-Of Truth and Trust-

"Children often have imaginary playmates. I suspect that half of them are really their guardian angels." –Eileen Elias Freeman

(Tuesday, October 1, 2019)

When he exited Ms. Gowell's classroom, Chris was stopped by his best friend, Dwight Ryder. The mischievous, relatively short teenager stared at Chris with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. Arms folded, eyebrows raised, he didn't move as Chris stepped closer.

"So. Detention. Sounds like fun." His voice practically drowned in sarcasm.

With a wince, Chris remembered that he and Dwight had planned to see a movie together that afternoon. Well, there was nothing he could do about that now. Somehow, he doubted Ms. Gowell would be all that moved by his plight.

"I'm sor—"

Waving an impatient hand, Dwight interrupted, "Sorry, yeah, I know. Of all the days to pull something like this, Chris. I mean come on." As he spoke, he walked with Chris in the direction of the detention room.

Without much thought, Chris followed. "It wasn't a trick, Dwight, I swear. You know me."

"Yeah, I do," Dwight countered with a sidelong glance at his friend. "Ditching class by pretending to have a headache? Sounds exactly like something you would do."

"I know," Chris readily agreed, "But would I lie to you about it?"

Eyes glimmering with amusement, Dwight chuckled, "Chris, you wouldn't lie to the teacher about it."

"All the more so…" Chris smirked.

For a little while they walked in comfortable silence together. The duo slunk past lockers with expletives scribbled on in permanent marker, gliding at a leisurely pace towards the detention room—or, as the school so elegantly liked to call it to soothe its conscience, "Study Hall." With Dwight there to keep him company, Chris no longer felt a looming sense of defeat. Instead he looked at detention as a whole hour to come up with a reasonable excuse for his mother for why he was so late getting home.

Shouldn't be too hard, he thought as he stopped in front of the classroom door. After all the times I've had to do it, it should be a piece of cake. Standing in front of the detention room, he heard a telltale sigh of boredom behind the door that accurately depicted how he himself felt. Just get this over with, he berated himself. Before Chris could, Dwight reached out and grasped the doorknob firmly. Winking at Chris, he shoved open the door and stepped inside. Behind him, grinning, smiling, Chris entered as well.

"Mr. Ryder, Mr. Halliwell," a voice drawled, "how nice of you to join us. You may take a seat…" Eyeing the two with extreme distaste, he added, "Separately." At the teacher's desk sat a squat, old man with a shiny, balding head. What little hair he still possessed escaped to his chin in a lame attempt at a goatee. Though Chris had seen him many times in the hallways, he only ever gave him attention when in Study Hall… and even then, only reluctantly.

Casually, both teens trudged past the teacher. As he walked by, Chris deposited his slip on the desk as the rules indicated he should. (By now he knew the rules of detention as well as he knew the Book of Shadows.)

Just about to sit down—beside Dwight despite the man's "suggestion"—that same monotonous voice snapped, "Mr. Ryder."

From where he had just sat down, Dwight looked up innocently. "Yeah?"

Tapping his hand irritably against his desk, the teacher demanded, "You owe me a slip."

With a nonchalant shrug the teen said, "Whoops—must have left it in my backpack by my locker. My bad."

As if speaking to a child, the man wagged a finger at the trespasser. "I think not, Mr. Ryder. You and Mr. Halliwell won't be pulling a stunt like this again." Damn, he wasn't supposed to remember the other times they had attempted to stick together like this. "Mr. Halliwell can do his own time." With a threatening jab towards the door, he punctuated, "Without assistance."

Casting an apologetic glance at Chris, the boy in question headed toward the door. "See you tomorrow, Chris," he said, and then left. Once he had gone, the three other students in the room, who had watched the spectacle with mild intrigue, returned to their previous disinterest.

Without his friend to accompany him, this detention would prove very dull indeed. Dropping his bag at the foot of a vacant desk, Chris sank into its seat, unzipped his bag, and yanked out his math notebook. Since he figured he might as well get some work done while stuck here, he opened the notebook to the page where he had copied down a few math problems and got started.

