Cause and Effect, Part Two
Author's Note: Back by popular demand... or, for better accuracy, muse's demand. In this chapter: a debate in a bookstore, one of Willie's friends, and AssortedTeenageAngst.
Disclaimer: The wizarding world, Hogwarts, Ravenclaws, Modesty Ramnot, and all related concepts are property of J.K. Rowling. All original characters and concepts are mine. Martin Luther King, of course, belongs to himself. The song "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" belongs to Aretha Franklin.
It was a typical trip to the bookstore. We arrived by Floo, dusty with green powder and all coughing, in front of the biggest Flourish and Blott's in the chain. I stared at it in reverence as the rest of the family engaged themselves in one of their usual dramas.
"We'll meet by the front door in two hours," Father decided, "With whatever we want to buy. Nyssa…" he paused and sighed at Nyssa's cold stare. "Take that look off your face, please."
"Oh, certainly," replied Nyssa in a tone of mock subservience. "Anything else while I'm at it? Shall I take off my nose, perhaps, or a few of my teeth?"
"Just try not to be too conspicuous," Father finished through clenched teeth. "And stop it with the attitude. We're all trying to have a nice day here, and we don't need you ruining it." Clearly incensed by his words, Nyssa stalked up the stone steps and shoved through the double doors of the bookstore. The rest of us followed at a distance, a picture-perfect wizarding family. I reflected sagely that Nyssa, while intelligent, had much to learn about dealing with Mother and Father.
Once inside the bookstore, I didn't need eyes to see where I was going. The memories in my feet took me down the well-worn path to the Young Fiction section, where I knelt before the shelf as if praying. I scanned the rows of books - Helen's Hogwarts Adventures, Aurors: The Fight for Freedom, Seeking the Stars, Mariko the Mermaid: Tales From the Sea.
"Hey, Willie." I tore my eyes from the books at the familiar voice of Yseult, one of my friends from Hogwarts and a fellow Ravenclaw.
"Hi Yseult. What's with your hair?" I craned my neck to better examine the hundreds of tiny red braids interwoven with golden tinsel.
Yseult grinned broadly. "My cousin did it yesterday. Isn't it cool?" Before I had a chance to reply, she pulled something from behind her back. "Looking for this?"
"Iolanthe," I breathed, reaching toward the sparkling green cover of the most amazing book ever: the sweeping saga of an alternate universe where Nifflers were the people's only hope for recovering a lost civilization. "Where'd you find it?"
"They have a few copies in the storage room," Yseult explained, twirling a braid around her finger. "They're trying to hoard them until the receive the next shipment, but you know how I can spot these things." Yseult had, indeed, an amazing eye for detail.
"Thanks," I said fervently, running my thumb along the spine of the book. "Iolanthe: The Search For The Past," I chanted. The stylized Niffler on the cover winked mysteriously at me.
"Look over there!" Yseult hissed. "Those two are fighting!" I scooted over, causing my knees to hurt from the friction against the carpet, to see the excitement with a sneaking suspicion that made my stomach sink.
It was fully justified. A few aisles down, Nyssa was clutching a book ("The Demiguise: An Undisguised Tragedy") and engaged in a heated debate with a middle-aged wizard in star-spangled red robes.
"Invisibility Cloaks have saved thousands of lives," the older wizard was saying.
"If so, they've taken thousands more," Nyssa countered, her stance confident. "For every Invisibility Cloak made, several Demiguise are killed. Besides, the cloaks are extremely expensive. How many people do you really think just happen to have them around at the moment of danger?"
The wizard glared and puffed out his chest. "My great-grandfather was an Auror, and his life was saved several times by his Invisibility Cloak. If it weren't for that cloak, I wouldn't be around today." He folded his arms in satisfaction, as if concluding the matter.
"I'm sure that's a benefit to all of us," replied Nyssa sardonically, "But imagine some alternate universe in which a descendant of the Demiguise used for that cloak says 'My great-grandmother escaped the hunters. If they'd killed her, I wouldn't be around today.' What's the difference?"
"The difference?" the wizard roared, his scowl intensifying "They're beasts, girl, not beings. Grogan Stump said so."
Nyssa put her hand on her hip, a warning pose unfortunately lost on her opponent. "Are you, then, willing to accept Grogan Stump and his council as infallible and omniscient?"
"Look at them go!" Yseult whispered. She shook her head in awe. "This is better than the professional debates on WWN."
"I'm more ready to accept them as infallible and whatever than some upstart of a teenage girl," the man declared, towering over Nyssa in a clear attempt to intimidate. Nyssa, though, was not to be intimidated.
