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oliversrarebooks · 21 days

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The Rare Bookseller Part 46: Oliver's Ballet

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September 1925

TW: mind control, captivity

Oliver was trying to keep his hands from shaking as he walked up the stairs to the forbidden third floor.

It was the evening of the ballet, and his master had given him his instructions the previous night. He was to wake up before sunset, bathe, don the expertly tailored shirt and pants that had been provided to him, make coffee, and then head to Alexander's room to attend on him. Oliver wasn't entirely sure what that meant, and his nervousness over dispatching his duties warred with his nervousness about being an embarrassment at a fancy performance. He'd slept better the past two days, owning to Katherine's encouragement and his master's feeding, but now he couldn't help being slightly on edge.

Find happiness wherever you can...

He would do his best to follow her advice and enjoy himself tonight. It certainly wasn't every day he got to witness a ballet.

The oil lamp he was holding in his other hand sputtered and flickered as he climbed the stairs and apprehensively knocked on the dark wooden door that guarded his master's private sanctum. The door creaked open, revealing a very tired looking vampire in a fluffy robe. "Come in, Oliver, come in. Ah, you brought coffee. Excellent."

Oliver handed off the mug as he stepped over the threshold into the room, unable to resist sweeping his lamp around to get a better look, as it was currently only lit by a couple of candles.

Alexander's bedroom was furnished much like Oliver's, but larger, and far more cluttered. The window was covered with shutters, and a thick velvet curtain surrounded the enormous bed. The bookshelves were crammed full of books interspersed with rolled scrolls, stacks of papers, and seemingly random trinkets, a far cry from the orderly shelves in the library. The tables and nightstands were covered in stacks of books and hardened candle wax, and there was laundry strewn about the hardwood floor. The bed was unmade and the sheets and blankets were in a tangle, sliding off halfway, with a rubber water bottle lying nearby. The place smelled of bookbindings and floral soap and brine.

His master didn't seem remotely self-conscious about this state of affairs, taking the coffee, picking his way deftly through the mess, and sitting on the side of his bed. "It looks as if the shirt and pants fit without much need for additional tailoring. That's good," he said, looking Oliver up and down through half-closed eyes. "I suppose I ought to get dressed myself, and then you can assist me."

"Yes, sir." He was about to ask what exactly he would be assisting with, but as Alexander shed his robe and reached for his shirt, Oliver's attention was piqued by a strange symbol on his chest. A scar, but an oddly round one, with a faded symbol in the center.

"That doesn't concern you," said Alexander sharply, noticing Oliver's gaze.

"Sorry, sir," said Oliver, making a point to look away as his master finished dressing.

He took another long look at Oliver as he buttoned all but the top button of his shirt. "...It's no matter. Come with me."

Oliver followed Alexander to a door in the back corner of the room, tripping over a pair of shoes obscured by an old coat on the way. The door opened to an absurdly spacious and opulent bathroom, featuring a marble floor, a porcelain bathtub large enough to fit half a baseball team, and expensive plush bath towels littering the floor in heaps. The smell of floral soap was even stronger here, and the remnants of steam clung to Oliver's glasses, the room oppressively warm.

Alexander sat down in front of a counter with a sink and a mirror, and Oliver's eyes went wide at the odd effect of his master having no reflection. He could see himself perfectly, as though Alexander wasn't even there.

"This is what I need your help with, Oliver. Making my hair look presentable, because I'm not able to do so myself."

That certainly explained why he was so disheveled normally -- although, given the state of his very visible room, it wasn't necessarily the full explanation. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

He gestured to a glass containing combs, long scissors, and a few other odd tools. "Whatever you think is fit. It's not as though I'm going to be able to see it to criticize. I only wish to look neat and presentable."

Oliver had really never paid too much attention to his own appearance, but he had always tried to look neat for customers, so he hoped he would be able to do the job. "Very well, sir," he said, apprehensively picking up a comb and running it through his master's hair.

His hair was soft, surprisingly so, and the scent of floral soap grew even stronger, with undertones of woodsmoke and bookbinding glue and something unidentifiable, a scent which he was quickly learning to associate with his master. Alexander closed his eyes, a faint smile on his face, seemingly enjoying the treatment.

He must be so lonely. Oliver felt it so keenly the prior night when his master had cornered him in the kitchen and drank deep of his blood. As his master's thoughts pooled into his own, he was overwhelmed with loneliness, solitude, the desire for a warm and caring touch. Oliver couldn't help but work his hands into his master's hair on the pretense of styling it, enjoying the small, contented noise that escaped from his lips.

His master was handsome, wasn't he? Was there any harm in acknowledging that? It wasn't as if he had feelings for the vampire who had purchased him. He was simply accepting a truth, one that he had known even when Alexander was simply a prized customer.

"What is this ballet about, sir?" said Oliver, mostly to distract himself from this train of thought.

"It's an avant garde ballet, very controversial. It was actually choreographed and costumed by a famous Russian vampire who has worked in theater from well before I was born. This production has been mounted by a human company, though. It's a dance I'd been wishing to see for some time." Alexander's gaze traveled to Oliver's reflection in the mirror. "I have you to thank for encouraging me to leave the house more often, otherwise I might have missed this opportunity, instead electing to spend the evening wallowing in the manor's dust."

Oliver's breath hitched at his master's subtle smile. "I'm glad of it, sir."

----

Even though his tuxedo fit perfectly -- thanks to the detailed measurements Miss Florence had taken at the auction house -- Oliver still felt uncomfortable among the crowd dressed to the nines at the theater. He was dazzled by the gilded carvings on the walls, leading to a ceiling decorated with an elaborate fresco, and nearly crashed into a woman in a ball gown as he took in the sights.

His master, on the other hand, glided through the crowd effortlessly, paying them no mind. As Oliver followed, he could feel a sense of flowing waves, Alexander's vampiric aura pushing away everyone but Oliver, who felt compelled to follow his footsteps. It was just as well that his master was guiding him, lest he find himself lost.

Soon enough, they had both settled in a luxurious balcony box for two, and Oliver was shocked to see an actual look of excitement on Alexander's sleepy face.

"I simply can't wait to see the costumes -- I've heard they're magnificent. And of course, Yelena Pavlova is said to be a master of the dance. They say her striking and dramatic movements place her a cut above the prima ballerinas who only know how to flit prettily about," said Alexander, with enthusiasm. "I do hope you enjoy it."

"I think I will, sir," said Oliver. At the very least, he was sure he could enjoy it vicariously through his master.

The lights dimmed, the dance began, and Oliver soon found his attention riveted to the stage. It truly was an avant-garde sort of ballet, and the costumes were mind-bending. There were dancers wearing disturbingly realistic animal heads, costumes adorned with colored glass that glittered like jewels, massive peacock feather headdresses, ropes of pearls entangling their bodies, and a few in iron chains and shackles. The intricate pattern of their dance was ritualistic, as though Oliver were watching something forbidden that he couldn't take his eyes from.

Among them all, the prima ballerina Alexander had mentioned performed a stunning routine, clad in an outfit that seemed mostly comprised of ribbons in every color of the rainbow. She was striking pose after pose, being lifted and passed among the dancers, twirling faster than Oliver knew was possible. She was endlessly fascinating to watch.

The dance was so fascinating, in fact, that Oliver had forgotten all about his master's reactions. He glanced over, expecting that Alexander was enjoying himself as much as he was, and was shocked to see a look of stress on his master's face.

"Master, what's wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing. Just watch the dance," he said, in a voice almost too low to hear, and his eyes flicked across the balcony to a different box.

Oliver couldn't help but look, to see what had his master so concerned. The box across the way had only one occupant, an older gentleman in an impeccably styled black suit. His full focus was on the ballet, his gaze holding a kind of judgmental intensity that made Oliver think he must be a professional critic.

Was this man troubling Alexander? It didn't seem like it could be. Perhaps he was worried about something else, and this man just happened to be in his line of sight as he glanced about nervously.

Could he be...?

Oliver tried to put it out of his head, but now he couldn't help but notice every time Alexander's gaze wandered from the stage. The moment intermission was announced, his master turned to him.

"Do you need to stretch your legs? Use the restroom?" his master asked. Before Oliver could even answer, he continued, "Very well, let's leave the box for a moment." He grasped Oliver's arm and practically dragged him from the box. Oliver found himself gently shoved into a secluded nook, away from the other patrons milling about the theater.

