In Malfoy Manor, Severus gets his food by owl: dinner is for politics. Narcissa is neatly and quietly arranging her life while Sirius and Regulus loudly and messily fight for their souls off in London. Evan just wants Skype.


Warnings:

1. "My sweet old mother blasted me off when I ran away from home... when I was about sixteen. I'd had enough." —Sirius Black, OoTP

2. Decreasingly subtle, self-indulgent... schmoop? Flirting? International hormonal whining. But not decreasingly encoded/oblique. Slytherins. vOv

3. Epistolary. And underlining instead of italics. Because handwriting. For the actual handwriting (sing it with me), see the version on Archive of Our Own (link in profile). You know. Where the illustrations are. (I was up till about five developing Evan's froufy pureblood handwriting, just for the record. Not perfectionist to the point of OCD yet, but I don't phone this stuff in. I wasn't up late with Severus's, but only because I developed that before DH came out.)

4. Evan's opinion of French food.

5. Severus's opinion of British food. And of... you know. Everything.

As my kind and tolerant beta and britpicker w.i.t.s. has generously pointed out, cooking has made leaps and bounds in the last forty years, in Britain as everywhere else. I asked someone about Severus's age what food in the US was like in the seventies once, for another story (October). The answer boiled down to very, very boring, but with less gelatin-encased meat than in the fifties.


Spike—

Send me a hammer. Or the liquid equivalent. You wouldn't believe how noisy French birds are, even at night. Be careful opening the package; there's a stasis charm on it but I don't know how well the thing will have traveled. Can you explain to me why French food looks like sushi? I can't deal with pâté pretending to be seafood at breakfast, Spike.

—Ev


Evan.

Owling people your breakfast overseas is not normal. If the birds are annoying you, use the muffling spell on your window. \ , long U and A. [wand-motion diagram squiggle] —S

PS: Malfoy says it's called nouvelle cuisine and you're called a philistine. (I merely transcribe.) —S

evan, rich people are crazy, you don't even know, I mean, I know you have — but — you're not secretly like this, are you? ? ? ?


Spike,

Tell Malfoy that trompe l'oile is one thing, but scallops aren't supposed to look like noodles. It's against nature. So are cold beds. Also, vegetables that crunch can't possibly be fully cooked. I could get food poisoning, Spike.

We went to look at the cave paintings in Chauvet Pont d'Arc. I could have just sat outside and painted the hills; they were all over purple. The paintings are surprisingly dynamic, though; I'll put some sketches below.

My parents are arguing over whether this is better with jam or mustard. What do you think?

Is your lab set up yet?

—Ev

NO.


Evan,

I'm going to have to agree with Malfoy on this one, and not just because he knows where I sleep: you're a philistine. It's overcooked vegetables which are the crime against nature and undercooked meat that's dangerous, you nationalistic loon.

Narcissa says hello, definitely jam (she's wrong: jam on cheese is an abomination), and you must have exaggerated those sketches. I've pointed out to her that you probably haven't seen any mammoths yourself and wouldn't know how to exaggerate, but you know how easy to sway she is once she's decided on an opinion. As she's negotiating my salary, I'm exercising the better part of valor.

The lab isn't completely set up, but judging by what's here already (six sizes of cauldrons in seven metals each plus porcelain, just for example), I think I'd rather take it with me than get paid. Only I'm not going to be paid nearly enough to cover it no matter how much of a hell-demoness Narcissa is. She didn't hex Mr. Malfoy when he called her a 'spirited filly,' though; I was impressed.

Sleeping better? Can't you use a warming charm on the sheets? You're not in Britain; does the Ministry care?

—S

damn well better not


Patriotic, Spike, patriotic.

We're at Lascaux today, still doing cave paintings—some of these species had to have been made up, look!

I suppose you wouldn't prefer jam, but try this one with grapes or peaches or something.

Sleeping about as well as expected, thanks, and the sheets have nothing to do with it, Diced Flobberworms, for Merlin's sake, honestly. You? Malfoy cart you off to his tailor yet?

—Ev

it isn't 'rich people,' Spike,' it's 600 years of mercantile inferiority complex. Congratulations, M. Prince: you've just noticed you were gently bred.


No, Evan, patriotic wants the homeland to be its best and works to make it that way; nationalistic says it's already the best in every way and could not possibly be improved even if its weather causes vitamin D deficiencies and its cuisine causes gout and makes everyone who didn't grow up on it dyspeptic. Nutrition, Rosier, learn it exists.

