Waffliesinyoface: Well, there are some aftereffects to coven magic – namely why the McNeeses and the Kingsfords have so many kids – but no, the majority of the Devon magicals, like the rest of the country, are neutral magic-wise. Philosophically, they lean a bit to the Light side, but their acceptance of some aspects of the Old Ways (unlike the Weasleys) and general disinterest and powerlessness in politics makes that borderline irrelevant.
TinaMaki: Keep in mind that dark magic and black magic, while related, are still distinct entities; specifically, yes someone can be dark without being black. Also, while someone's magic darkening is normally a result of his or her own actions and choice of spells, in certain families, such as the House of Black, the entire bloodline is inherently dark or light. Were Sirius born to a normal family, he would likely be neutral or possibly light, but getting away from his heritage would be an uphill and somewhat futile battle.
I like to think it takes a lot to disturb me, but this chapter? This chapter managed it. On a completely unrelated note, there most definitely will not be another Candyland scene in this book.
Also, next chapter will come out in three weeks rather than two. I have six 12-hour shifts next week, so that means no Vegas, which in turn means my update schedule gets all out of whack.
Disclaimer: Did Dumbledore deny that Death created the Hallows while he and Harry were standing on the DOORMAT of the AFTERLIFE? If so, I don't own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, Warner Bros., and whoever else she sold the rights to.
Chapter 28
Very Unmerry Christmas
This is most definitely not where I wanted to spend the rest of my Christmas Eve, Jen thought with no little degree of irritation as she looked at the swirling white mist surrounding her. That her primary emotion at finding herself again in Death's realm was anger rather than terror was surprising even to her, but after a moment, she realized that such a change was not totally unreasonable. The last time I was here, he was… Gracious? Hospitable? At the very least, he was not flying into a rage the way he did with Elsie. That along with how he applauded me during my ritual to summon Voldemort's soul jars – because who else could it have been standing there? – means I should have little to fear.
Hopefully.
"Indeed, you do not."
The echoing, nasal voice broke through the silence, and curtain of fog parted to reveal a shadow that could only be the Baron. Before he came into clear view, Jen dropped to one knee and turned her head downwards. She had no desire to lose his favor by gazing upon him.
"Despite what your mentor taught you, I am not so short-tempered that I will strike down my servants merely for looking at me. I know you are curious." Curious she may be, but years of lessons were hard to ignore. When she did not raise her head, the Baron's voice lost its levity. "I do, however, bear a grudge against those who disobey me."
Swallowing quickly, she finally turned her eyes to the Dark Power. Strangely, the first word that came to her mind was 'long'. His right leg was curled up to his chest, the knee at the level of his chin and his arm wrapped around his shin, while the other leg was stretched out ahead of him; all four limbs were out of proportion with his torso and would all but ensure that he walked with a strange gait. The hand not scratching idly at his leg held a fat cigar, and though ash fell from the glowing tip, the flakes vanished before they could reach the ragged black slacks. A white shirt and purple waistcoat covered his chest – no doubt emaciated, if the thinness of his limbs was anything to go by – and the top button of the shirt was left undone to reveal the deep notch above his sternum. Chancing a quick glance at the Power's face, she could only blink when she found that, unlike the sable of the rest of his visible skin, his bald head was an ashen grey, almost as if the flesh was so thin that the white of his skull was evident.
He grinned, the Glasgow smile that split his gaunt cheeks revealing far too many teeth, as she stared at the top hat that was tilted so as to shadow his eyes and forehead. "It is still said that the eyes are the window to the soul, is it not?" he asked to her unvoiced question. "I doubt you are yet willing to gamble so recklessly with your own."
"N-No, Baron, I am not," she stuttered. That did at least explain why Elsie had stressed not to look upon him, if even making eye contact with the Baron risked death.
Death grunted and waved his cigar-bearing hand at the low-slung, lacquered table sitting on the frost-covered earth between them. "Come now, fiyèt, don't be shy. Join me."
The memory of the last time she came within arm's reach of the Dark Power came to mind, and she wondered if there was a polite way to refuse. She would much rather not wake up with blood pouring out of every hole in her head again. "I… I do not have appropriate attire, my lord," she deflected, gesturing to her unclad body.