"Oliver, listen very carefully," said Alexander, his voice soft but deathly serious. "My sire is attending this performance."

Even though Oliver had been suspecting this the moment he'd seen the strange man, he still felt a spike of panic stab his heart at the confirmation. "Your sire is here?"

"I should have known he'd have interest in this ballet. But he's been so reclusive lately..." Alexander sighed. "But listen. You must follow my instructions exactly. If you do, it's unlikely you'll be harmed."

"I... I understand, master." Oliver's mouth felt dry.

"You must be quiet and obedient. Follow my lead, do not speak unless spoken to, and then, speak with the utmost respect. But you must be honest, even if you think the truth is dangerous. Never lie. He will know. And finally..."

"Finally what, sir?"

"If he takes control of your body, do not resist it."

"Takes control of my body, sir?" Just as Katherine had warned him.

"Do not resist it even slightly. If he seizes control, relax your body and mind and do not fight it. Believe me -- any struggle will only make your lot worse."

He blinked back frightened tears. "I can try, master."

"Good." Alexander put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "While I don't pretend to understand my sire's mind, I do believe no harm will come to you tonight."

"I hope not, master."

"Would you allow me to put your mind at ease so you can enjoy the rest of the performance?"

Oliver couldn't agree fast enough. "Yes, please, sir."

His master leaned over and hummed in his ear, and Oliver could feel his nerves calming, his fears growing foggy and distant.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next week, Oliver finally gets to meet his master's sire.

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#whump #whump writing #vampire whump #vampires #vampire whumpee #mind control #rare bookseller #oliver #alexander #maestro

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sebastianswallows · 23 days

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The English Client — Two

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, alienation, and exhaustion

— WORDCOUNT: 3.7k

— A/N: Apology to any Italian readers, Tom gets rather grumpy with how cheerful everyone else is around him 😂 Also, we finally meet our reader in this chapter! 💚

It was just as Tom predicted. As soon as Clement saw the state of his hotel, he wouldn't stay there for another minute. He tried to persuade Tom to come with him to some fancier place he had in mind, assuring him he'd pay for all expenses, but Tom wouldn't hear it. He'd spent enough time with people like him to know that nothing came for free.

In the end, Clement took the taxi onward to the Plaza Grand Hotel, but not before writing down Tom’s hotel and room number on the edge of a crumpled napkin.

“I will call you later, yes? Just in case you change your mind,” he winked.

The rest of his day was spent in a blissful void, interrupted by the occasional pang of hunger — which he quieted with water and crackers, before falling asleep again. He was woken in the evening by cheerful shouting from outside, distant music, and peels of laughter down the hallway. The sounds reverberated up the faded frescoes and chipped columns of the building, but he had to remind himself that he was among muggles now — no hexes. At least his pillow was soft... He buried his head beneath it and hoped to suffocate before morning.

When he woke up properly, feeling squeezed and still exhausted, the sun hadn’t yet risen. The streets were quiet save for the hooting of owls resting in the trees and little insects on their flowers. Little lights from faraway buildings lit up the horizon.

Tom had slept nude, too lazy to change into something after taking his clothes off. As soon as he sat up, he felt all weak and dizzy, hair ruffled sticking to his face, body cut through with creases from the sheets and muggy with his sweat. Worst of all, his blood had all seemed to pool into his legs. Standing up like a newborn fawn, he walked over to the windows, opened them wide, and breathed in the cold night air. It made his body shiver. It felt pleasant. It felt a little bit like home.

The early hours passed slowly. He managed to wash himself in the little closet of a bathroom, brushed his hair, and even put a few of his old things in order. After eating a ham sandwich he'd bought from the train's food car and brewing a cup of tea with magic, he felt like a new man. He sat by the window in a loose bathrobe and watched the rising sun, and as his strength returned to him he began mentally revising the events of his journey.

“To think I'll have to go through all of that again on my way back,” Tom groaned. “And I thought the Hogwarts Express was a bore…”

Travelling abroad had been on his agenda for quite a while, once he found all the artefacts he needed through Borgin and Burkes, but he hadn't quite anticipated how physically exhausting it would be to sit in a muggle contraption for hours on end. If he wanted to explore the world in search of rare magical items, he would have to devise a more suitable method. Perhaps Thestrals…

His thoughts turned to Clement again. His wide grin, his bright blue eyes, his utter carelessness of composure... What an annoying fellow. Well, if the need arose to make another Horcrux, at least he'd know where to look.

The afternoon found him roaming the streets of the city. He spent a little while acquainting himself with the landmarks closest to the hotel just enough to find his way if lost, but he'd also collected from the concierge a list of local rare book shops and antiquaries to start his investigation. It was with nothing more than this that Tom stepped onto the cobbled streets of Rome and started walking.

The hotel Burke had set him up in, the Gallienus, was among the cheapest. It was nestled in one of the poorer parts of town, where the roads were narrow and beggars slept on the stairs of buildings boarded up. There was at least one pile of dry and darkened animal droppings on every street corner. Trash overflowed from forgotten dumpsters, buzzing vibrantly in the sun.

It took him quite a while to find the first bookstore, and longer still to find a good one. Most of them sold less prestigious stuff than what they advertised. The muggles were cheerful and friendly, if false, and a few tried to barter with him all the way to the door. A couple with fancy window dressing had only the veneer of the authentic, selling new volumes beaten up or rebound with cardboard covers.

Still, he made a few acquaintances, if not outright friends, among the shopkeepers, and his list of options grew larger as he heard from them of more interesting stores, but by evening he had nothing to show for all his exploration.

Moreover, he was thoroughly lost. The cafes frothed with little umbrellas in the streets, the fountains billowed in the air and danced, and all of it started to look the same to him. The fancy suits of people coming back from work and their black voluptuous hairstyles all blended with each other. He'd ambled his way from the Via Domenichino to the Colosseum, then to the chip-toothed ruins of the Roman Forum, higher to the Pantheon, then down, down toward the Tiber.

The air was alight with ages past and everything was moving. The shadows of aged stone, touched by dereliction and decay and the stray shellings of the war that ended just seven years ago, danced at the corners of his eyes together with the throngs of white-dressed women and the scooters zipping by. And at any moment it felt as if some ancient in a toga would walk out from between those columns and shake a bony finger at the careless youth, lamenting, and asking just to die again.

Tom stopped somewhere along the Tiber and gazed out across its murky serpentine flow. If he squinted, he could just about see the Vatican. A flock of nuns passed him by, flowing in quiet black and white against a blue and just as quiet sky. The air was warm, but chilling. He was surrounded on every side by broad buildings in smooth geometric shapes, and yet he’d never felt quite so exposed before.

Now that he had a moment to stop and ponder the experience, he realised that being in Rome felt like being in the world and yet above it, as if the whole city was floating in the sky. A dish on a high pedestal, yawning to the heavens.

“Maddening,” he whispered to himself. “Imagine living here forever…”

Under the shadow of a sycamore, he leaned over the stone walls that enclosed the river. It was a long way down… Its waters seemed about as dark as Thames, but smoother. He wondered, without really caring, whether there were any corpses buried there, some skeletons stuck in the mud, forgotten and unwanted. The chime of churchbells reached him, cutting through the buzzing of the cars.

What would he do tomorrow? Much the same thing as today, he reasoned… Only he’d have far further to go to reach these newer places he just learned about. He reached into his pocket for a little map he’d folded up, and tried to smooth it out over the stone.

“Why does it have to be so complicated?” he mumbled to himself as he planned his pathway back to the hotel. “Even London isn’t this bad, right?” He’d forgotten that it was.

Turning, he looked once more at all the young people that now lined the street. For some reason, all of them were smiling, happy. A couple was shamelessly kissing as they hid behind a tree. When they started sliding down its trunk, tight in each other’s arms, Tom rolled his eyes and started walking back the way he’d come.

III

Sweat had dampened his shirt collar and went down the centre of his chest, but somehow it bothered him less than he expected it would. It was quite a different experience from the Knockturn Alley cellar where he worked, or that pittance of a room he rented above an apothecary shop.

Here all was warm stone, and coffee, and cats that slithered around the corners. Here he was nobody. Not Mr. Riddle, not Lord Voldemort, the terror and equal envy of his schoolmates, not Tom the orphan, Tom the gifted student, Tom the Head Boy. He wasn't even a half-blood or a wizard. Muggles had no idea about such things. Here he was nobody — except maybe ‘bel ragazzo’ when he passed by a hot-blooded madam sipping her red wine. To shed his myriad identities felt light and clean, like an old coat sliding off his shoulders.