About five minutes passed before the door creaked open again, and in walked a stormy-eyed redhead. Without a word she slapped her pink slip down onto the teacher's desk in much the same way Chris had and stormed to an empty chair in the last row of desks.

Chris glanced up from his notebook to examine the newcomer. Unable to recognize her, he could only guess at her age—sophomore from the looks of it. Though she looked older than he, it wasn't by much. She wore knee-length, black shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt. An exotic mix of gray and blue, her eyes glinted with volatile emotion. With four piercings, two in either ear, and a skull as a ring on her right thumb, she looked like just the person who belonged in a room like this.

Since Chris had never been one to judge people by their appearances, however (after all, demons came in all varieties), he noticed above all else her expression and not her punk-rock attire. The hard, forced indifference that clenched her teeth and the flashing anger in her eyes illustrated her firm belief that she had been punished unjustly.

The brunette focused his gaze onto the front of the decrepit classroom to where the old man sat, looking every bit a part of the classroom as any of the rusting desks. His wrinkles gave his eyes a permanent expression of sagging fatigue. The man's choice of attire included a plaid sweater that had to be from the nineties, a dark blue tie (and who wore those anymore?), and tan pants. Smirking, Chris averted his gaze and stared back down at his notebook. Calmly, he returned to his math.

So agonizingly slowly did the minutes tick past that Chris was sure the clock's hands had inched backwards. Finally, after fifty-five more minutes, which felt more like endless hours than anything, the teacher glanced at his watch and stood up. "Okay," he told the students, "you're free to go." Not to Chris's surprise, the old man was the first one to waddle shamelessly out the door.

A freshman Chris recognized by face but not by name (not in any of his classes as far as Chris could tell) rummaged around through his bag for his cell phone to call a parent. By the time Chris looked up, the redhead had vanished; and the two other students in the room were both seniors who had their cars parked in the school lot.

Chris tarried behind, using the pretense of needing to tie his shoe (multiple times, apparently) until the other freshman departed. Finally, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he was gone, a pillar of orbs showering down in his wake.

When he reappeared behind a cluster of outdoor trash cans, an indistinguishable stench rose up to greet his nostrils. Pinching his nose shut with his thumb and forefinger, he grabbed the strap hanging on his shoulder with his left hand. Though it happened more than he cared to admit, this time thankfully he hadn't dropped it on the orb over here. With that out of the way, he glanced down at the concrete path, relying on his whitelighter sensing powers to help him locate his new charge.

No magical sign jumped down at him; instead, he felt like an idiot standing in the backyard of some seemingly empty house with his eyes closed. While Chris Halliwell was never one to give up, he knew his mom was probably already digging out the scrying crystal. Besides, he hadn't even wanted a charge anyway.

Turning around to orb away, he froze as an echoing 'clang' reached his ears. If he hadn't been trained to hear even the tiniest of noises, it was faint enough that he would have missed it. With a quick sigh – it looked like he'd meet his charge today after all – he headed off to find the source of the sound. Cutting through a few backyards—jumping over a number of bushes—he didn't have to walk far before spotting it. The last house of a dead-end street, the one-floor home had white paint peeling off its walls. A window had accidentally been left open, which – Chris realized – was the only reason any sound had rebounded out to him. From within came a muffled voice, stuttering words inaudible to the teen.

He slunk closer to the house, pausing just a few feet away from the open window and crouching down so as not to be spotted. He strained his ears to catch whatever words might be spoken next.

He needn't have strained so hard to hear: the next words were screamed. "You stupid boy!" shrieked a female voice, so high-pitched that Chris immediately clapped his hands over his ears. "You broke my vase!"

This time, with difficulty, Chris heard the faint, stammered apology. "I-I'm sorry," the boy gasped, "M'sorry, I didn't m-mean to."