"You are not one for modesty; where has all your boldness gone?" The white smoke flowed towards her despite his dismissive tone, vaporous tongues licking over her and leaving light fabric in their wake. The mist retreated, leaving her dressed in a diaphanous lavender negligee that did exceedingly little to hide her nakedness. Realizing that there was no way she was going to get out of the Baron's request, she slowly crept up to the table and curled up opposite the entity. She then grimaced at the comical lewdness Death's too-wide mouth displayed. "Ah, you truly would drive a saint to sin, ti kras jennès mwen."
Her teeth ground at that term of endearment. While calling her his 'little whore' was not untrue, per se, the way he said it sent shivers down her spine. There was something else there, and she fully agreed with her instincts telling her it could not possibly be a good for her continued existence.
"Paranoia is a useful thing, but only in moderation," the Baron chided, though it was veiled amusement rather than displeasure that colored his voice. "In excess, it makes enemies out of allies and blinds you to the obvious. Besides, what benefit would I possibly gain from plotting harm to one of my favorite pets?"
She swallowed the first retort that came to mind – though considering how the Baron was taking no pains to hide his ability to hear her thoughts as if they were spoken aloud, she knew such caution was ultimately pointless – and answered demurely, "Far be it from your servant to question your will."
He chuckled at her deflection. "You are indeed tetchy tonight. One would think your tryst with your little light witch would have left you a touch more mellow." Before she could deny his assertion about Luna being a light witch, the magic the blonde had used earlier that night notwithstanding, he took a puff of his cigar and drawled, "Now, I believe you are holding on to something of mine. I would… appreciate it being returned."
Jen blinked in shock, not expecting a demand like that, and then her eyes grew wide and shot to her lap when she felt something cold and hard press against her fingertips. Turning her right hand over and slowly unclenching it, she caught only the briefest glimpse of a round black stone before she flung it onto the table in front of her.
The Resurrection Stone glittered darkly back at her.
While she was asking herself how the Stone could have traveled the two hundred kilometers from Elsie's cottage near Cardiff to London and then followed her to an entirely different realm, her patron Power reached out and picked it up. "It has been quite a long time since I last saw this," the Baron said with a cruel smile. "By its nature, it has spilled much less blood than its two 'siblings'; being made into a ring and having its purpose forgotten only further retarded its ability. A pity, that."
The Tale of the Three Brothers; the Wand, the Stone, and the Cloak. I wondered if it might be true. The depiction of the Baron in the story left me unsure – I strongly doubt any man would find him so gullible or so honest as to trick him into giving away an invisibility cloak that he could not see through – but the Stone is hard evidence to ignore. She grimaced as another thought came to her. Which means I now have a likely explanation for why my sonar couldn't feel Dumbledore's wand. How in the world can he be such a narrow-minded Light fool and at the same time wield a Dark Treasure?
Unless he is unaware of its true nature…
The Baron chuckled, diverting her eyes from the tabletop to see him leaning back into the mist and rolling the Stone in his fingers. "Oh, that little man is well aware of just whose wand he holds, though in his disdain for the world beyond his carefully categorized spells and incantations, he has convinced himself that it was made by mortal men. As for his purpose in keeping it?" He snorted derisively. "He thinks that dying as its wielder will end its 'blight' upon the world. Amusing, don't you think? That twig of mine has such a fickle loyalty that it has become legendary in its own right; why he would believe that his death would break its power rather than simply send it seeking a new carrier is beyond me.
"Truly, those three trinkets are some of my greatest works. And to think that I only created them on a whim," concluded Death with another laugh.
Leaning forwards despite herself, Jen repeated, "A whim?"
"Yes, a whim. Rather than destroy those men as I first considered, I allowed them to bring about their ends themselves. I'm glad I did, too. It was far more amusing."
One corner of his mouth widened in a smirk, tobacco smoke streaming forth as though from a dragon's snout. "You might want to cover yourself, cheri; your interest is getting rather pointed." She crossed her arms under her breasts and sent a brief glare at him, which was the goal of his comment if his high-pitched cackle was anything to judge.
"That is very different than how the story I read tells it," she prompted.