Malfoy has quite competent elves, you know. You don't have to keep sending me food.

I think the bed is going to eat me one of these days. You lie down in it and before you know it the top of the mattress is higher than your eyes. Supposedly this is a good thing? Fortunately my face has a built-in snorkel.

Malfoy's tailor hates me with the passion of a thousand suns.

—S

p.s: I'm seriously considering sending your last to the actual Severus Prince. With any luck it could give him a lethal attack of apoplexy.


Of course I have to keep sending you food. You won't understand my befuddlement if I just tell you about it. For example, this is called a bichon au citron. It is a sweet, and entirely meatless. I was strongly under the impression that a bichon was a dog. A white dog. Please explain. I know you're not much for puddings, but the filling is tart enough that I don't feel guilty asking you to suffer for my edification.

I think it's supposed to let you feel suspended and floating. And possibly to ensure that most of your activities requiring traction are done in more interesting places. I have a suspicion that you were insulting your poor face, just like you're scoffing about the idea you might not be exactly what both sets of our most brain-dead relatives assume your father makes you even though your mother obviously did all your bringing-up. I am therefore not going to indulge you by asking what a snorkel is, or even if it's related to that snorkack creature Lovegood talks about. Which it obviously isn't, as the thing is one of Lovegood's hallucinations. Where do you think he gets his drugs from? It's not you, is it?

What did you do to that poor man?

—Ev


I suppose if you look at it with your eyes crossed it looks a bit like the head of a very malformed dog.

Murder on the back, though. Surely location shouldn't be the interesting part. Of course, I suppose you are in interesting locations these days. Answering only the question you asked: no. I do know where he gets them from, but will not commit the name to paper as the person in question is a valuable source for me as well, and I shouldn't like to get her in trouble with her aunt.

I don't know. Argued about cuff length and color saturation and wand access. Still looked like me even with his precious 'creations' on.

—S

l/a/n/c/ /e/v/a/n/,/ a/r/e/ /y/o/u/ /i/ /w/h/a/t/ d/o/e/s/ f/l/o/o/ /i/c/a/n/'/t/ /w/h/e/n/ /d/o/ /y/o/u/ t/h/i/n/k/
[Encoded] I'm starting to get the impression he's not actually worse than R's m or more of a drunk than his f, actually. Treason, I'm sure. Last time I threw something at SB's head it was a jar of Grenade Balm followed by a flask of Curse-Be-Gone, though, so either I'm losing my mind or...


Spike, you sent me toad in the hole! That's why you're my favorite. And yet I'm still going to make you try this thing called terrine, which is like forcemeat except for looking rather like truly vile nougat. I'm sorry, but I've heard misery shared is misery halved; surely that applies to morbid fascination as well.

Oh, the Sproutlette. Yes, gorgeous locations, but I don't know if you'd think them interesting. We're at the Musee Carnavalet all week. It's a history-focused museum (what was I thinking, we'd never get you out), so there's a lot of stylistic evolution to study. These are just quick studies of some chairs, but you can see how different they all are. The other thing is a Chinese-style desk. It's a knockout in person. Ink doesn't do it justice, but you can get the idea. We haven't even gotten to the wizarding wing yet.

Stop that. I miss how you look. Are you sure I can't have a picture?

—Ev

Fair comparisons are not, as you know, necessarily good ideas. I hope he had the sense to use them once he knew you couldn't see.
If floo were an option you would not be sleeping in cannibal beds in England, Naj. Miss you already, too, but of course you can. You can everything but transfigure in color, and you'll get there. Might be able to get a trip in at Midsummer, but can't promise. It'll depend on whether Mum finds Corsica romantic or deeply irritating this year; always a toss-up. I'm winning, though, so next year for sure.


Not bad, if you keep your eyes closed, but meat should not be that colorful. Vengeance will be mine.

Now Luke's calling me a philistine. I'm reminding him that colorful meat in this country is historically a result of over-spicing to hide that said meat had gone off. Speaking of colors, queasy green is not his.

I told you, I'm not telling you. Ergo, no comment. I feel I ought to have one on the chairs, since you went to the trouble, but without knowing their context... they're ornamental? And uncomfortable-looking. They remind me of here, actually: that class of person who can afford to spend ridiculous amounts of money on fashionable clothes and furniture and is sure they can't afford to have comfortable things instead. It must be exhausting. Might account for the Malfoy Languid™. Fake as Dumbledore's dotty; I can tell because they both make my teeth hurt. Wouldn't know peaceful if you bit him.