Though he felt his muscles tighten, Chris forced himself to remain where he stooped. As something connected with the boy's face, the teen winced. By the sound of the SMACK – and the child's weak whimper – Chris deduced that whatever it was had to be harder than the palm of someone's hand.

"P-p-please," Jake cried softly, "I-I didn't m-mean to d-do it."

"Shut up, just shut up, you worthless, little shit!"

Although he could see nothing through the window, the witchlighter easily imagined the scene: a young boy curled up in the corner of the room, tears streaming down black and blue cheeks; a woman, face contorted in rage, eyes alight with fury, hands closed around some object that she had used to "teach her son a lesson."

She's teaching him a lesson, all right, Chris thought darkly. She's teaching him not to trust anyone, teaching him that he's not worth two cents.

Seeming content with the fear she had instilled in her son, the mother let the object in her hand clatter noisily to the floor. "Well," she announced smugly, "this place had better be cleaned up by the time I get back." Chris listened to the clickety-clack of stilettos crossing the floor, retreating. He waited until he heard the front door open and then slam shut. When he heard the car rev to life and drive away, he stood, brushed the dirt from his jeans, and dropped his backpack in the dirt. He'd have time to grab it before orbing home. Without bothering to walk around to the front of the yard, he used his powers to orb straight inside. After all, he figured: might as well make his façade as "guardian angel" more realistic.

Unfortunately or fortunately Chris wasn't sure, but either way the sobbing boy didn't notice the teen's magical entrance. Chris stood in a disheveled, cluttered kitchen, a pan lying on the floor a few feet in front of him. (What she used to hit him, he thought coldly.) As he took a few silent steps closer to his charge, he noticed the shattered remains of an old vase scattered across the floor. Eyes hardening at the sight, he focused his attention on Jake.

Long, dirty blond bangs fell into eyes that were currently squeezed shut to ward off the pain. Knees curled to his stomach, the boy cried silent tears. Though he tried to deny the existence of his fear, the very thought of his mother returning made his chest ache. If she came back before the mess was cleared, there'd be hell to pay.

That thought reminded Jake of the job she had assigned. If he wanted to finish on time, he figured he'd better get started immediately. At times she came home only hours later, but sometimes – and one could never tell which days this would occur – the front door was thrown violently open only minutes after her original departure.

Just enough time for another quick drink, he thought bitterly. Finally drying his eyes with the backs of his hands, he raised his gaze—and froze at the sight that greeted his bloodshot eyes. Before him stood a complete stranger, brown hair partially obscuring two jade eyes, which glittered fiercely. The stranger looked as if he'd been standing there some minutes already.

Frantically, the nine-year-old boy clamored to his feet. The first thing Chris noticed were the boy's eyes—golden brown. After that, his gaze moved lower, roving over Jake's face. Already, his cheek had begun to darken and swell from where the frying pan had struck. Like a horde of demons circling a victim, a colorful array of bruises created a ring around one large, red splotch. For a moment the only though that passed through Chris's mind was how amazing it was that Jake's jaw was still fully in tact. Even with this, he was certain Jake had some blood that he concealed—maybe a chipped tooth or two.

"W-who are you?"

The hesitant voice forced Chris from his reverie. Reaching out to the boy to offer assurance, he wasn't too surprised when Jake yanked himself out of reach, eyeing the stranger with blatant distrust. However, though he expected it, to experience it hurt nonetheless. No, he hadn't thought the boy would fall into his arms and cry out all his troubles nor instantly trust him upon their first encounter. Still… by no means naïve, Chris Halliwell as an optimist at heart. A cynical one perhaps but an optimist nevertheless. While Jake's distrust came as no surprise to the teen, he most definitely could not deny its impact on him.

"Jake," Chris murmured, pain filling his glittering orbs. Like a bullet, Jake's eyes shot up to stare at the newcomer in awe. How had he known his name? "Jake, listen to me: I won't hurt you."