"Because a thousand years have passed since it happened, and none of those men wanted to reveal the whole truth." Shaking his head, the Baron stuck his cigar in the far corner of his mouth and folded his arms behind his head to relax against. From the side not occupied with smoking, he muttered, "Let's see if I can remember how it all went…
"The three men of this tale, brothers all, were war-mages who had pledged their service to a lord who wished to become a king. Hearing that this crown-seeker had finally prepared himself to take the throne he so desired, they searched for a means by which to ensure his victory. His rival, though possessing of a smaller army, had many more wands in his ranks than did this princeling, and the brothers despaired that their liege lord's attempt to take his prize would fail. And so, they pleaded to me to give them an audience, and curious at the sheer boldness of these mortals, I chose to grant them their request."
"Wait, they were able to summon you from this realm?" came Jen's incredulous question. Her surprise was well warranted; though the Powers could come to the living world, as his presence at her most recent ritual proved, to her knowledge the Powers' Pact restricted them to appearing only to their avatars. For three men who were not his servants to speak with Death, face to face… "How?"
The Baron shrugged dismissively. "They sacrificed a village in its entirety. Every man, woman, and child. Every cat and dog and cow and goat. Every bird in every hedge. Every crop burned in the fields and every tree in the forest fell. If it was alive, they killed it, and then they Invited me to the ruins that remained.
"As I said, their dedication to their purpose intrigued me, so I came to them to discover what had driven them to undertake such a desperate plan and to beseech such a fearsome being as myself. They explained their need, and though I cared not a whit for their upcoming battle, I found myself interested in assisting them. Rare is the chance for us to influence the living world to that extent, and…" He laughed, the sound dark and foreboding. "I had been somewhat bored for the previous few centuries and looked forward to stretching my wings, as it were.
"Then they proved that, despite how unusual they first appeared, they were still only arrogant humans in the end.
"The youngest of the three brothers was the one who opened the path for me, but he forgot that I am Death, not the imps or ghasts or spirits his magics had called forth before. He demanded my assistance, thinking that I was bound to his will the way those creatures were, and I would have destroyed him there and then had the second-born, glib of tongue, not interrupted his brother and explained that they simply wished for tools that could be used on the distant battlefield. My wrath was already kindled at the insult I had been given, and I smiled and agreed even as I planned their destruction."
Jen winced and nodded. Those were the actions of the Baron she was familiar with.
"I peeled away their thoughts and peered into their pasts, and while they recovered from my curiosity, I chose the most amusing way to return their insolence a hundredfold. I told them that their plight had moved me and that I was willing to grant to each of them the tool he most desired for the coming war. The first brother, bravest and strongest, made his living in the thick of the fighting, and so he claimed for himself a wand as unyielding and powerful as he fancied himself to be. I agreed, plucking a branch off an elderberry tree and carving it into a wand. It was indeed more powerful than any mortal wand was or ever will be, but its loyalty is to none and its bloodlust is ever unable to be slaked.
"The second brother valued intelligence and knowledge, and he was the strategist of the three. He desired a way to conjure up the spirits of the dead so he might gather knowledge of his enemy from the armies that had recently fallen and gain wisdom from commanders and generals long gone. I do not recall the dead who have already passed through my realm, so instead I plucked a stone from the ground – this stone," the Baron repeated, flipping the Stone like a coin and catching it, "and enchanted it. Now, when spun three times, it speaks with pretty words and steers all who are foolish enough to use it onto a course that leads to their doom.
"The third brother was a coward, valuing his safety above all else; it was for this reason that he chose to traffic with denizens of other realms rather than face his foes directly. He did, in fact, request a cloak that no one, not even I, could see through, and so I wove together a cloak from the water taken from a well and gave it to him with my blessings, not that it was any more effective against my eyes than any other cloak of invisibility. Of the three objects, its effects are the most subtle: when worn, it leads the one under it into dangers he normally would avoid and gives the wearer a sense of bravado that sees him continue on rather than listen to his reason and turn back.
