away and eyes me in the dim light. "What you need, darling, is some immersion therapy."
And before I can open my mouth, she grabs my wrist, and we are gone.
...
The boy I collide with apologizes. I knock him down and he says he's sorry.
Stupid Muggles.
I only have time to shoot him a filthy look before I'm forced to dart into the crowd. Charlotte angles into the mass of bodies, deeper and deeper, until there's nowhere left to go, save up on the stage before us. I catch up, loom behind her, jab my fingers into her kidney.
"Take me back!" I hiss into her ear. "I don't know what you're playing at, but Father will be apoplectic when he finds out you've kidnapped me."
Charlotte glances over her shoulder, rolls her eyes. "Shut up, Pans," she says, "You're harshin' my buzz."
Above us, four men walk onto the stage. The crowd yells and surges forward.
I turn to glare down the boy pressing behind me, only, this one, he doesn't flinch. He just stares back with his jungle green eyes, then grins wickedly when I don't turn away.
Merlin.
A cheer bursts from the crowd and he looks up. A tiny woman speaks into a metal contraption, her voice booming out of the huge, black boxes mounted on either side of the stage. She picks up her instrument, expertly fingers its strings. She sings. She roars. She prowls, back and forth, as we all stand in thrall.
Forget magic.
This is Sex and Power, and I want to be her when I grow up.
Forget Potions, and Charms, and Divination.
This is a skill-set I want to learn: How to own a crowd. How to force it to its knees.
The Muggle behind me has wrapped his hand over my hip and I don't curse him childless. Instead, I sway into his touch, lean back for more.
In the coming revolution, I think, maybe I'll keep him...
As a pet.
.fin.