When Jake found nothing but compassion in Chris's eyes, he bit his lip. "I didn't break it," he whispered, averting his eyes to look instead at the floor behind the stranger. Following Jake's gaze, Chris saw the pieces of the vase that littered the floor. "I swear I didn't do it. Mommy… it got knocked over last night, but… it was a long night last night; so I don't think she remembered so good."

"Relax, Jake, I believe you," Chris swore—though he didn't really. Without a doubt in his mind Chris knew Jake's mom hadn't had "a long night." More like a long drink. Still, now was not the time to call him on the lie. As he watched, the boy continued to shuffle backwards until his back bumped up against the kitchen's off-white countertop. "I promise I won't hurt you," the teen repeated quietly, "You can trust me."

Mutely, Jake shook his head, eyes squeezing shut for oh-so many reasons. Fear shined through his closed expression, head lowering, body slumping to the floor. Slowly, fresh tears carved their way down his cheeks, stinging the bruises as they went. No, this complete stranger could not be trusted; no one could be trusted.

"Let me help you, Jake." Striding over to the freezer, Chris yanked it open. A blast of frigid air coasted over his face and arms as he reached for a box of frozen peas. After living at the Halliwell manor for fifteen years, accustomed to ice packs, bandages, and disinfectant ointments stored in practically every room, he found it somewhat disconcerting to find not even a single ice pack in Jake's freezer. Then again, Jake's mom didn't exactly have to worry about demons attacking at pretty much any hour of the day or night. In either case he supposed frozen peas would suffice.

To his confusion, when he tried to ofer the small package to Jake, his hand was roughly propelled back to his chest. "N-no!" Jake cried, golden brown eyes wide with terror. "P-put it back before s-she finds out!"

Assuming Jake's outburst referred to his mother, Chris didn't budge.

When Jake realized Chris wouldn't listen, he began to sob harder. In a wavering voice he explained, "I'm n-not 'llowed to touch any of her s-stuff without a-asking."

Realizing that he wouldn't be able to convince the hysterical boy to take the frozen box, Chris returned it to the freezer and decided to approach Jake through a different tactic. Squatting beside the boy, he crossed his legs in the shape of a pretzel, hands falling into his lap. "Hi, my name's Chris," he said with a cheerful smile. "So, Jake," he continued, "what's your favorite color?" Though he wanted to touch the whimpering child on the shoulder to offer comfort, he decided against it.

After Jake failed to respond, Chris sighed. This was getting him nowhere. How could he help a boy who didn't even trust him?

Patience, he told himself with grim determination. This will take some time. Of all the talents attributed to the young witch, patience had never been one of them. Not while a rambunctious little boy waiting for one of Mommy's famous oatmeal raisin cookies and not now.

As gently as he could, he said, "Jake, there's something I need to tell you; but if you want to find out what it is, you've got to look at me."

Unwilling to raise his gaze off the floor, the boy stubbornly replied, "I don't want you to tell me." To himself he thought fiercely, If I don't look he'll go away. Then I can clean up the mess and do my homework. That's all. Just gotta wait him out. I'm good at that kinda stuff.

"Yes you do."

For the briefest of moments, Jake's curious eyes shot up to meet Chris's. Though it wasn't much of a gesture, for right now Chris would accept it as enough. Baby steps. As if to reward the boy for the sliver of trust he offered—however small—Chris leaned toward him. In a conspiratorial tone he whispered, "I came to watch over you."

Bewildered, Jake stared at Chris in uncertainty before finally responding, "I don't get it."

"I'm your guardian angel sent down to protect you," Chris explained. In his mind the witch crossed imaginary fingers and prayed Jake would believe the presented explanation. While kids did have a way of believing the unbelievable, this little boy had been raised thinking his worth amounted to just about nil. What reason would he have to accept that someone actually cared enough to send him his own personal angel? Still, he hoped that some piece inside of Jake hadn't died completely and still held some sense of self-value.