So, what was he beneath all that?

Today, he was just a wanderer taking in the sights. Tomorrow, maybe something else.

The paved Roman street branched like a vein of undulating black blood into narrower and ever-winding paths, some leading back to the piazza, others through old buildings nestled so close together they blotted out the sun. He took one such path. It was cooler here than in the open, almost bearable, even with the piling trash and stench of cat piss everywhere.

Tom had never shied away from squalor. If anything, the old stones and the dampness and the hint of sewage reminded him a bit of his old Hogwarts dorm. He smiled at the memory as he walked back the way he came, a hand in his trouser pocket and his mind far away, at how impressive and select and magical — in the most pure, extraordinary way, a way those raised with magic would never understand — it seemed to him when he first arrived at Hogwarts. How plain and pure his happiness had been to be away from wicked muggles, to learn that he was special and that greatness, surely, called to him…

The narrow alleyway he slid through opened into the wide and brilliant Piazza di Trevi. The fountain cast its net of water flowing down like gossamer. Tom stopped to thread his fingertips through its shivering pool and sprinkled a little bit of water over the hot crown of his head before walking on.

He had a vague idea of where he was, and what street he should turn on to return to his hotel before sunset.

His steps stopped almost on their own when his eyes fell on his reflection in the darkened glass of a store window — body tall and lean, chest blushing red, hair falling in his eyes with sweat. Beyond it, a flock of books on stout old wooden shelves. How interesting… Tom shifted his jacket from his elbow to his shoulder as he leaned forward to read. They were quite old volumes, judging by the typefaces and the engravings on display, and some he recognised as classic esoterica.

He looked at the sign above the door: Casa Ur. A reference to ancient Sumer? He looked past the glass more carefully, his every instinct pulling him toward this strange collection. If he was right, and they were real, then they were very old indeed. What carelessness, to keep them in such a place, hot and humid and likely infested by an entomologist’s dream collection of mites and moths and other pests.

Then he looked past his own reflection, past all the books, and there, in the middle of it all like a pale shadow between the shelves, he saw a woman. She was braced against a wooden desk, standing as he often did at Burkes when he was tired. She wore some sort of lady’s suit he couldn’t quite make out, and a string of silver shone dully at her neck like a wet trail of kisses. Her fingers were poised atop the pages of a ledger.

She was staring at him.

Tom let his gaze glide off her figure and back toward the books, keeping his cold and haughty look a moment longer before stepping away again.

How interesting… Why had none of the other shopkeepers mentioned it before? This was perhaps the first store he gave any serious consideration, and to think he’d found it all by accident…

The place had promise, but the building was far too large and far too old for rent there to be cheap — which meant the books were bound to be expensive. If they weren’t facsimiles or forgeries, then they deserved their price, but places like that also tended to be quite selective of their clientele, and Tom knew nobody in Rome who’d vouch for him. And as for his fake muggle money, that would only go so far…

What was worse, he had no way of reaching back to Borgin and Burkes. Knowing no other wizards in Rome, he had nobody to borrow an owl from, if that was even what they used in these climes, and the closest wizarding community he knew was down in Sicily. Muggle modes of communication wouldn’t reach Knownturn Alley, and international phone calls were awfully expensive. Tom was on his own.

“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a Puffskein,” he said to himself.

Before he turned the corner, he looked up at the wall and took note of the street he was just on: Via dell'Umiltà.

She started closing up the shop earlier than usual that day. Maybe it was because they’d only had two customers. Maybe because it was inordinately hot… Or maybe because of that handsome stranger who gazed through her window two hours before.

She felt unprofessional for staring, for letting her eyes wander down his fit frame tall and slender like a serpent… With his crisp white shirt liberally peeled back at the neck, his dark curls falling into his eyes, jacket casually hanging from his elbow and a silver ring around his finger, those charcoal trousers sitting so tightly on his slender hips and —

That was as far as she could see before he walked away.

She gathered her things slowly, waiting for evening to come and the streets to cool a little. She locked everything up and called downstairs to announce that she was leaving.

Stepping forth from that dark hole of history and out into the world again, she was greeted by a Rome painted in royal red. The sun was setting. As she walked by the Trevi fountain she could feel the steam that rose from the sprinkling on the stones playing around her ankles. The pigeons flew up with a fright, rustling through the air. People gathered in the square and cast around her a sea of murmurs in Italian and other foreign tongues. It was all foreign to her, of course, or rather she was foreign to it.

She could never quite fit in with the locals, however comfortable she felt there. Her accent always gave her away, and whatever the Italian “look” was, she didn’t have it — or perhaps strangers stared at her for other reasons, glances lingering behind so heavy she could feel them every time she did her shopping in her little neighbourhood, or went to lunch with her librarian and antiquary friends around the area. No matter what she did, what she wore, or how she did her hair, she remained a ‘straniera’. But that was alright. She didn’t mind being a little strange.

The pretty and ancient parts of Rome disintegrated, façades falling apart, pediments crumbling, cobblestones popping out of the eternal roads. The streets looked very different a few tram hops later as she made her way toward her rented flat. People looked the same though. The young ones were in the street, the women laboured around the house, the nonnas at the market, and the men all off at work.

But no matter the day, whenever she left for the bookshop or returned from it, the cafés were always full. People gazed out from beneath their striped little umbrellas, drinking from a thick white cup of coffee or sipping on a glass of wine, reading the news, petting their dogs, chatting with each other… It made her feel like life was passing by.

Then again, she had no mood for going out for coffee, not when she came home with her feet aching and her back sore. Even though all she had to do that day was sort out the books and fill the ledgers and occasionally deal with clients, the workday left her feeling battered. Besides, she had no one to go out with anyway…

Her work was solitary, and the friends she’d made were few — fellow book dealers and curators, all of whom were as busy as she was. And whenever they did meet during the occasional break, the only thing they talked about was work. There was no room left in anybody’s life for something different.

The cellar bar across the street from where she lived was already rumbling with a hint of lonely jazz, and the solid voice of men. The sound echoed past the old restaurant and bookshop near it that had been closed for years, and the rows of cheap apartments filled with working families. Out from underneath a shrub, a cat cut through her path. She stopped and almost called to it, but it ran through a hole in the wall of the neighbouring building. Getting out of the heat, perhaps.

Her building was cool on the inside for the instant it took to climb the two sets of stairs to her door, but then she stepped into her flat and it was like walking into an oven. Sunlight streamed through her windows all day, and no amount of curtains stopped the heat that built up there.

She peeled her clothes off her body before she even reached the bedroom, limping slightly all the way from the pain at her Achilles heel, and fell upon her bed face first. The shower could wait. Oh, what she would give for a massage… She rubbed her feet together as they hung over the side, and smiled at the fantasy of a pair of cold hands rubbing down her back.

She wondered what that handsome stranger was doing now…

Was he Italian? Unlikely given his pallor, although he had the same dark hair and eyes as all the locals did, and none of the whimsical, lost look of tourists. And he was alone.

His gaze, as much as she could make of it, had been scathing and critical, and he hadn’t even said a word. She turned around on the bed, eyes still closed, as she imagined him there. She saw all manner of people in her work, and although most of them were old, there were a few still young, still handsome… Mostly students at the local universities. But nobody, nobody she’d met so far, had been quite as striking as that stranger.

Was it pointless to hope that he would come again?

It was easier to put herself together after resting for a while. Living alone provided her with no greater luxury than this: there was never any need to rush. Dinner consisted of a cup of tea and biscuits, which was more than what she usually had, paired with a few page flips from a novel she was reading that she could hardly pay attention to. But every paragraph and sentence, any image conjured up by fiction, was haunted by the contours of that young man’s face.

Her sleep that night was deep and intoxicating, like a faint, her body giving her up to vague nightmares she would not remember. But she had a fresh enthusiasm when she woke up the next day. She brewed a little coffee with a smile and let it cool while she took a shower, and even the rumbling of the pipes couldn’t scare her mood away.

It was a feeling that entered her like an old tenant returned to a forgotten home. She used to feel alive in a very similar way in the early days of her employment at Casa Ur, when she thought she was so lucky to be chosen to run it for Baron Agarda. And she was lucky, she knew that, but she no longer felt it. The only thing she felt these days was weary.

So why was she smiling today?