"You know the rest of the tale," he said with another smirk. "The elder brother, arrogant fool that he was, bragged about his treasure after drinking too much ale, and a crafty thief took it for himself after turning it on its first wielder. The middle brother, though he listened to the shades the stone brought to him without ill effects, returned to his home to find his young bride dead of the plague, and the whispering of the illusion along with his grief saw him take his own life. His neighbor spotted the stone when the man's property was being sold off and took it for himself, and the stone engineered the end of several more magical and nonmagical humans alike before it was forged into a ring, its powers and legend later forgotten but to a few. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the results of that trick so much I have repeated it a few other times in the centuries since."
Jen's eyes widened in surprise at that aside. That would explain why the story of the Wòch nan Namn Fou Elsie told me when I was younger doesn't exactly match up with the Tale of the Three Brothers. It was about an entirely different stone. As for the fact that there were more of these murderous rocks wandering about the world? That realization made her shudder.
"The youngest brother, despite being the greatest target of my anger, managed to live the longest of the three. However, while his devilish luck protected him from the danger the cloak drew him to, his various companions fell one after another. Eventually rumors sprang up that the wizard was either cursed or had killed his friends himself, and when the accusations grew too much to bear, he gave the cloak to his eldest son and caused his demise himself. The cloak has since been passed down the family line, pruning the tree until"—Jen leaned forward in eagerness while the Baron puffed contentedly on his cigar for a long moment—"until as of now, there are only three of that bloodline left, a man and his two children."
"So that family is almost extinct?" she asked with morbid curiosity. "What will happen when the rest die off?"
The Baron's shrug was the epitome of nonchalance. "One child is protected from the power and peril of the cloak due to the actions of the father and the choices the child made for itself, so the bloodline technically will continue undaunted. As for the branch that still bears my grudge, who knows? Perhaps it will end in the next decade, perhaps the next century. It matters not to me, for I know it will end one day or another; all taking longer means is that even more of that bloodline will pay for the insult of their progenitor.
"And when the line does perish? Perhaps I will reclaim the cloak; perhaps I will permit it to move on to another. I have yet to decide."
"That's…" Jen shook her head, unsure just how to feel about the tale. All she knew was that she was very, very glad that she was not part of that cursed family. Another question popped into her head, and while she really did not want to ask it for fear that it might ruin the Baron's good mood, he already knew it had crossed her mind, and she was curious. "I have one more thing to ask. The story I heard had another part; it said that whosoever gathers the three items together will become… well…"
"The 'Master of Death'?" the Baron asked softly. At her hesitant nod, he only laughed. "What kind of fool do you humans take me for? As if I would ever give any entity, let alone a mere mortal, the opportunity to gain dominion over me. Do not be ridiculous."
Humming to himself, the Baron again examined the Stone sitting between them. "Well, sèvitè mwen kirye, it is your lucky day." She looked over to him in cautious curiosity upon hearing that thoughtful tone. "I've changed my mind. I want you to keep an eye on this for me for a time." He pulled his arms down from behind his head, and one long-fingered hand plucked the Stone from the tabletop and stuffed it into the burning end of the cigar in his mouth. A deep drag, and when he blew out the resulting smoke, it did not billow out like a cloud but swerved through the air like a swimming snake to curl around her throat.
"Yes, that will do nicely," Death muttered to himself. Louder, he reminded her, "You have done very well, but do not forget that my favor can be lost as well as gained, and the consequences of that feat are far less enjoyable. Now that the abomination's soul jars have been destroyed, you have plenty of time to find him and kill him."
A dismissive wave of his hand had the mist that surrounded them sweep back in and hide him from view.
Her eyes fluttering open, Jen poked her head out of the sheets wrapped around her and gazed through the window at the breaking dawn. There is no good reason for me to be awake this early, she thought while climbing out of the bed. A long stretch removed the worst of the aches that had appeared overnight. They were likely the result of traveling to that desolate realm between life and the afterlife, but she would take a little soreness over bleeding from every orifice each and every time.
It was when she twisted her neck around to relieve the persistent pain that had settled there that she found it. Her hand moved to massage the stressed muscles, but before it could reach her skin it encountered a band of some material. It felt like leather. A hurried check in the mirror proved that it looked like leather. Her sonar, however, shouted quite clearly that it was anything but.