"Are you forgetting that the average sixteen-year-old girl in 1999 is likely to be better educated than the Head of Council in 1811?" Raising a thick eyebrow, Nyssa allowed herself a slight smile of satisfaction. "You might also note that I am far from the average sixteen-year-old girl."
"I should hope not." At this point, the wizard looked more disgusted than angry. "The average sixteen-year-old girl should have some respected for their elders."
"I respect whomever I deem worthy of it," Nyssa fired back. "Take that as you will." As was her wont in times of anger, her speech patterns began to sound old-fashioned - probably, I supposed, from reading too many old books. Nyssa had a thing for classics.
As Yseult began to sing softly ("And all I'm askin' is for a little respect!") the inevitable happened. Father half-stomped over to Nyssa and her debating partner. I sucked in my breath, wondering if Yseult would recognize my parents.
"Nyssa!" Father strode behind his culprit and grabbed her left arm in a vise-like clutch. "You are in big trouble," he told her sotto voce. Then, raising his volume: "I'm so sorry, sir. She's very passionate about her principles, and her mother and I have told her time and time again that it isn't any excuse for bad manners. Believe me, she'll get quite a talking-to when we get home." His fiery glare toward the subject of his monologue was truly frightening, but Nyssa only stared vaguely around the shop. Her eyes passed mine briefly, and she must have been in a kind mood because she sent me a subtle half-smile.
The red-robed wizard struggled for reconciliation. "She's a very bright girl. I'm sure she'll be able to do a lot, if her talents are… better focused."
"He's apologizing!" Yseult exclaimed in delight. "That was awesome… I can't believe that girl got him to apologize." Even before her adolescent years, Yseult was showing signs of rebellion against the yoke of authority.
"I think he was apologizing to appease my - the father," I pointed out, hoping that Yseult wouldn't notice my Freudian slip. I wasn't embarrassed about Nyssa, far from it, in fact, but the need to keep her out of the family spotlight had been deeply ingrained.
While I tracked Father and Nyssa's progress toward the front desk, Nyssa insisting on purchasing biographies of Martin Luther King and Modesty Ramnot, Mother stalked through the aisles, stopping at my area.
"Time to go, Willie," Mother ordered wearily. I shrugged apologetically at Yseult and, clutching "Iolanthe: The Search For the Past," followed Mother to the checkout area. "Nyssa and your Father went straight home," she murmured, then sighed as she retrieved a handful of Sickles from her pocket. "I'm sorry the day was ruined for you."
"It's not that big a deal." I sensed a chance to help Nyssa out, always a wise thing to do. "I was done anyway; I was only looking for the one book." The cashier put my book into a bag along with Mother's selections, and the two of us exited the store and directed ourselves toward the Floo terminal. "You know," I added hesitantly, "Yseult and I were watching, and she didn't think Nyssa was doing anything bad. She thought it was cool."
"Well, in this family we don't hold ourselves to Yseult's standards," Mother declared severely as she took a pinch of Floo powder and tossed it into the flames. "Maybe if Nyssa weren't… maybe if she were a witch, things would be different, but she has to learn to adjust to her situation." She didn't look at me while saying this, and as I stepped into the fire, I had a feeling that it was more for her own benefit.
--
The house was quiet when I stumbled out of the fireplace. I breathed a sigh of relief, figuring that Father had finished yelling at Nyssa - for that was, of course, what a "talking-to" meant in my family - and she had gone to her room to brood. Once, as a child (not the wise adult of twelve), I had followed Nyssa to her room, waiting with my ear pressed against her door in an attempt to find out what she did when she was angry. There had been growls, presumably Nyssa's, for she could growl like a tiger when angry. Then came the noise of a small object being thrown against a wall; at this I had shivered in fearful fascination. When dissonant chords had wafted from the room, I had emitted a gasp, and Nyssa had swung the door open.
"What do you think you're doing?" she'd spat from clenched teeth, ivory chopsticks in one hand and a miniature piano in the other. I had cowered against the wall of the hallway, but Nyssa's questions demanded answers.
"I just…" I had gulped, then decided to get the rest over with by speaking as fast as possible. "I just wanted to know what you do when you get mad and go to your room."
"And so," Nyssa had sneered, "You spied on me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Sorry?" I'd squeaked pathetically.
Nyssa had tilted her head and smiled coldly. "Do you still want to know what I do when I get mad?" Despite my shake of the head, she went on. "I do things that would make your skin crawl." She had pointed, then, imperiously at the staircase. "Out." The single word sent me rushing away.
She was lying, of course. Nyssa had no scruples about falsehoods, and playing a piano with chopsticks hardly constituted skin-crawling material in my mind. Still, at my current sapient stage, I had the diplomacy to climb the stairs and enter my own room instead, to immerse myself in the wonders of "Iolanthe."
If I wondered a bit about Nyssa as well, nobody needed to know.