When Jake didn't lift his head or show any apparent interest, Chris nearly sighed in defeat. Deep down, though, something stopped him from quitting on this boy—this child whose own mother had given up on raising him right. Instead, he cautiously continued, "For me to do that, you've got to let me in, understand? I can only help you if you trust me. I know it'll be hard, and I'm not asking for it to happen right away; but you have to give me a chance, all right?"

Pain laboring his heavy breaths, Jake closed his eyes. "I don't… don't even know you." Though he didn't speak it allowed, he thought, And I can't trust anybody.

Contemplating for a moment, Chris nodded. "Okay, fair enough. I won't press you for that right now. How about if we're just—you know, friends? Just as long as you don't tell anybody my secret because then very bad things would happen to me." On a whim he added forcefully, "I trust you not to blab my secret, so I'm not worried."

Biting his lip as if weighing his options, Jake finally gave a sharp nod, his eyes fleetingly meeting Chris's. In a surge of pride, Chris smiled.

Chris!

Damn, Chris thought. Just when he started making some progress with his new charge, someone had to cut him off. Sighing, Chris rose to his feet and glanced down at Jake, trying to conceal his frustration behind a calm exterior. "Jake, I've got to go, okay? But," he added quickly as Jake averted his gaze, "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise."

Though Jake seemed confused by the statement (why would anyone want to come back?), he said nothing. With a heavy sigh, Chris decided to let the kid's distrust pass this once. They'd have time to work on that tomorrow. When he reached down to ruffle Jake's hair, the nine-year-old shrunk back. Chris forced himself not to look disappointed, at least not in Jake's presence; that would get him absolutely nowhere.

With deliberate casualty, he pretended not to notice. "If you need anything"—he gave Jake a meaningful stare—"just call my name, and I'll come."

Relieved the angel had not been angered by his lack of affection, Jake breathed out a sigh. From his position on the floor, he craned his neck to look up at his angel. Skeptically, he reasoned, "What if you're too far away to hear me?" Even though he had no intention of taking up the angel's time, he figured he should ask… just in case.

"Trust me," Chris reassured, "I'll hear you." Staring gravely down at his charge, he added, "Just remember, your mom can't find out about me, right?"

If Chris hadn't already expected the reaction, he would have completely missed the barely noticeable flinch. "Right," Jake affirmed at length.

Before Jake could react, Chris pulled him into a tight embrace. The moment Jake saw Chris's arms move toward him, he tensed his stomach and shoulders. At first Chris assumed it was just because he caught the kid off guard, that Jake always expected the worst (for good reason). Even after a few moments in the hug, though, the nine-year-old didn't relax. Only when Chris drew away, disappointed—though refusing to show it—did Jake release the breath he had been holding. Feeling slightly let down that he hadn't received a response, Chris sighed. For the third time, he repeated, "I won't hurt you. I promise."

After another frantic call from his mother, Chris forced himself to leave. Patting Jake's stiff shoulder in what he hoped would come across as an encouraging way, he orbed home.

As bright, blue lights surrounded his "angel," Jake stared in numb astonishment. When the lights subsided, Chris was gone, leaving only a dumbfounded child behind him. A few minutes later, the nine-year-old shook himself from his stupor, gingerly pressed two fingers against his multicolored cheek with a wince, and stared down at the broken vase. Pensively, he ran his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth. Where he had previously tasted blood, he felt nothing now but tenderness. This time, the "episode" had left no permanent scars—no chipped or broken teeth. He shook his head.

Since the bruises on his cheek were so out in the open, so public, he knew he'd have to stay home from school tomorrow and probably Thursday, too. Most of the time Mom's beatings were in places that could be covered up, hidden. Sometimes, though, she got so mad, so… confused… that she forgot about the risks and beat him until every inch of his soft skin was swollen and discolored. Again, he shook his head, walking over to the broom that leaned against the fridge, and started to sweep up the broken shards scattered across the floor.

If she wasn't careful, she would put herself at risk; Jake couldn't let that happen.