As she rode the tram, wind tousling her hair and chilling the heat off of her neck, and walked back to the shop to the happy murmurs of tourists and the flutter of pigeons, she found her thoughts returning to the same idea — would he come today too? She smiled like a besotted schoolgirl all the way to work.

That good mood mellowed as the day went on, and she fell back into the dour ritual of tending to the shop. The same books awaited her as yesterday, the same letters to prospective buyers, invitations, packages, deliveries… Only the visit of Sister Silvia could cheer her up, and they shared a cup of coffee over yesterday’s Corriere della Sera.

By lunchtime, she’d forgotten all about him. As if to distract her further, Federico called to invite her to their usual spot by the fountain for a lunch break, and there he talked about the delicious anxiety he had from his own work. He was nice, she could not deny him that, and harmless, so it was no great effort on her part to listen. She indulged him, grateful not to have to respond at all, and afterwards, Fred walked her back to work with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

Work filled her days. The sort of work that never ends, that you never see the back of. Questions and ingratitude, files and lists and mess that builds up as soon as you misplace the smallest item. There was no hope, there was no end in sight, and she was so deep in these waters that there was no point in looking forward to anything at all.

So she was all the more surprised when three o’clock rolled around and there he was, walking through her door.

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

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infoactionratio7 · 9 months

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(you) on my arm - s. adamu

summary: sydney is at a wall, she has no ideas when it comes to the new menu at the bear. she decides to go to a bookstore for some new inspiration, she finds it, but not in the way she was expecting.

pairing: sydney adamu x fem! bookseller! reader

word count: 2,514

note: annoying! carmy bc he literally is insane, kinda fluffy meet cute vibes, reader just moved to chicago, inspired by the song (you) on my arm by leith ross cause the song is rlly cute! also sydney gives me sapphic vibes, she definitely would have a crush on a girl!

monday morning -

Sydney was pissed, she had sent at least ten messages to Carmy in the last twenty minutes. Some about the new menu they were working on together, some about the fact that he had been a bitch the night before when he kicked everyone out because Claire just had to see the new restaurant. She ran her hands down her face in frustration as she sat at her dad's kitchen table, the sun streaming in through the blinds into the apartment. It warmed the floor as she got up from the table, debating what to do. She had no ideas left, everything was either not working out, or it just didn't fit the menu for the new revamped restaurant.

"Sydney, where are you headed off to today?" Her dad walked into the room with a steaming cup of coffee, freshly brewed from a new coffee blend she had found shopping the day before.

"Uh well Carm is not responding so I'm gonna head over to The Bear and meet up with him for a little then see where the day goes from there I guess." She walked out of the dining area and put her breakfast dishes away.

"Okay honey, have a good day. Hope he stops being an ass." She laughed, "Me too... me too."

Sydney grabbed her shoes out of the closet she had thrown them in last night, slipping them on and grabbing her bag. "I'll see you later dad." She grabbed her keys, and started making her way to the restaurant where she could deal with Carmy in person.

You looked around the bookstore, you had only been open for a month but it had been a hit within the community. You had almost any book anybody could want. There were teens coming from the school a few blocks away to get some cheesy romance novels to bring to the park and read with their friends, and there were grandparents coming in to get their grandchildren a new picture book about god knows what. You even had some people come in and request books you had never heard of before, you promptly ordered two copies of any book you didn't have. One for the customer, and one for you, to read and explore the pages.

It was a beautiful space, tall ceilings strung with fairy lights and lanterns, trying to bring some sense of whimsy to the dull days in Chicago. The books were arranged in every which way, requiring the customers to truly search for a book they wanted to read. You had tables full of recommendations, from people online and the employees of the bookshop. You really enjoyed curating all the titles you had in your collection. Tourists looking for a cute little magnet or souvenir adored the hole in the wall place, a safe space to just cuddle up and read a book.

You had a few customers that day, a mom and her son looking for his first chapter book to read. You had suggested he read The Magic Tree House, a series, about a brother and sister and their time traveling tree house. There was a tall guy with a buzzcut, who said he worked just down the street and was looking for a book about how to get rid of mold in the structure of a building. He seemed in dire need of some help, so you found the best book possible, The Toxic Mold Recovery Guide. You had no idea you had the book but it was meant to be. He thanked you immensely, leaving his name and number just in case you ever needed anything. His name was Richie, he seemed pretty nice.

Low music played as you restocked a shelf, you hated the idea of having Colleen Hoover books in the store but they were a big source of income. They absolutely flew off the shelves. The least touched section of the store were the cookbooks, it seemed like everyone in Chicago was moving too fast to just dedicate one hour of their day to making a meal from scratch. It was disappointing, because you had a large selection, from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child to Momofuku by David Chang and Peter Meehan. You knew that someday it might come in handy and you would be lucky to have all the cookbooks.

Sydney walked into the restaurant in a sour mood, Carmy had still not responded to any of her texts and she knew he was here. She walked straight into the office, passing the locker room, sans lockers and covered in black powder. Richie furiously flipping through a book that said something about mold on the cover. He glanced up at her

"Shut the fuck up." She was taken aback

"I didn't even fucking say anything Richie," he scoffed at her

"Well I was preparing for you to say something dumb as hell, and you did so I stand by my first statement." He looked back down at the book and mumbled something unintelligible to himself. She rolled her eyes and made her way into the office.

"Carm are you here?" Turning the corner she saw the chef, surrounded by papers and various file folders. He had his phone in his hand and was about to dial a number, "You little bitch, you fucking had your phone this entire time." She couldn't believe what was right in front of her.

"What do you mean chef?" Carmy looked confused, "Of course I had my phone, I'm about to call the fridge guy."

Rolling her eyes she brought her hand up to her face, holding her forehead in her palm. "I texted you at least ten fucking times, you couldn't even bother yourself to respond!" Shaking her head she sank down into the office chair Carmy had abandoned an hour ago.

He looked around the room, trying to get her to understand how much work he had been doing, "Syd I've been trying to make sense of this paperwork for hours, I haven't had time to respond to your messa-"

Fak's head popped into the doorframe, "Carmy I got your text about helping Richie clean up the mold but he's being mean to me." Sydney turned from Fak to the red faced chef sitting on the floor. He had been caught in a lie, of course Fak came in at just the right time for this to happen.

"Okay fuck you chef, I'm leaving." Sydney shrugged, stood up and left the room. She heard heated words from Carmy as she walked out of the office and passed the locker room again, now he was pissed at Fak, as usual. She heard her name as she turned around,

"Sydney, wait a sec come here."

"What do you want Richie, I thought you wanted me to shut the fuck up." She crossed her arms tight and shot him a pointed look.

"You should go to that bookstore a few blocks down, I got this damn mold book earlier and saw a shit ton of cookbooks. You should check it out." She sent him a tight smile and turned her back to him. "Thanks Chef."

You had just finished restocking the shelves for the day when the little bell above the door rang. You went behind the desk and called out, "Welcome to The Book Worm, If you need anything let me know!"

You heard no response so you just busied yourself cleaning up the case that was behind the checkout, it housed all your special edition signed or first edition copies of books. It needed to be dusted pretty often because you wanted to keep the quality of the books at their highest, just in case anyone would ever want to purchase one.

You heard a thud come from behind you, and turning around you looked down at the counter. There was a stack of six cookbooks placed on the counter in front of you. Looking up you saw one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen since you had moved in to the city. Her hair was long and perfectly braided, her eyes a beautiful shade of umber catching the light in a hypnotic way. She had a grimace on her face, yet still looked stunning. You had no idea how to react, so instinctively you started to enter the books into the register as you made some small talk,

"So how has your day been," She sighed and looked up to meet your gaze, "If I'm being honest, shitty. My fucking partner wouldn't respond to my messages and when I went to talk to him he had is phone in his hand about to call someone. So yeah really fucking shitty." You looked back down at the book at disappointment, of course she had a partner and of course she was straight.

Awkwardly smiling you tried to think of a good response"Oh, um, wow. That's pretty shitty I'm sorry." She seemed to sense your disappointment, trying to save the conversation, "Shit uh, my business partner I mean, he's a little bitch sometimes. We're uh, opening a business- or I should say um," She rubbed the back of her neck, "We're kinda rebranding his brother's old restaurant, its a lot." You had finished entering all the books into the system, your chest had filled with warmth when she rushed to clarify that he was her business partner. You thought that maybe, just maybe it might be because she wanted to make sure you knew she was single, and not exactly straight.