As well as the eggs, please find attached a set of vials with colored labels. Take one before bed and take notes on your sleep quality. List of questions attached. I'm doing this, too, but if you're sleeping as badly as I am, I might as well take advantage and get a second opinion. I don't need to know dream content, but rate them 0-10 for nonsense and distress. Let 0 mean perfectly lifelike and realistic on the sense scale, and what people who aren't you and know what the word means might with restraint call 'pleasantly embarrassing' on the other one.

You absolutely cannot have a picture. The tailor says I would break the camera's lens.

—S


Vengeance isn't yours today, Spike. Bacon in the egg is genius. Here's one you might actually like; it's a chupacabra-milk cheese. Don't eat it all on its own; the flavor completely changes when you have it with different kinds of meat. The smell, too. I advise trying it with goat—and not with any kind of seafood, but it's your funeral.

Bless you. I'll pick up a notebook today. Can't imagine what you're talking about, though: I know what 'pleasant' means!

The languid's more about not being able to afford to show one cares about anything. But I suppose it might be exhausting at that. I've seen how much keeping out of trouble with the Mulciber-and-Lestrange crowd takes out of you, and it's much the same thing. 'Luke?'

Quite an opinionated tailor. Would he prefer ram horns or a horse tail? Or perhaps a horn up his tail?

—Ev

p.s: Hahaha, I embarrassed you! [rose]


All right, that one was interesting. I told Cranny (the relevant elf) you liked her spin on Scotch eggs and was very sorry; she's been singing all day and twirling around while she cleans. Greatly to my relief, those pillowcases they wear turn out to be closed at the bottom.

Had my first lesson with Chang's grandmother; Chang says hello. Madam Chang is less discouraging about my accent than anyone else who's ever told me I sound like I've got marbles in my mouth. Per her, I absolutely do, but so does everyone else who speaks a Western language, and the choir experience seems to make a difference. I told you enchanting wasn't twee magic without application.

At any rate, I begged some tea from her—do not make it yourself. It's incredible when not botched. If you put sugar in, don't ever tell me. If you put milk in I'll miss you, because the gods of tea will surely strike you down where you stand.

Malfoy started calling me Severus without being told he might. It's no use telling people what they can or can't call you, I find, so I've instead decided to annoy him back. Very effectively, as it happens: the name's so muggle it makes him physically twitch. You may imagine my evil grin here.

And that is why I haven't told you the tailor's name. And have asked Luke not to tell you, either.

—S

She won't explain chromatics and the library has nothing on physics at all! This one doesn't either, of course.


I can always imagine your evil grin, and never wait on your permission. Tell Chang hello back, when you see her, and thank her grandmother for the tea. I'm sure you'll know what the appropriate superlatives are better than I would.

Music magic is completely twee and useless. I bet you can't replace or counter three potions with new incantations by start of term. Loser pays in handrubs.

One of the docents here has been flirting increasingly heavily with me. I'm not particularly drawn, but it does seem a pity to be in France and not find out whether the national reputation is well deserved. I'd like to have new things to share with you in September.

Be careful with Malfoy. He's smoother than Wilkes, but might be just as hard to shake off if you give him a mistaken idea. And I don't think he understands Narcissa yet.

—Ev

Or you could, just maybe, just envision the end-results in color?


Spike?


Spike, are you all right?


Ev,

Started dueling lessons.

—S


That's good, isn't it?

—Ev


It's excellent. Also exhausting. We've been doing an hour each of on foot and in the air every day. He was thoroughly hacked off he has to teach someone who can't apparate yet.

Don't worry, wouldn't touch Luke with a ten foot wand. Prefer Narcissa's claws off my bits. Also, not interested.

—S


I'm not sure what you mean by worried; I'm sure you could handle him one way or another. It's just that he wouldn't be uncomplicated. I think you'd find there'd be ripple effects that would be hard to predict. And Narcissa would be upset. I don't know why, but that's Narcissa. She never was much for sharing, when we were little.

—Ev


He's already not uncomplicated. I understand perfectly why she'd be upset (and am almost not surprised you don't, you space alien), but she's going to have to either get used to the fact he's a complete slag or give up on him, because I don't see it changing. This isn't a dynamic I want to be within twenty miles of, though.

Also, not interested.

—S


What do you mean, he's already not uncomplicated?