Meanwhile, Chris orbed to the manor to find his mother pacing from one end of the living room to the other. When she whirled around to pace back the other way, she saw him standing there, eyes betraying guilt. Frozen in her tracks with both hands glued to her hips, Piper's eyes blazed. Almost immediately, yelling ensued. "Where the hell were you?" Not even giving him the chance to defend himself, she continued, "Do you know how worried I was? I had half a mind to summon your butt back here! If it weren't for the exposure risk, I would have done it by now, too. How was I supposed to know if you had gotten kidnapped by a demon or something?"

Dully, Chris mumbled, "I had detention, Mom."

It's not a complete lie exactly, he justified silently. It's just not the whole truth either… For some reason he decided to say nothing about his new charge. At least for right now, he didn't want his mom to know about that.

Only slightly mollified, Piper grumbled, "Well, a rational person would have called—or at least orbed. I had no idea where you were; do you know how worried I was?" As her anger began to ebb, relief took its place. Relief that her younger son still had all his limbs in tact. In this family one never knew.

"I couldn't call; the teacher wouldn't let me." Scowling resentfully, he muttered, "I swear she's out to get me." Almost hopefully, he added, "Hey, maybe she's a demon." At the moment he wouldn't have minded an excuse to vanquish her. Not only had she handed him a ticket to imprisonment for another hour on a day where he really couldn't afford to waste time, but she taught history. What normal human being even remotely liked that subject?

A small smile flitted across Piper's features as she laughed, "Don't get your hopes up, buster."

"Ah well," Chris replied lightly, hitching up one shoulder in a half-shrug. "That's okay. I can always turn her into a toad anyway."

"Chris!" Piper admonished. With Chris she could never be sure of whether his claims held any depth of seriousness.

Defensively, Chris waved his hands in front of his face. "Only joking, Mom; don't blow anything up." Piper rolled her eyes at the passé joke Phoebe had taught her nephews long ago, later passing it on to her niece when Prue grew old enough to understand. She'd heard that phrase only… oh, about one million times in her life. For once could they come up with something original maybe?

Changing the subject, she informed him, "There's some food in the fridge." As she headed towards the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, "Do you want me to heat some of it up for you?"

"No thanks, I'm not hungry," Chris declined. "I think I'll just head upstairs and start on my homework."

If Piper held any astonishment at Chris's complete willingness to do his homework without any insistence on her part, she concealed it well, save for a slight, bewildered frown. "Well… all right," she conceded at length, "if you're absolutely sure…" She turned to watch him nod in confirmation and vanish in a pillar of orbs.

Exasperated, she called up the stairs, "No orbing in the—"

"Sorry!" Chris yelled back before she had even finished her admonishment, clearly not even slightly apologetic. Hearing his bedroom door slam shut, she sighed and rolled her eyes, a gesture she had picked up from her kids a while back now.

Biting her lip as the last of her motherly concerns drained out of her, she let out a breath of air between parted lips. Her feet instinctively carried her to the kitchen, her safe haven, where a large slice of lasagna sat in the microwave, waiting for Chris to bring home his appetite. On the screen the number 2:00 blinked on and off. Although she'd made it sound to Chris as if she hadn't really gone out of her way, Piper had reheated that plate for him three times already.

With a somewhat melancholy sigh, she retrieved a tin pan of lasagna from the fridge, uncovered it, and slid the reheated piece back inside. After replacing the pan on the lowest shelf in the refrigerator, she picked up the plate. With an absentminded air, she turned on the faucet to rinse the dish, thoughts still on her second little boy.

…On the second little boy that used to announce, "I can't wait to be all growed up!" and then bound happily off to play with his toy trucks. From that moment onward Piper had wished her baby would be slightly more inclined to stay young so that she could continue to spoil and baby him. By the time he was five, he already wiped her kisses from his cheeks; and by the time he was seven, he was "too old" to get tucked in at night (except for on special occasions). And now? Now her baby didn't even jump for her cooking or ask to help her in the kitchen as he once did with such exuberance. Just as he had always wanted, her little Chris was "all growed up."