"I guess that explains the cookbooks then," You looked at her, she had been staring at you in a flustered state of shock. "What, oh, uh, yeah! I'm kinda stuck making the menu so wanted to get some inspiration."

Sharing an understanding smile, you read her total out to her. She grabbed her wallet and pulled out some cash, as she handed it to you her fingers brushed along yours. It sent chills down your spine, no matter how cliche it might be, you knew that she was someone to keep close. Your face flushed red as you took the cash and put it into the register, printing her receipt and giving her any change she needed back.

You decided that since she got so many books you would give her a free tote bag, just so she could carry all the books out of the shop. You pulled one off of a hook behind you and started to put the books into a bag. You decided to quietly slip a business card with your cell number and a little note into a book so she could find it and contact you. A subtle way of screaming, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen I want to spend the rest of my life with you, without being too forward. As you finished packing the bag, the two of you both happened to say something at the same time.

"Do you wanna come see my restu-"

"Do you work at the restura-"

You flushed

"No you can go-"

"No you can go - sorry um. Do you want to come to the opening of the restaurant. It's uh, the one down the street, we're not opening for a while but, if you want to come to the friends and fam-"

You cut her off, wanting her to know you really wanted to go to her restaurant, "I would love to go... what was your name?"

"Sydney, It's uh Sydney" Her face got hot, nervous about the fascinating bookseller she just had the pleasure of meeting.

"Well Sydney, I would love to go. Just let me know the details," You softly smiled as you gave her the bag filled with books. She looked to you and grabbed a bookmark you had as a display that happened to have the shop's phone number on it. "I'll call you, um when we get closer to the open date, promise." You smiled, hoping that she would get in contact with you sooner than she expected to. She turned to leave.

"Thanks for coming in, really good to meet you Sydney." The door rang again and she sent you a wave through the glass, walking away quickly.

You were frozen, you had just given a random girl you just met your number, and had openly flirted with her for all the world to see. You crouched down onto the small stool you had behind the desk, tucked your head into your knees and screamed. You were feeling rushes of emotion and didn't think you would ever recover from that interaction. The bell rang again just as you finished screaming, you shot up and saw a group of teenagers heading to the new books you had just set out.

"Welcome to The Book Worm, If you need anything just holler!"

Sydney rushed back to The Bear, she was so utterly mortified, she had never seen someone so radiant and in their element. The chef couldn't contain her emotions as she stormed into the restaurant, Richie was the first person she saw, he started to say something,

"Not right now Richie I swear to God" The tall man was taken aback but threw his hands up in surrender, not wanting to get involved.

She might as well have ran into the office at the speed she was going, throwin the bag of cookbooks on the ground and closing the door, sliding down the back of the door she groaned,

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, fucking, fuck," dragging out the last word as she hit the floor.

Carmy stared at her from the floor a few feet away, "Yo Syd what happened to you? Looks like you just ran a marathon." He chuckled at the expression on her face.

"I just met the most beautiful girl and totally fucked up my chances with her cause I left so quickly." Sydney put her hands into her face and just sat there marinating in her embarrassment.

Carmy had some strong suits, his attention to detail one of them. He noticed something poking out of one of the books. He grabbed it, hoping that it was something that would change Sydney's mood before he had to work with her for more hours than they could count. He grinned taking the note out of the book and reading it,

"Hey Syd," He reached out to give her the note.

She looked up from behind her fingers, "What?"

He shook his hand, implying he wanted her to take the note from his grip. She groaned, then leaned forward to forcefully take it out of his hand.

She read the note, and smiled. Thank God you slipped her this note.

cookbook girl -

i hope you enjoy your SIX cookbooks, i have some more you could borrow for some inspiration. text me

Sydney's face heated up as she leaned back into door and scoffed.

Carmy had saved the day, one again.

301 notes · View notes

mimisempai · 3 months

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LITTLE SEEDS OF HAPPINESS - Chap 2/4

Chapter 2 : Wilting

Chapter Summary

As Crowley goes to return the book to Aziraphale and tries to get a little closer to the bookseller, Aziraphale receives a visit from his past that he wasn't expecting.

Crowley is forced to forget his disappointment when Muriel introduces him to their... boyfriend?!!!!

Notes

Thank you for all the lovely feedback after the 1st chapter!

On Ao3

Rating T - 3094 words

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4

Crowley looked at his reflection in the window, tightened his bun, then brushed some invisible dust off his black jacket before turning to grab the book Aziraphale had lent him from the counter.

"Don't worry, you're perfect, my little snake."

The florist froze at Muriel's mocking voice then glared at them before putting his sunglasses on his nose.

The cheeky minx chuckled before adding, "Is that plant for him?"

Crowley didn't answer, just nodded.

Muriel approached and continued, "Oh, a jade plant. How thoughtful of you."

Of course, they would have noticed that he hadn't chosen a plant at random, after all, Muriel had grown up with him in the orphanage and heard him talk about his beloved plants every day. Of course, he'd chosen a plant that was easy to care for, required little water, and was self-sufficient. And the fact that it was said to bring good luck, prosperity and health to its owner had absolutely nothing to do with his choice.

Ignoring his teasing friend, he checked that the book was in pristine condition, then grabbed the plant and headed for the door, oblivious to Muriel's fond gaze.

As they watched him walk toward the bookstore, they murmured, "You have a right to be happy too, big brother. Just open the door for it."

Seconds later, seeing the "open" sign, it was the bookshop door that Crowley opened, despite his laden arms.

He announced himself with a loud greeting, "Hello Aziraphale, it's me, Crowley... the flower shop owner."

He heard footsteps above him, then suddenly saw the bookseller coming down the spiral staircase in the middle of the store.

Aziraphale, a broad smile on his face, stepped toward him and called out, "Good morning, Crowley!"

Once the bookseller was in front of him, Crowley first handed him the book and said, "Here, I'm returning your treasured possession and also..." he waited until Aziraphale had put down the book before handing him the small green plant and continued, "Here, this little plant to thank you. It doesn't need much care, just a little water from time to time. I thought it would be perfect for your shop and-"

Crowley paused and was about to apologize for his rambling, but suddenly he saw that Aziraphale was holding the plant almost religiously, an expression of wonder on his face as the bookseller said to him, eyes shining, "What kind attention." then his expression turned a little embarrassed as he added, "I'll try to take good care of it, but I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

Crowley replied, "If you like, I could come and look after it for you and..."

He paused, surely the bookseller wouldn't want a slightly odd florist like him coming into his bookshop too often, and-

"You'd do that for me?"

Oh, okay.

Crowley nodded as Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed, "What the hell is he doing here?!"

He saw the bookseller looking over his shoulder and turned. Not far from the bookshop stood a rather tall man, dressed rather elegantly and exuding power.

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale and had the impression that another man was standing in front of him. He could never have imagined the kind and gentle bookseller capable of such a cold demeanor.

Crowley, a little disappointed at the way the encounter with Aziraphale had turned out, muttered, "I've got work to do, I'm... I'm going back to my shop."

The bookseller barely acknowledged his presence, nodding slightly, his eyes fixed on the other man outside.

Crowley then left the store, glancing at the man in the gray suit who paid him no attention, also seemingly fixated on the bookshop.

He didn't know what was going on between the two men, but it looked pretty intense, and Crowley had never felt so out of place.

His throat tightening slightly, Crowley took one last look at Aziraphale through the window, then saw his own reflection again and sighed, shrugging, "Who are you kidding?"

Crowley, feeling a little dejected, opened the door to the flower shop and, after putting on his apron, began to take out the flowers he would need for the first batch of arrangements for Justine's restaurant.

He placed the long white lilies on the counter and, armed with a small pair of scissors, began to cut off the stamens.

"How did it go? Did he like the plant?"

Crowley straightened and, a fake smile on his lips, replied to Muriel, "Perfectly well, it seems he enjoyed the plant."

Then he picked up his secateurs and, avoiding Muriel's gaze, began to cut the flower stems to the proper size for what he had in mind.

But a hand came to rest on his, stopping his movement, and when he looked up he found himself facing Muriel, who said gently, "You know you could never lie to me, Crowley, so tell me how it really happened."

The florist shook his head, not ready to talk to Muriel about what had happened, and then said quietly, "Look, I promise I'll tell you everything, but right now I need some time to sort out how I feel, and as usual..."

He paused and pointed to his worktop, so Muriel continued his sentence, "As usual, work and your flowers will help."