Mostly because her sonar could not pick up anything at all, just a void in the world.
The artefact itself was rather unimpressive, just an inch-wide strip of black hide that encircled her neck. She fumbled with her fingers looking for a buckle or clasp or something, and finding a spot where the leather changed to something harder, she twisted the choker around to get a better look at it.
What stared back was the Resurrection Stone, the triangular symbol inscribed on the surface now touched up with fresh gold leaf and the gem resting in what looked like a solid gold setting with six of the same lily-like projections she could find on the scar on her wrist.
So this is what he meant when he said he was giving it to me to keep an eye on it. Unfortunately, this was also not the kind of accessory she could freely wear anywhere she wanted; Luna and her father, for instance, would be able to recognize it instantly, and if Dumbledore knew as much about the Hallows as the Baron thought he did, there was no doubt that a single glance would tell him everything she did not want him to know.
An idea entered her mind, and she held her thumb and index finger a short distance apart; as soon as her hand neared the collar, a cutting charm backed by dark magic sprang to life. After all, she told herself while applying the dark purple curse to the material, I'll have an easier time keeping the Stone safe if it's in a secure, warded location rather than on my person, right? Sparks leapt from the leather as it resisted her spell, and after another few seconds the dark charm skipped off the choker and out from between her fingers to score a long cut up the side of her neck. "Damn it!" she cursed, quickly applying more dark magic to the wound to heal it without leaving a scar and then vanishing the few drops of blood that had leaked out.
Checking the collar itself proved that despite her efforts, there was not a mark marring the surface of the leather.
I don't know what I was thinking. Treasures are all but indestructible; trying to incinerate Ravenclaw's diadem and the Resurrection Stone on the solstice should have reminded me about that. She sighed and shook her head. On the bright side, that the Baron likes me enough to craft a Treasure for me – even if it's just adding something to a previous one – and not curse it is a good thing, I suppose. Maybe it even means I'll get the chance to return as a revenant when I die.
She had no clue how white magic operated, but for black witches, there was no such thing as retirement; once pledged to the Dark Powers, a witch or wizard continued in their service until death. For the Baron, the Gatekeeper to the Afterlife, things were not quite so cut and dry, and many a white mage had learned the hard way that cutting down one of Death's avatars was a very, very bad idea. Far more white wizards became ghosts than black, primarily so they could avoid the risk of encountering one of the Powers whom they had offended.
For her and other avatars of Death, there was an upside to serving a Power who could keep control over them even after their lives were finished. If he found one of them interesting enough or devoted enough, he could give her the opportunity to become a revenant, a state of non-life not totally dissimilar to a ghost's. Unlike normal spirits, however, revenants were not bound to the living world but to Death's realm, which allowed them to cross over and visit both life and afterlife at will. Additionally, revenants retained the ability to manipulate the physical world to some limited degree; Elsie had told her that some of the Muggle horror stories about poltergeists or demonic possession were actually the result of a revenant having too much time on his hands.
So I'm likely to get that opportunity, provided I don't bollocks things up, but in return I have to wear the Resurrection Stone around my neck until the Baron either gets bored or wants it back, either of which may well take my entire life. She sighed. At least it taught me one thing: never count on the Baron to give a nice, non-complicated Christmas present.
The ringing of the alarm clock on the bedside table woke one of the two occupants of the room, and a thin, fair arm reached out from under the covers to feel around for it. After the third attempt, the owner of the arm finally managed to switch the incessantly irritating machine off.
Paula sat up and glared blearily at the clock at it displayed the time: almost eleven o'clock in the morning. That was not nearly as much of a lie-in as someone might think; Candyland's doors closed at four and cleaning generally took another hour or two.
The recently turned ten-year-old was tempted, so tempted to drop back down in the bed and sleep for a few more hours, but instead she pulled herself out with a grumble and grabbed the thick robe lying on the floor. Drew mumbled a bit before he rolled over and spread out across the mattress, and she smiled softly down at him. He was two years her senior, but both of them were too old to appeal to the various patrons that visited their establishment; the only reason Dicky Hutchins kept them around was because he had no idea how to run the business properly while they had been trained by Mama on all the particulars.