--
Author's Note: Back by popular demand... or, for better accuracy, muse's demand. In this chapter: a debate in a bookstore, one of Willie's friends, and AssortedTeenageAngst.
Disclaimer: The wizarding world, Hogwarts, Ravenclaws, Modesty Ramnot, and all related concepts are property of J.K. Rowling. All original characters and concepts are mine. Martin Luther King, of course, belongs to himself. The song "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" belongs to Aretha Franklin.
It was a typical trip to the bookstore. We arrived by Floo, dusty with green powder and all coughing, in front of the biggest Flourish and Blott's in the chain. I stared at it in reverence as the rest of the family engaged themselves in one of their usual dramas.
"We'll meet by the front door in two hours," Father decided, "With whatever we want to buy. Nyssa…" he paused and sighed at Nyssa's cold stare. "Take that look off your face, please."
"Oh, certainly," replied Nyssa in a tone of mock subservience. "Anything else while I'm at it? Shall I take off my nose, perhaps, or a few of my teeth?"
"Just try not to be too conspicuous," Father finished through clenched teeth. "And stop it with the attitude. We're all trying to have a nice day here, and we don't need you ruining it." Clearly incensed by his words, Nyssa stalked up the stone steps and shoved through the double doors of the bookstore. The rest of us followed at a distance, a picture-perfect wizarding family. I reflected sagely that Nyssa, while intelligent, had much to learn about dealing with Mother and Father.
Once inside the bookstore, I didn't need eyes to see where I was going. The memories in my feet took me down the well-worn path to the Young Fiction section, where I knelt before the shelf as if praying. I scanned the rows of books - Helen's Hogwarts Adventures, Aurors: The Fight for Freedom, Seeking the Stars, Mariko the Mermaid: Tales From the Sea.
"Hey, Willie." I tore my eyes from the books at the familiar voice of Yseult, one of my friends from Hogwarts and a fellow Ravenclaw.
"Hi Yseult. What's with your hair?" I craned my neck to better examine the hundreds of tiny red braids interwoven with golden tinsel.
Yseult grinned broadly. "My cousin did it yesterday. Isn't it cool?" Before I had a chance to reply, she pulled something from behind her back. "Looking for this?"
"Iolanthe," I breathed, reaching toward the sparkling green cover of the most amazing book ever: the sweeping saga of an alternate universe where Nifflers were the people's only hope for recovering a lost civilization. "Where'd you find it?"
"They have a few copies in the storage room," Yseult explained, twirling a braid around her finger. "They're trying to hoard them until the receive the next shipment, but you know how I can spot these things." Yseult had, indeed, an amazing eye for detail.
"Thanks," I said fervently, running my thumb along the spine of the book. "Iolanthe: The Search For The Past," I chanted. The stylized Niffler on the cover winked mysteriously at me.
"Look over there!" Yseult hissed. "Those two are fighting!" I scooted over, causing my knees to hurt from the friction against the carpet, to see the excitement with a sneaking suspicion that made my stomach sink.
It was fully justified. A few aisles down, Nyssa was clutching a book ("The Demiguise: An Undisguised Tragedy") and engaged in a heated debate with a middle-aged wizard in star-spangled red robes.
"Invisibility Cloaks have saved thousands of lives," the older wizard was saying.
"If so, they've taken thousands more," Nyssa countered, her stance confident. "For every Invisibility Cloak made, several Demiguise are killed. Besides, the cloaks are extremely expensive. How many people do you really think just happen to have them around at the moment of danger?"
The wizard glared and puffed out his chest. "My great-grandfather was an Auror, and his life was saved several times by his Invisibility Cloak. If it weren't for that cloak, I wouldn't be around today." He folded his arms in satisfaction, as if concluding the matter.
"I'm sure that's a benefit to all of us," replied Nyssa sardonically, "But imagine some alternate universe in which a descendant of the Demiguise used for that cloak says 'My great-grandmother escaped the hunters. If they'd killed her, I wouldn't be around today.' What's the difference?"
"The difference?" the wizard roared, his scowl intensifying "They're beasts, girl, not beings. Grogan Stump said so."
Nyssa put her hand on her hip, a warning pose unfortunately lost on her opponent. "Are you, then, willing to accept Grogan Stump and his council as infallible and omniscient?"
"Look at them go!" Yseult whispered. She shook her head in awe. "This is better than the professional debates on WWN."
"I'm more ready to accept them as infallible and whatever than some upstart of a teenage girl," the man declared, towering over Nyssa in a clear attempt to intimidate. Nyssa, though, was not to be intimidated.
"Are you forgetting that the average sixteen-year-old girl in 1999 is likely to be better educated than the Head of Council in 1811?" Raising a thick eyebrow, Nyssa allowed herself a slight smile of satisfaction. "You might also note that I am far from the average sixteen-year-old girl."