Meanwhile, Chris slouched on his bed, one arm folded beneath his cheek, the other draped across his pillow. At the moment the object that captured his attention was a dark, forest-green tome. Yellowed and cracked in many places, its pages flipped one after the other as Chris's eyes scanned each passage briefly. When, a couple of hours later, a knock on his bedroom door echoed into the room, he barely blinked. Without pausing – seemingly without even having heard the sound – Chris continued to read, continued to flip. Page after page passed, demon after demon, spell after spell.

Barely half a minute passed before the person previously knocking outside Chris's door burst into the room, expression twisted into an irritated scowl. Of average height and weight, the girl had long, dark locks that cascaded down her shoulders, matching her mother's. Glittering, blue eyes were more akin to her father's. She wore a pink and white, short-sleeved shirt and bellbottom jeans—just a phase she's going through, Piper had insisted. Grams had gone through such a phase, too, in her years in the living world, she would point out.

"Right," her younger sister Paige would retort, "except her phase was called the sixties." On a much darker note, she would then murmur, "Besides, remember what broke Grams from that phase?" And the question would linger palpably in the deadly quiet atmosphere until someone mustered the courage to change the subject.

Without so much as glancing up even once, Chris grunted at his little sister, "Get out of my room."

Instead of leaving, the twelve-year-old mini-Piper swung her hands onto her hips and stated, "I knocked."

Eyebrows raised appraisingly, Chris focused his indifferent stare on her face. Had she been anyone else, such an intense, scrutinizing gaze would have made her squirm. "Very good, Prue," the teen smirked. "Did I forget to mention the part about waiting for a 'come in'?"

Hands still splayed across her hips, Prue leaned forward slightly and rolled sky blue eyes at the ceiling. Then, glowering, her eyes fell upon the book left open on Chris's bed. "What are you doing with the Book of Shadows down here?" she demanded accusingly.

"Uh, reading?" Chris answered, phrasing the response as a question as if to add, 'Isn't it obvious?'

"Duh," she snapped back impatiently. "What demon are you looking for?" Excitement built in her voice as she questioned, "Was there an attack?" Hopping forward like an eager bunny (or one that's high on drugs, Chris thought sardonically to himself), she squashed down beside her brother, leaning over his shoulder to get a good look at the page that lay open. As she read the title above the passage, a frown marred her features. Confused, she inquired, "You were attacked by Leprechauns?"

With a scowl, Chris shut the Book of Shadows and ordered, "Get out of my room, twerp. This is none of your business; just leave it alone." It was a feeble hope, Chris knew; he didn't bother expecting her to even acknowledge he had spoken at all.

As he had suspected she would, the preteen ignored her brother's "suggestion." Instead she deduced, "So that's a 'no' then, right? Why were you open to that page then? Are you protecting a Leprechaun innocent? Can I help?"

"No," Chris replied coolly in answer to her third question, "and no," in answer to her fourth. A little less calmly, he snapped, "Now beat it." When he raised his hand to take a swipe at her, she ducked beneath his arm and slid off the bed out of his reach. She made no move to leave the room, however. Losing his patience, Chris tilted his head toward the ceiling and yelled, "Mo-om! Get Prue out of my room!"

Shuffling echoed from the bottom of the stairs. Up to them wafted their mother's voice like the delicate aroma of her own freshly-baked cookies just as they slid out of the oven.

"Prue…" Its tone was a warning one.

"All right, all right," she grumbled, loud enough for Piper to hear her surrender. Shooting an annoyed glare at Chris – she'd only wanted to help, after all – she trudged out of his bedroom and into her own.

Before reopening the Book of Shadows, Chris waited quietly, listening for sounds of his parents or siblings. The only noises were the creaks of a manor built up over a century ago, the faucet running in the kitchen, the bedsprings in Prue's room as she sank her weight on her bed, and his own gentle breathing. With no further hesitation, he flipped open the tome and sighed. Leprechauns. At first, having skimmed the paragraph, he thought he had found a possible solution to his problems: a Leprechaun could sprinkle Jake with good luck to somehow protect him from his mother's drunken outbursts. Upon deeper scrutiny, however, he realized this wasn't so.