This was nothing new, they had seen their friend and adopted brother use flowers to process his emotions countless times, so they came to stand next to him and added quietly, "I know I don't have your artistic sense for arrangements, but can I help you?"

Crowley gave them a little nudge on the shoulder before handing Muriel a pair of secateurs, "Of course you can, silly." He showed them where to cut the flowers and they both went to work in silence.

After a few moments, Muriel put the secateurs down on the counter, took a deep breath, and then said in an unusually shy voice, "Crowley, there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

The florist put down the secateurs in turn, a little alarmed by Muriel's tone and demeanor.

"I'm listening."

"Well... uh... you see, I've been a member of a movie club since we got here."

He nodded, whether it was him or Muriel, growing up in a rural orphanage, they hadn't had much of the usual life of children or teenagers their age, so as soon as Muriel had left the orphanage, they had tried to catch up on what they called their cultural gap, and their participation in this club was part of that.

"And so... that's it... since I... well, since we... you know..."

Okay, this was serious, because for his friend to babble like that, it had to be something heavy.

Crowley interrupted, "Hey, it's okay, spit it out or I'll start freaking out."

Muriel took another deep breath and said in one go, "Okay, I met someone there."

Crowley had expected anything but that, so he ignored the alarm bell in his head and just said with a raised eyebrow, "Oh yeah?"

Muriel was over thirty, perfectly capable of making decisions about their love life, but as always, Crowley couldn't stop the protective big brother in him from waking up.

However, seeing Muriel's embarrassment, he decided to remain silent and listen to them.

"Yes. His name is Eric, he's a mechanic, and by the way, he dreams of seeing your Bentley."

Crowley shuddered at the thought of a stranger approaching his beloved car, but said nothing and let Muriel continue.

"He... he's a bit like us. He has no family, he too grew up in an orphanage after his parents died when he was 13, and he was adopted three times, but was unlucky because it went wrong."

Crowley couldn't help but intervene, saying gently, "Tell me, if you already know so much about him, it must be more than just meeting him, right?"

When he saw Muriel blush, he knew he'd hit the nail on the head. His friend muttered, "It could be that we're dating."

Crowley resisted the urge to pepper Muriel with questions as they continued, his words flowing much faster, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to keep it from you, but with us moving here, starting the shop, our new life, I never found the right time to tell you, and then..."

Crowley interrupted them, placing a hand on their arm and laughing softly before replying, "Hey, calm down, I'm not going to give you a hard time, you know?"

Muriel replied, "Yes, but we've always told each other everything, and I don't want you to think I'm hiding anything.

Crowley replied quietly, "Yes, but you're entitled to your secret garden, too. Just because we know everything about each other doesn't mean we have to tell each other everything. Yes, I'll want to talk to him at some point, but as long as you're happy, I don't need to know any more."

Muriel smiled and replied, "That's good that you want to talk to him, because he's picking me up to take me to the movies later, and I told him that I would introduce him to you formally.

Then, in a slightly more concerned voice, they added, "But given the situation, if you prefer, we can do it another day."

Crowley shook his head and said gently, "No, on the contrary, it'll take my mind off things and I can spend my nerves on someone else."

Muriel raised a threatening finger and replied, "You better not scare him!"

The florist raised an eyebrow, "That depends on how he behaves. Either way, you can't stop me from doing my shovel talk."

Muriel rolled their eyes and replied, "I guess that's the price of having a big brother."

"Just like the price of having a little sibling is having them interfere with my heart matters."

They both chuckled and went back to work.

A little later that evening, Crowley was bringing the last of the plants into the shop when he heard the door open behind him and turned to see Muriel entering, holding the hand of a man about his age who was standing a little behind them.

Eric, because it was him, looked at him in a frank and open way that immediately appealed to Crowley, though it wouldn't stop him from playing the protective big brother.

They approached him and Muriel made the introductions.

"Crowley, this is Eric. Eric, this is Crowley, my big brother of sorts."

Eric let go of Muriel's hand and stepped forward, extending his hand to Crowley, who took it in a relatively firm grip. Seeing the younger man return his grip, Crowley was confirmed in his initial opinion.

"I'll get ready, I'll be right there."

Muriel planted a light kiss on Eric's cheek and Crowley heard them whisper in his boyfriend's ear, "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

As they passed Crowley, they waved their index fingers at him and said, "And you, be good."

Then they ran up the stairs to the second floor.

There was a few seconds of silence, then Crowley, not one to beat around the bush, addressed Eric, "Well, Muriel's old enough to know what they're doing, though if..."

Eric cut him off, "If I hurt them, you'll kill me. But don't worry, if I hurt them, I'll kill myself."

Crowley, amused by the younger man's audacity, chuckled and replied, "Oh, no, why kill when you can torture?"

Eric, not quite sure if this was a joke, gave a half smile before taking a deep breath and saying, "I know from Muriel that our relationship is a surprise to you, I also know how much you care about them. I also know, having been through the same kind of hardships, that trust is something that takes time to earn, but I hope that if Muriel was able to trust me, one day you will too."

Eric held out his hand to Crowley, who took it, shook it firmly, and replied softly, "I will always do everything in my power to protect them, but I will never come between them and their happiness."

There was nothing more to say; they understood each other.

Crowley couldn't help but add, "But if you hurt them..."

Eric replied, "Must be nice to have someone like that in your corner."

Crowley noticed the longing tone and felt all the more understanding for the younger man. He said softly, "My protection extends to those Muriel deems worthy."

Eric swallowed at the implication of Crowley's words and just nodded.

"So, boys, how's it going?"

Eric turned to Muriel, who was approaching, and replied in an amused tone, "See, I'm still alive."

Muriel laughed softly, but Crowley noticed the look of relief that quickly crossed their face. Then, Muriel hooked their arm under their boyfriend's and said cheerfully, "Well, let's get going or we'll miss the trailers."

They were about to leave when Muriel stopped and said to Eric, "Wait a minute."

They returned to Crowley and, standing in front of him, wrapped their arms around him to hold him close and whispered softly in his ear, "Thank you."

Then they turned back to Eric, and Crowley watched them leave, arm in arm. He couldn't help but chuckle when he saw that they had the same spring in their step. They really had found each other.

But even though he tried to ignore the small pang of nostalgia he felt at the sight of their complicity, he couldn't keep his eyes from drifting in the direction of the bookshop for a few seconds.

He sighed and returned to his shop, which he closed before going up to his apartment, his melancholy not leaving him for the entire evening.

Nor did it leave him the next morning when he picked up the flower arrangements for the restaurant.

A few moments later, he arrived at Justine's, and when the Frenchwoman looked inside the box, she squealed with amazement, praising the small arrangements whose central flower was the lily, Italy's national flower. She wanted to offer him a refreshment, but he declined, not really in the mood to be confronted with the restaurateur's incessant chatter anytime soon, no matter how much he appreciated her.

He walked back to his shop, but when he got there, he thought he could use a little boost, so he continued on to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, the coffee shop next to his flower shop.

When he got inside, he was relieved to see that there were no customers and went straight to the counter where Nina, the owner of the coffee shop, was standing.

"Hey, it's Mr. Florist! Hi, neighbor!"

"Hi, Nina."

"Oh dear, hide your joy, it's dazzling!"

Crowley didn't answer, just harrumphed.

He'd become fast friends with Nina. They had the same sense of humor, liked to bicker, had the same repartee, but today Crowley wasn't in the mood at all.

She didn't insist and asked him more gently, "So, what's it going to be for you today?"

"A fallen angel."

"Oh, I see, you are indeed starting with the heavy stuff. Pure, unadulterated espresso."

Crowley replied, "Yes, I need black coffee. Black as my soul."

Nina chuckled softly and replied, "Your soul is as black as a latte with lots of milk."

Unfortunately for him, Nina was extremely perceptive and had quickly figured out who Crowley was. So he wasn't surprised when she leaned over and asked in a low voice, "Does your mood have anything to do with a certain bookseller and the visit he received yesterday?"

Crowley knew there was no point in denying it, so he simply shrugged and said nothing.

"I see..." Nina murmured before turning to make him his coffee.

Once the coffee was brewing, she approached Crowley again and whispered conspiratorially, "You know, I don't think you need to worry about this."

"Who said I was worried?!"

"Shh, let me finish, will you? I have it on good authority from Mutt..."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Mutt's Magic Shop was the gossip nest of Whickber Street. If you wanted a heads-up on the latest street happenings, Mutt's was the place to go.