—Ev


One gets a faceful of politics at table. And some of his and his father's guests are… definitely interesting. I've been seeing more of Narcissa's sister than makes me entirely comfortable, although I quite like her husband. They talk a lot of rot, but at least they realize the world's completely rotten.

—S


Spike, no, it's just those Gryffie thugs. The rest of the world's not as bad as that.

—Ev


Oh, really? Avery's dad's investigating rainbows and unicorns over in India, is he? Nobody lives in Knockturn Alley; it's a Dickensian theme park? The women on my street at home wear long cuffs and pancake makeup even in summer because they like it? We've learned loads from centuries of war with the goblins and hags and treat them like equals and brothers and work together side by side in blissful harmony and understanding? Our government doesn't think having one's soul eaten is an appropriate judiciary measure for a civilized society? Doesn't operate on a system of institutionalized bribery and nepotism? We don't classify sentient beings as beasts and expect them to eat it with a smile? Our upper classes aren't running a constant risk of inbreeding-related genetic diseases? Couples like my parents are either prevented from marrying or given support to make sure the muggle involved can deal with being outpowered by everyone else in the family without getting violent? Our justice system has a standardized system of advocacy that prevents people being locked away with soul-eaters for the rest of their lives solely because powerful people or public opinion is against them?

Our kids are safe at school?

—S


You have been getting a face full of politics.

I was going to give you a sketch of the Eiffel, since we're in Paris and it was put up to commemorate the French Revolution and you seem to be in a revolutionary mood. It needs to be seen in person, full-sized, to not look silly, though. Have Napoleon's tomb instead. Have a truffle and shrivelfig Napoleon, while you're at it.

—Ev

p.s.: our kids are safe at school from now on, Happy Heliotrope.


Malfoy's friends mostly talk about blood purity. I don't need them to form my opinions.

I think a savory Napoleon is against the law, but as it was excellent I won't turn you in.

—S

WE'RE NOT STAYING LONG (THANK GOD)


You don't need anyone to give you opinions. My parents mostly talk about blood purity, too. Well, and Secrecy v. Dominance. Secrecy, thank you; I believe we're rather soundly outnumbered. Dominance would be a confounded nuisance if possible at all, and why bother?

I hated that letter, Spike. I could picture you snarling around and throwing your hands up, but I couldn't quite hear it. Drawbacks of a visual imagination after far too long, I suppose. The lighter package is a sparrowgrass tart with I don't know what else; it was good, I thought. Too much garlic. You'll like it. The heavier one's a blank music ball. You tap it twice with your wand to start and stop it recording. Circle around it if you want to start over. Read me something, will you? And send me another sachet, I think mine's fading.

—Ev

Don't have to, Naj. The teachers don't do anything but teach, you may have noticed. We'll get the House fixed up right and it'll roll forward. We've got three years before Reg graduates, and by then someone who would bite throats out for you and cry about it right now will be prefect-age. Traditions and taboos work better than rules.


…Wonderful tales had our fathers of old -
Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars -
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,
Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.
Pat as a sum in division it goes -
(Every herb had a planet bespoke) -
Who but Venus should govern the Rose?
Who but Jupiter own the Oak?
Simply and gravely the facts are told
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old…

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great…

Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate
Where wavering man, betrayed by venturous pride
To tread the dreary paths without a guide,
As treacherous phantoms in the mists delude,
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good.
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice,
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice!...

…No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse…

…Open my eyes to visions girt
with beauty, and with wonder lit—
But always let me see the dirt,
And all that spawn and die in it.
Open my ears to music; let
me thrill with spring's first flutes and drums—
But never let me dare forget the bitter ballads of the slums.
From compromise and things half done,
keep me with stern and stubborn pride,
and, when at last the fight is won,
God—keep me still unsatisfied.


Merlin's beard and staff, Spike, what the hell was that?!

—Ev


Sod off, Rosier. You said read you something; I read you something.

—SS


moremoremoremoremore

I'm writing Narcissa to find me an excuse to come visit that will fly with my parents. Shouldn't be hard; everyone at Reggie's place has been all in a froth all summer and it's just getting worse. Someone really does need to translate between Siri and Aunt Off The Wall, wish Grandad would step up. Dad could do it if anyone would let him, but he's not Tapestry and Mum's family doesn't like his friends. I don't know what they think he can do about who he went to school with; its not as if you and Reg I will be able to completely avoid the Mulciber-and-Lestrange crowd. Just not doable. Bit irritating, really, but what is Done one must do, I suppose.