Paula shook her head, pushing her tangle of red hair out of her face immediately afterwards, and scooped up a small cardboard box. Fishing out one of the last cigarettes along with the yellow plastic lighter, she made a mental note to pester Dicky to grab her another pack. She did not smoke much, maybe one stick every week or week and a half, and mostly on days like today where she had to get up early. In this case, her early morning was because she had to set out everyone's Christmas presents and then prepare the bar and stage for the night's special holiday performances.
Dicky had always had a problem with her habit, but she couldn't help it. She had gotten hooked on them back when she was younger and still lived with her father. Her mother had been out of the picture for as long as she could remember, and as a result she was the biggest daddy's girl Herefordshire had ever seen. She and her father had lived out in the country, the nearest neighbor quite a distance away, and except for the visitors he often had over to the house, it was just the pair of them. He raised her to be a Good Little Girl, and as a reward he would let her do Big Girl things like smoke and drink. The drinking she could do without, but the promise of cigarettes made sure she would be the best Good Little Girl in the whole wide world.
Then, when she was six years old, her life fell apart. Cops barged into her house and arrested her daddy, and ignoring her cries of protests they dragged her away and took her to a house with lots of other kids and two adults whom the bobbie said would be her new parents; she begged and pleaded for the policeman to take her back home to her daddy, but he told her that she would never ever see him again. Alone and scared, she made extra, extra sure to be a Good Little Girl, but instead of praising her and rewarding her like her daddy did, they screamed at her, and all the kids with them called her 'slag' and 'freak' and 'whore'.
Now that she was older and wiser, Paula knew that sleeping naked in her father's bed and letting his friends rub their hands all over her body were not 'normal', but at the time? At the time she was confused and lost and just wanted the world to go back to making sense.
That instant rejection – and on her first night there, no less – signaled the start of a routine that would last throughout the next year. She would run away from whatever foster home the bobbies put her with, they would find her within the next few days to a week when she was inevitably caught stealing food or picking pockets, they would take her to another house, and she would run away again. Hitchhiking was a crapshoot at best: since she was so young, getting cars to stop wasn't the problem, but all too often the drivers would insist on taking her back to her old foes and leaving her there. On the other hand, a good lie could often convince them to drop her off at a nearby petrol station, and more often than not, the scragglier and dirtier the person who pulled over was, the better chance she would have at getting them to agree to take her someplace that was not a police station.
One day, she flagged down a car being driven by a man with a thick beard, and when she told him that she was lost and needed her to take her to someplace with a phone, he not only called her out on her lie – normally a bad, bad sign – but also told her that he had a friend he could take her to where she could bunk for a while. He denied that he would give her over to the police, and instead he drove her all the way to a little town named Avryporth. He let her out at a small building where they were met by an exceptionally average-looking man and a black-haired twelve-year-old girl. The girl had walked around her, somehow examining her despite the red cloth wound around her eyes, and promptly told the man to pay the driver for delivering her. The girl then introduced herself as Jen, though Paula would find out from the other kids that everyone but Hutchins called her 'Mama' or at most 'Mama Jen', and told her that here she would be rewarded and even expected to be a Good Little Girl.
Being sold to Candyland, a place where she was accepted instead of being made fun of and screamed at, was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.
Shoving open the door to the 'gallery', as she had always heard it called, Paula blinked in astonishment at the sight that awaited her. The tables, though they had only been cleared off the night before, now stood almost gleaming, and the stage had thick garlands and jars filled with red and green flames strewn around it. The tiny Christmas tree Drew and Dicky had carried in a few days ago now towered over her and had its fair share of fire-ornaments, tinsel, and many more ornaments than she could ever remember them owning. Underneath the boughs lay all the presents she had wrapped and hidden in the closet of the manager's office, along with twice as many that she could not for the life of her remember buying.
And the cause of all these changes sat at the bar, red Santa hat sitting at a jaunty angle on her head and steaming mug held loosely in her hand. "Merry Christmas, Paula."
"Mama!" She resisted the urge to lunge for the older girl; she was ten now, and that meant she needed to have a bit of decorum. Instead, she calmly walked over and squeezed Mama Jen in a tight embrace that was completely appropriate for her age.