"I know what you're thinking, but listen to me. Mutt said he'd walked by the store when the guy in the fancy suit was there, and the bookseller looked angry. Mutt even said that he didn't know the nice Aziraphale was capable of swearing like that. Apparently, the guy's his ex-boss or something."

Crowley sighed because none of it meant much. After all, if this guy could get the bookseller off his hinges like that, there had to be a special bond, right? What kind, anyway?

In any case, this guy was from a different class, that was for sure.

One Crowley would never be from.

"Stop thinking that you're not good enough for him."

Nina's voice snapped him out of his thoughts and Crowley replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Nina wore a serious expression as she replied, "I know that look. It's the same one the bookseller gets when he slows down to look at you..."

"What?"

Nina nodded and replied, "Yes, I have a great view of the street, so I see things, just like I see you following him with your eyes and vice versa...or how you've glanced at the bookshop at least five times since you came into my coffee shop."

Caught red-handed, Crowley didn't even try to deny it, but annoyed at being found out, he reached for his coffee and left the money on the counter. But before he could leave, Nina shook her head and shoved the money at him, "It's free for you today, to thank you for the entertainment."

Crowley grabbed the money and stomped away, grumbling and trying to ignore Nina's sneer.

A little later, after swallowing his coffee, he began working on the next day's arrangements. The country featured the next day at Justine's restaurant was India, and the national flower was the lotus.

Crowley began arranging the delicate pink flowers with their yellow hearts on his worktop when suddenly the doorbell of the shop rang. He sighed slightly, not wanting to deal with a customer in his state of mind, but he forced a smile on his lips before lifting his head.

His smile turned into an "o" of surprise as he gasped slightly at the realization of who his morning visitor was.

Aziraphale, haloed in the morning light, stood in the doorway, smiling at him before saying softly, "Good morning, Crowley. I hope I'm not intruding."

Next chapter : Aziraphale faces a visit from his past and, mortified at the idea of having missed an opportunity to get closer to the florist, decides to take matters into his own hands...

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #human au #alternate universe #flower shop

46 notes · View notes

dramioneasks · 4 months

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Christmas Fics 2023 (Part 8):

Keep It Like a Secret by PacificRimbaud - M, one-shot - He regards her with interest, cool as the ice in his G&T. “What do you want?” On close inspection, he's a bit deadly. It's the combined power of self-regard, an open ear, and a cunningly tailored suit. Hermione wants— “An expiration date would be nice.” She suctions up the watery dregs and signals for more. “Let’s say I want . . . a year. Exactly one year of monogamy without the possibility of further commitment."

When Love is Found by Biirdiee_Rose - T, one-shot - “You’ve read Charles Dickens— yes?” “Yes, I read Great Expectations when I started exploring muggle literature.” “Well, he wrote a book called A Christmas Carol.” She bends down to grab a few gifts from beneath the Christmas tree. “Ah, so we’re from the book then—” “Sort of,” She interrupts, “Then they made a movie of it with these little puppets called The Muppets, and it was my favorite.” - Hermione and Draco go to a muggle Christmas party with the theme to dress up from a favorite Christmas movie. Hijinks ensue.

Mutual, I'm Sure by LadyUrsa - E, WIP - If Draco Malfoy could have one wish in his life, it would be to not be a Veela. Wait, no. It would be to not have Hermione Granger be his mate. Fuck, at this point he would settle for Hermione Granger just being aware of the painfully obvious fact that she was his mate. But only as long as it resulted in monogamous bliss. And getting a cat. ** Two meddlesome best friends, two idiots who are bad at feelings, and a snow-filled Christmas reunion in Vermont. The only thing this White Christmas is missing are some musical numbers.

Cookies, Spice and Other Mushy Non-Practical Stuff by Trombones - G, one-shot - A very short Christmas Dramione one shot. Featuring your favourite Harry Potter snow man, a haughty but caring Draco and a Hermione that can't help but be won over by his charms.

The Well-Traveled Sage by MarinaJune - M, one-shot - Bookseller Hermione Granger, some shop holiday decor, and Draco Malfoy in need of a last-minute holiday gift.

An Ode To Falling In Love by Ada_P_Rix - M, one-shot - He gave her a lopsided grin then, his hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at her. "I think you're drunk." He observed her after a few moments, his eyes glassy as she rolled hers up at him. "And I think you'll regret the hangover in the morning." Hermione gave him a look that had him raising his eyebrows at her. "Amongst other things." "Well you know what they say, Granger-" Malfoy stumbled slightly, causing her to cling to his arm and pull him further against the side of her body as they walked along to the apparition point. "The truth always comes out when you're shitfaced," another grin from him had her shaking her head; Hermione had never witnessed him being this intoxicated before. "All kinds of nasty little secrets end up spilling out with the alcohol-induced vomit."

Santa Baby by Biirdiee_Rose - E, one-shot - “Now, if I were to say yes to this whole…thing, what do I get out of it?” She asks hesitantly, hating the way he perked up immediately. “My, my, Granger— how Slytherin of you.” She narrows her eyes and he relents, surely very aware he did not have the upper hand in the situation. “You’ve been shot down for funding time and time again for that very generous Wolfsbane project–” Now it was her turn to perk up, spine straightening as she leans over the desk, hands clasping as her brain puts together what he’s offering her. “If you agree to this, agree to being my girlfriend until at least after Christmas, then I will fully fund your Wolfsbane project for the next two years.” - Draco Malfoy needs a favor, and Hermione Granger seems to be the only witch around to fit the bill. Attempting to get out of yet another marriage contract, Draco tells his mother he’s dating the one and only Hermione Granger. One little issue, they’re not actually dating. With a good old fashioned bribe of funding the Wolfsbane Project she’s been trying to start for years, Hermione reluctantly agrees. No need to worry dear readers, it’s not like they’d develop feelings for each other or anything… Right?

The Christmas Party by arielle_reads - M, one-shot - Robards hosts a Christmas party for the Ministry but his gift-giving plan goes awry when everything gets swapped. Firewhiskey shots are introduced and Draco worries someone else will get the present he chose for Hermione.

Magical Merry Mistletoe by greyditto - T, one-shot - What happens when pureblood tradition, a Yule party, and a Secret Santa gift exchange all take place in the same event? Naturally, Draco's nearest and dearest conspire to get him what he always wanted...

Icy Truce, Warm Hearts by Serpent_Sortia - E, one-shot - The war has been raging for years but things are starting to go the Order's way thanks to the information provided by a spy high amongst Voldemort's ranks. Hermione is called out to meet the mysterious informant on a snowy Christmas Eve so he can deliver important news... until their meeting spot is compromised.

Messing with Christmas and How to Fix it by Astrangefan - not rated, one-shot - Hermione has been homesick for a home she no longer has. She finds some old decorations at Grimmauld and brings them back to Hogwarts. Draco likes what she's done, but says it in a way only Draco Malfoy can say and everything goes wrong. Now he has to come up with a grand gesture to apologise.

The Holiday by LunaLunaria - E, one-shot - A remix of The Holiday (2006) featuring cinnamon roll with hidden depths Neville Longbottom, chaotic manic pixie Pansy Parkinson, hyper-productive, seduce-me-with-your-brain Hermione Granger, and literary bachelor with a side of snark and sentiment Draco Malfoy.

Wolfsbane and Mistletoe by yes_a_witch - E, WIP - Seven years after her 8th year at Hogwarts, Hermione is feeling lonely. Ron and Harry are both happy with their new families, and her work is meaningful yet taxing. Though she has branched out and made new friends since school, none provide that sense of community she’s been missing. When Malfoy invites her for Christmas with the Slytherins everything changes in ways she never expected.

‘Twas The Night For Traditions (Some Old, Some New) by megiswritingsomething - M, one-shot - Christmas Eve traditions were sacred for Hermione, Draco, and Scorpius - such a shame Draco is nowhere to be found as the night drawls to a close… OR The one where Hermione reads ‘‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ to Scorpius while reminiscing about their Yuletide traditions. Meanwhile Draco is MIA on urgent Christmas-related business.

#christmas #dramione

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theonevoice · 6 months

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Rumination n. 6 - It was all Jim's fault

Well, not all his fault. He walked right into a 6000yo situation of unspoken "do I... would you... could we...", but I think, since he fills the role of comic relief, we are not fully taking into account his impact on the whole ineffable miscommunication mess.