At least school ties are good for some things, if they can keep people from seeing things properly. If you haven't complained to the elves about your bed yet do it SOON.

—Ev

ps: you don't need to be told to burn this, absolutely for-your-eyes-only, do you? Just double-checking.


My god but you're demanding. And that with full mobility and wand access, unhindered from achieving any unasked whim and slaking any thirst that might occur to you, all on your own and unaided. How has no one yet tight-crammed a gag in your patrician babble and forced you to learn, moment by hour, that securely helpless anticipation-in-faith has more savor than the patient safety of indifferent independence? What will you be like thwarted; the mind boggles.


I find asking for what one wants increases the odds of getting it. Try it sometime, Word Salad.

—Ev


I prefer intimation, Lumos Maxima.

—S


...Oh.

You are unquestionably losing our bets. Fix your furniture this instant.

—can't find indifferent or patient in the dictionary


Also spoiled beyond belief. The elves are distraught and it's all your fault.

—S

PS: Your saying that a year in advance means very little.


Your lack of faith is in no way disturbing. I know perfectly well you'll be believing that right up to the moment I've won them both. And probably for the next month or so afterwards, purely out of cognitive dissonance-related shock.

—Ev


Also arrogant, have I mentioned arrogant? Blasé? Conceited? Overconfident?

Sorry, that one should have been a d-word, but your deluded pales next to Luke's. He thinks Narcissa's mother likes him. But an O looks a bit like a D; let's pretend.

—S


But you owl me black pudding and upset the elves for me anyway. I'm on to you, Oakenspine.

Everyone thinks Aunt Dru likes them.

—Venusian


Space alien from definitely Venus,

I never claimed to be particularly clever. Or to have good taste. (Hawthorn, maybe. Birch at best. Under Janus, anyway, no jovial Jovian I. Heartsease and shuddering poplar under bitter, medicinal, funereal Saturn, the painkillers and the poisons, all the nature-masking dyes, both the holly and the yew.)

But I'm cleverer than to think that, on my own account or his. I know what you lot look like when you're Being Gracious. Luke is a serious threat to your aunt's molar enamel, and I give her a headache.

—S (Avebury, Wiltshire, UK, Terra, you Lunatic. Back out of orbit anytime soon?)


Excellent taste: dry, complex and clean, spicy, supple, and subtle, with backbone and bite and legs that do not end. A trifle light-bodied and over-endowed in the nose department, perhaps, but tight, velvety, lively and lingering, with extraordinary mouth-feel and depth to die for. In. Just a little. But really quite often, and not really just a little. So much, Spike.

You give everyone a headache, woodpecker; there's very little I'd rather watch. Just have a care with Reg's mum, if you meet her in person; she is, as you gathered, a bit highly-strung. And wand-happy. And by 'a bit,' I mean 'more than you.' Yes, it's possible. Especially just now. Have you heard?

If I am conceited, it's just as well. Taking up with you requires ego enough for two—and then for two more, because yours is measurable only in negative numbers.

—Ev

P.S: Quite soon. In fact, get out here and let me in. The portkey only took me to the gate, and it opened all right but I'm not wading through all Malfoy's creepy screaming ghost birds on my own. Come hold my hand.


You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I ought to tell your elf on you. Surely there's some sort of oenological certification you can be stripped of for shameless (not to say wanton) terminology abuse. However, if there is any such stripping to be done, let the responsibility be put in meticulous and careful hands, which will treat the matter with all due gravity and appropriate relish (appropriately sadistic relish. Really: ashamed of yourself).

But no, I know what you mean: not a little, not a trivium, no frivolous flesh-wound pinprick. Yes. Very much, thorn.

Heard the bones of it. I'd be glad you're back anyway (see above) and I'll hold anything you like (in anything you please, for as long as you can bear it, with or without runic assistance), but Reg's in a state. He said he wanted to help me this morning, get his mind off it, but he just sat there for hours, staring at the paring knife. Gone for a lie-in now. Is this my fault? Letting the fighting escalate?

Baby. They're just white. I'm in the middle of brewing a film-developing solution, or I'd be there already. If I leave it alone longer than a minute at a time it'll grow fur and animate the cauldron, if I understand these notes (I do). Will you wait twenty minutes, or walk past the peabrained peafowl which do not reach past your knee, or shall I ask Luke to go fetch you?

—S


Wanton? I prefer 'hedonist,' or 'aesthete' in public-face. You smiled, admit it. Don't worry: if it cracked your poor, stiff, dusty mouth, I've a sovereign cure.