"I should hope not." At this point, the wizard looked more disgusted than angry. "The average sixteen-year-old girl should have some respected for their elders."
"I respect whomever I deem worthy of it," Nyssa fired back. "Take that as you will." As was her wont in times of anger, her speech patterns began to sound old-fashioned - probably, I supposed, from reading too many old books. Nyssa had a thing for classics.
As Yseult began to sing softly ("And all I'm askin' is for a little respect!") the inevitable happened. Father half-stomped over to Nyssa and her debating partner. I sucked in my breath, wondering if Yseult would recognize my parents.
"Nyssa!" Father strode behind his culprit and grabbed her left arm in a vise-like clutch. "You are in big trouble," he told her sotto voce. Then, raising his volume: "I'm so sorry, sir. She's very passionate about her principles, and her mother and I have told her time and time again that it isn't any excuse for bad manners. Believe me, she'll get quite a talking-to when we get home." His fiery glare toward the subject of his monologue was truly frightening, but Nyssa only stared vaguely around the shop. Her eyes passed mine briefly, and she must have been in a kind mood because she sent me a subtle half-smile.
The red-robed wizard struggled for reconciliation. "She's a very bright girl. I'm sure she'll be able to do a lot, if her talents are… better focused."
"He's apologizing!" Yseult exclaimed in delight. "That was awesome… I can't believe that girl got him to apologize." Even before her adolescent years, Yseult was showing signs of rebellion against the yoke of authority.
"I think he was apologizing to appease my - the father," I pointed out, hoping that Yseult wouldn't notice my Freudian slip. I wasn't embarrassed about Nyssa, far from it, in fact, but the need to keep her out of the family spotlight had been deeply ingrained.
While I tracked Father and Nyssa's progress toward the front desk, Nyssa insisting on purchasing biographies of Martin Luther King and Modesty Ramnot, Mother stalked through the aisles, stopping at my area.
"Time to go, Willie," Mother ordered wearily. I shrugged apologetically at Yseult and, clutching "Iolanthe: The Search For the Past," followed Mother to the checkout area. "Nyssa and your Father went straight home," she murmured, then sighed as she retrieved a handful of Sickles from her pocket. "I'm sorry the day was ruined for you."
"It's not that big a deal." I sensed a chance to help Nyssa out, always a wise thing to do. "I was done anyway; I was only looking for the one book." The cashier put my book into a bag along with Mother's selections, and the two of us exited the store and directed ourselves toward the Floo terminal. "You know," I added hesitantly, "Yseult and I were watching, and she didn't think Nyssa was doing anything bad. She thought it was cool."
"Well, in this family we don't hold ourselves to Yseult's standards," Mother declared severely as she took a pinch of Floo powder and tossed it into the flames. "Maybe if Nyssa weren't… maybe if she were a witch, things would be different, but she has to learn to adjust to her situation." She didn't look at me while saying this, and as I stepped into the fire, I had a feeling that it was more for her own benefit.
--
The house was quiet when I stumbled out of the fireplace. I breathed a sigh of relief, figuring that Father had finished yelling at Nyssa - for that was, of course, what a "talking-to" meant in my family - and she had gone to her room to brood. Once, as a child (not the wise adult of twelve), I had followed Nyssa to her room, waiting with my ear pressed against her door in an attempt to find out what she did when she was angry. There had been growls, presumably Nyssa's, for she could growl like a tiger when angry. Then came the noise of a small object being thrown against a wall; at this I had shivered in fearful fascination. When dissonant chords had wafted from the room, I had emitted a gasp, and Nyssa had swung the door open.
"What do you think you're doing?" she'd spat from clenched teeth, ivory chopsticks in one hand and a miniature piano in the other. I had cowered against the wall of the hallway, but Nyssa's questions demanded answers.
"I just…" I had gulped, then decided to get the rest over with by speaking as fast as possible. "I just wanted to know what you do when you get mad and go to your room."
"And so," Nyssa had sneered, "You spied on me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Sorry?" I'd squeaked pathetically.
Nyssa had tilted her head and smiled coldly. "Do you still want to know what I do when I get mad?" Despite my shake of the head, she went on. "I do things that would make your skin crawl." She had pointed, then, imperiously at the staircase. "Out." The single word sent me rushing away.
She was lying, of course. Nyssa had no scruples about falsehoods, and playing a piano with chopsticks hardly constituted skin-crawling material in my mind. Still, at my current sapient stage, I had the diplomacy to climb the stairs and enter my own room instead, to immerse myself in the wonders of "Iolanthe."
If I wondered a bit about Nyssa as well, nobody needed to know.
--