The black-haired girl hugged her back without reservation, and Paula had to fight the urge to stay there. Mama Jen truly was the closest thing she had ever had to a big sister or a mother, and despite the grumbling the witch had made when Paula chose to use that particular address, she had never been rebuffed. "I'm surprised to see you up this early," the witch said, nudging her to the neighboring stool. "I figured everyone would still be sound asleep."
"They are; I just had stuff to do. Stuff you look like you've already done for me." Mama merely smirked a bit at that. "Why are you here? Not that I don't want you here," she quickly added, "but…"
"Two reasons. First, I had to bring those over." The brunette jerked her head at the packages spread out under the tree. "After you told me that Tommy and Crystal had been shoplifting, I realized I have been… somewhat neglectful of my responsibilities. I don't know exactly what everyone wears, but I figured getting plenty of shirts and trousers in multiple sizes should solve most of the issues." She shrugged. "And if not, I left the receipts in the office. Everything was paid for in cash; feel free to take back whatever you want."
And she wondered why all the kids called her 'Mama'!
"You didn't have to do that, you know," Paula said quietly. Dicky took more than his fair share out of the club's profits and left them to actually run the business, true, but they could manage on their own, just with a few difficulties. The older girl didn't need to burn through all her money for them!
"I kind of did," came the gentle retort. "Besides, money isn't a huge issue for me anymore; I can afford to spend it on you kids." Smirking at the cigarette now hanging from limp lips, she smiled and fished around in the pocket of her jacket. "And I got some things extra for you and Drew."
Paula looked down at the small present in her hands and wasted no time tearing through the paper. What was revealed was a new lighter in an expensive metal case, an image of a rearing unicorn covering the side. With a bright smile, she turned it around in her hands; she was not sure how Mama had managed it – other than 'magic', of course – but no matter how she flipped the case, the unicorn moved with it, almost as if there were actually a tiny figurine sitting in the middle of the box and the metal around it had been made semi-transparent. Flicking it open, she stared in confusion at the device. There was no hole for the flame to come out of, just a shallow pit with strange symbols scratched around it, and the normal wheel and fork assembly was replaced by a ridged disc laying flat on top of the metal.
"I can't claim to have made it, exactly," Mama was saying as she examined her gift, "but I did do some work on it so it looks normal and so you don't have to be a witch to use it. Just push the button to turn it on"—Paula did so, and a flame suddenly appeared in the pit—"and either push it again or flip the lid to put it out. You can also make the fire higher or lower by turning the dial, and since it runs on magic, you don't need to worry about ever refilling it, either."
"Thank you." She gave her Mama another hug, which the older girl was just as welcoming of as her earlier one, and slipped the closed lighter into her robe's pocket. Now she was curious what the witch planned to give Drew, but deciding to wait and not spoil the surprise, she asked, "You said there were two reasons you were here. What's the other one?"
The witch sighed and smiled tiredly. "I can't slip things like that past you anymore, can I? I… Well, I needed some space to think about a few things." The former manager's hand came up to fiddle with a leather collar sitting around her neck for a few seconds before she realized what she was doing. "Some stuff came up recently, and where I'm living now isn't exactly the best place to get some peace and quiet. I knew everyone here would be asleep, though, so I could get some time for myself and finish off my errands.
"But enough about that," she said, waving her hand through the air as if to disperse a foul odor. "Tell me what I've missed around here. I want to hear about everything."
And now you see why there will be no more Candyland in this book. Paula's backstory makes me desperately want to scrub my brain with bleach.
Creole Corner: fiyèt—child; cheri—dearie; sèvitè mwen kirye—my curious servant
I've seen plenty of stories where Harry becomes an all-powerful immortal because he's the "Master of Death", and I've even enjoyed some of them. The only issue I have is that no matter which side of the Hallows' creation debate you support (whether they were made by Death or the Peverell brothers), it still makes no sense for them to give their user special powers when they're brought together.
As for Dumbledore's opinion that the title describes anyone who accepts his or her mortality, that is so ludicrous that it doesn't even bear serious consideration. That is mastering one's own fear of death, not death itself. Even poetic license only extends so far.
Silently Watches out.