I did mention about not finding patience in the dictionary, did I? Twenty minutes! And it took you nearly an hour to write the last note. Film-developing solution my foot; I know revenge when it leaves me alone with screaming demon birds forever without directions to its lab and teases.

Did you change your name to Atlas when I was away? Spike, we've told you: you're not allowed to name things anymore. Put the world down, idiot. You'd better have put on at least a stone before you tried that, or I'll be having words with your dueling instructor.

Are you mad? I'm not trying to talk to Malfoy when I haven't snogged you in a month and half. I'd sound like a Quick-Notes Quill set on Inane Pleasantries and he'd think I was mental. And then he'd tell Narcissa and she'd smirk at me, Spike.

—Ev


You are mental. I'll be there in ten minutes. Enjoy the peacocks, peacock.

—S


Dear Abraxas,

I'm terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but someone's trying to get you in trouble with my wife, old man. Sent her a vetinary bill and a howler, something to do with those very handsome birds of yours, I think... Of course, we didn't give it any mind, so you needn't worry, she's not after you. Although from the little I caught it seemed like a decent forgery, so you might want to look into it. Right in the middle of all that trouble with her nephew, too. Really appalling taste. Wish I could offer to help you get to the bottom of it, but her brother's family needs all the attention we have spare. Poor little Reggie-bird's a wreck and a half. No doubt you can manage in any case, eh?

I hear you've been feeling better—let me take you out to lunch before we leave again. Do come, I'll amuse you with baby stories about my beloved sister; I hear you and young Lucius have been seeing something of her youngest of late. You can tell me about the horses, and whether my boy has actually lost his mind. Callisto thinks he must have, you know, but there's an old friend of mine-and-thine whose optimism on the subject quite surprised me, when he heard about the boy's background and got his hands on the year's OWL marks. Come, come, tell all, we'll go to that dreadful place you like with the centaurs and veela in the washroom. If your health has been bolstered sufficiently, and survives the experience, I'll show you some of the new ways the muggles have found in recent years to make themselves vulnerable. I think you'll be astonished, and I know you'll appreciate the breadth of the whatnot. Irony? Opportunity? You'll know what I mean when you see.

Tomorrow?

Yrs,
Darius Rosier


Spike—

What did you do to my mum?!

—Ev


Nothing. She asked me a question, I answered it.

—S


A question like what your intentions are, possibly?

—Ev

ps: I'm grinning at you


I'm elevating two fingers at you.

— S


You neglected to be Slytherin when you answered her, didn't you.

—Ev

ps: I'm grinning at you more. Mum likes you now (although be prepared for a 'why don't you go by your mother's name' campaign). She worries Dad and I don't have teeth. I suppose, by Black standards...


COBRA. SHUT IT.

—S

p.s: Because it's a waste of a perfectly good Muggle birth certificate and emergency backup identity, that's why not. I mean, because it's far too late to not be Obvious Social Climbing and would always have meant Future Blackmail Vulnerability. Better to brazen these things out, in the long run. Does she really? Has she met you?

p.p.s: Careful where you put this down: it'll burn up once you've let go.

p.p.p.s: I'm slaughtering the next docent who drools on you. [spiky mallet squashing dead stick figure]
From here. With my brain. Be told.


I know I'm not the first one to do the wine-tasting horror—but Evan says he is, and it totally made Severus smile, and roll his eyes, and probably groan, and maybe even secretly laugh. So there.

Next: ...because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. —PS/SS

Or: "And take extra care with strangers
Even flowers have their dangers
And though scary is exciting,
Nice is different from good."
—Into the Woods, Stephen Sondheim

Or: Five adjectives that may overlap but aren't synonyms: nice, kind, loving, safe, fair. Five more: calculating, menacing, evil, savage, cruel.

Chapter Art, you know where, or see above
Lone Artist In A Cold Dark Cave Drawing Extinct Mamminals (cue tiny violin)
Brewer At Work, Savaged By Air Mail

Credits:

Poetry:
Our Fathers of Old, Rudyard Kipling (which Whitehound used first, in Mood Music, in quite a different, more dramatic way.)
Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
The Vanity of Human Wishes, Samuel Johnson
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot
Prayer, Louis Untermeyer

Severus's ramble on the intersection of herbalism and astrology as it relates to Capricorns (ie: Saturn):
Huson, P. Mastering Herbalism. Stein and Day, NY 1974