Leprechauns knew no more about the luck they doled out than the person upon whom it was bestowed. Their luck could sway either way: good or bad, and Chris was not willing to put Jake at risk even more with the hope that he would "get lucky." Without that as an option, Chris realized he would have to come up with another way to protect the boy.

Sighing heavily, he closed the text and hitched it under one arm. Sliding off his bed, he padded towards his door.

Outside his window, night had descended. When he flicked off his bedroom light, his room was thrown into darkness. Closing the door with his free hand, he headed towards the attic stairs, tiptoeing past three bedrooms so as not to attract unwanted attention. If Wyatt noticed him sneaking up to the attic, he might take interest. Ultimately, though, he would ignore that mounting curiosity because it would drag him away from the mounds of homework piled at his desk. Either one of his parents would storm right up after him and demand for him to explain why he'd just spent hours rifling through the ancient pages of the Book of Shadows. Chris wasn't so sure he was ready to reveal his charge to his family just yet. And Prue… well, she was Prue; and didn't that just explain everything?

A little while later, after having snuck into the kitchen to grab a strawberry yogurt from the fridge, Chris lay in bed, shirtless, wearing a pair of Wyatt's old pajama pants. With his hands folded over his head on his pillow, he stared blankly at the ceiling, deep in thought.

Jake's predicament loomed into mind, keeping him awake as the minutes ticked away one by one. Before he knew it, half an hour had passed, his eyes now stinging every time he blinked; yet he was no closer to sleep than before. Just as he would drift into that space between the waking world and the one of dreams, the image of Jake cowering on the floor would jolt him awake. Once again, he would sit up straight in bed, breathing coming in shallow gasps, wondering how Jake could put up with such fear on a constant, regular basis.

Rolling over onto his side, he tucked one hand beneath his ear and closed his eyes. As he finally began to drift off, he wondered vaguely, How am I going to pay attention in school tomorrow with Jake occupying all my thoughts? Reminding himself about school also added another thought: I didn't do any of my homew—

"Shoot!"

Sitting up sharply in bed, his eyes darted to the corner of his room. Even as he prayed to find his bag in its usual place, he knew it would not be there. After all, how could it? He had never brought it back from Jake's house. God, what kind of idiotic mess had he made this time?

Groaning, he stumbled out of bed. Without bothering to pull on a shirt or change his pajama bottoms, he orbed to Jake's home. When he reappeared, he realized how moronic an idea that was. He was just full of those today, wasn't he?

Though only the first night of October, the air had already grown crisp and cool. As chilly wind tugged at his pajamas, he wrapped his arms around his naked torso. Stumbling behind Jake's house, he searched blindly for the knapsack he had stupidly left earlier that afternoon. Finally, after many agonizing minutes, his hand grasped the material of his schoolbag. Yanking it over his shoulder, he orbed back to the warmth of his bedroom where he wasted no time in clamoring beneath his covers.

Though he didn't know, inside the home he had just left, a slumbering child dreamt of dancing, guardian angels, ones that left tiny, blue speckles of light dancing in their wakes.

Please forgive me for the terrible delay. I've had the chapter ready for posting for nearly two weeks now, but I only just managed to type up the last edits and post.

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Replies to anonymous reviews:

ariex- Ah, thank you. I absolutely love imagery, hence the vividness I (try to) add to my writing. The voice inside Chris's head? Um... I don't recall there being one. It was probably just his own thought process, in which case yes, that would be his own voice inside his head.

shivs - I like the line "painted in actions" as well. That is my poetic side peeking through. I am trying to make Chris a realistic, normal kind of guy. I love the psychology of humans; more than the magic of Charmed, the family dynamic is what intrigues me. This story will, of course, be about magic but will focus quite a bit on the Halliwells as a family, Chris as a human being rather than a witch.