Because he is not just a plot device, he is a character that pushes Aziraphale and Crowley to act in unplanned ways and - most of all - brings some of their worldview biases and traumas out of their dark corners. And I am increasingly convinced that his presence plays a major role in the final breakup, acting as a catalyst for their millennia-long misalignment of hopes and fears.

Sure, he is there to make us smile and Jon Hamm is a joy to watch (I cannot get to his line in ep 1, when Aziraphale tells him that he can see that he's naked, and he goes "Oh! Well, what do you know? Ahahah!" without burst out laughing, even after countless rewatches), but that humor is mainly for us viewers to detect. From Aziraphale's and Crowley's point of view, he doesn't appear as funny as he does to us. For them, he is a source of worry and danger, and I would argue that he is also an incarnation of different desires. And that's the point.

Let's consider for a moment Aziraphale's perspective. He sees his former boss, "most holy archangel" Gabriel, pop up one day at the bookshop, reduced to the mental capacity of a smart dog, vaguely aware that someone was planning to do "something terrible" to him. It is a terrifying spectacle to behold. It's not just the mere danger of having one of the most powerful entities in the universe, possibly still in posess of all his powers, acting like a child. It's the terror of witnessing what Heaven can do to your identity and your mind: imagine Aziraphale - book-lover, diary-writer, Antichrist-locator Aziraphale with the capacity, as per the book, to solve math problems that only people with Nobel prizes could master - trying to process the idea that his former boss doesn't know the alphabet anymore. The idea that he could be reduced to that degree of utter ignorance and unawareness if Heaven decided that their truce is over.

At the same time, what Aziraphale sees is that, once stripped of all the layers of Heaven's legalism, Gabriel is legitimately a great guy.

We all love Muriel to death, of course, but the more I watch s2 the more I believe that Jim is the most similar "angel" to Aziraphale out of all the ones we see. He is jovial (think at whatever that cheeck squishing thing is that he does during the ball), he is enthusiastic (think at his reaction at his first sip of hot chocolate, and also his genuine "hurray! Let the bookselling commence!"). He is affectionate and open about it ("You're funny, I love you"). He is caring (sure he was struggling to read the room during the demon attack, but still in that moment of danger he has the altruism of thinking to ask if anyone wants hot chocolate, and hot chocolate is the symbol of comfort for him, it's the first thing Aziraphale offers to him to make him feel at ease in the bookshop and the thing that Crowley brings him to soothe his angst after the memory conversation). He is helpful or at least he wants to be (rearranging the books in an order that, if you think about it, follows the criterion of medieval manuscripts illuminators, who usually embellished only the first letter of the first sentence on a page, which makes sense as a frame of reference for an angel whose only experience of books probably goes back to some old Bibles). He is generous and brave (giving himself up without a second thought when he realises that Shax is threatening Aziraphale and all the others because of him).

As Jim, memory-wiped Gabriel is both Aziraphale's worst fear and his deepest hope: that after all Heaven is the side of good, that all the cruelty and the callousness and the total blindness to the value of life on Earth is just a mishap, that if you scrape off the absurd obsession with World Ending Great Plans you will find underneath a form of good that is pure and gentle. I think Jim, way more than the Metatron and his shitty offer-threat, is the main thing that brings Aziraphale back on the mission of fixing Heaven, "making a difference," not for the greater cosmic good, but to create a safe place for him and Crowley. So they can be safe together.

But something similar happens from Crowley's point of view. He also sees Gabriel as the concrete manifestation of both his worst fear and his deepest desire. The former Supreme Archangel renews the momentarily forgotten awareness of what Heaven and Hell can do to you if you cross them: destroy you either by throwing you into hellfire or holy water, or now by hanging the threat of the Book of Life above your head. Force you to live in a constant state of danger, pressing you against the possibility of your non-existence, making you feel like you have a loaded gun constantly placed against your skull and no magic trick to avoid the bullet.

At the same time, just as Aziraphale, what Crowley sees is that, if you are determined and lucky or maybe just inconsiderate, you can get away from Heaven and live your happy thoughtless life on Earth. Think of how bitter he is when he confronts Jim in ep5, calling him Gabriel and "Oh, yeah yeah, no no no. You're Jim now. Got everything just the way you want it?" I think here Crowley is projecting his desire to be "on the lam having a wonderful time and never be seen again." Sure, everyone is after him and they had to perform a joined miracle to hide him, but let's not forget that Crowley was not doing it to save Gabriel, he was doing it to keep Aziraphale safe. From his point of view, Gabriel did it: he run off, cut ties with Heaven, settled in his little neat new identity, cared and protected, not a thought in his head. And yes, Crowley is painfully aware of how awful it is to have your memory erased - I don't think he would consider it an acceptable price to pay for freedom. But still, Gabriel did what he would like to do. And it does not help that memory-wiped Gabriel presents specifically to Crowley some aspects of his personality in which he can recognize himself. He is curious and asks questions (think of the gravity conversation), and even more important he is ready to dispute the answers that are given to him ("but they don't stay where I put them"). He hears the plan about Nina and Maggie that Aziraphale didn't listen to, and afterwards asks Crowley how it went. He is insightful in his own instinctive way (when he tells Crowley "you're really nice" he's not just saying "you are nice a lot" but also "in reality you are nice", he's seeing through Crowley's rough mannerism even if just seconds before he was angrily shouting at him). He has lost his memory, which by now I think most of us agree it's what also happened to Crowley, at least partially ("I know, looking at where the furniture isn't"). And then, the final nail on the mirror-coffin: Gabriel run away from Heaven for his love. They run off together.

Having Jim right there, in front of his very eyes, I think it's the thing that pushes Crowley back to his old plan of running off together with Aziraphale: he is the living prove that it can be done, further confirmed by his final departure with Beelzebub. Of course, for a brief moment both sides of the metaphisical universe where hunting him down, which is not desirable. But Gabriel was the Supreme Archangel after all, it's only fair that they're looking for him. They are but a former bullied angel and a former already-replaced demon, maybe Heaven and Hell would not mobilised their hosts for them. They could be finally safe together.

So, when you put everything together, I think that what happened at the end of ep6 has more to do with Gabriel and how his presence affected them during the season, than it has to do with the Metatron, or even with the Nina-Maggie foil. It is Jim that pushed a wedge into the thin crack that had always been there, separating what each of them sees as the best way to be safe together.

#good omens #good omens 2 #go2 #crowley #aziraphale #good omens thoughts #go2 spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #jimbriel #supreme archangel gabriel #the final fifteen #good omens meta

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rebeccadewinterthinks · 7 months

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Good omens The Book of life Conspiracy theory Part 4

the previous parts of this theory you can read here: part 1, part 2, part 3

4. Is he lying or not?

I'm not an expert on brain function, but when Gabriel comes to the bookshop, he behaves like a person who has lost their memory. You believe that he doesn't know who he is, where he is, and what he's doing here. He reacts and behaves like a curious child. At the same time, he has a vague sense of anxiety and a vague sense of recognition of Aziraphale, and all of this seems quite natural. However, at a certain point, it started to seem to me that Gabriel is lying. Let's start with the fact that he suddenly stopped asking questions, he no longer asks: who am I? how do you know me? who are you? what miracles are happening here? A person who has lost their memory is only interested in book trading and gravity, really?

Review the listed episodes. Don't you think the same as I do?

« – And now I will make a noise when I move around…»

He is clearly trolling Aziraphale, smirking and walking away, very pleased with himself, it's obvious. He's not a child, but a self-satisfied bastard [06:25 Ep.2].

Aziraphale talks to the Archangels on the street in front of the bookshop [12:45 Ep.2]:

The door opens, and Gabriel appears, loudly and joyfully declaring that he is Jim, the bookseller's assistant. Why would a person who has lost their memory, who knows that something terrible awaits him, loudly come out onto the street in front of strangers? Maybe because this is Gabriel-with-memory, who, of course, recognized the ones who came, understands that a hiding miracle of immense power has been performed, and is now simply testing the limits? When the miracle passes its final test (Michael doesn't recognize Gabriel up close), he mockingly calls after the angels:

« – What...what about me? Uh, guys, shouldn't you keep a close eye on me too?»

very recognizable audacity and self-assurance.

there is a theory that an angel cannot be punished outside of Heaven. After all, in the first season, Aziraphale had to be kidnapped first and then executed by Heaven. So, Gabriel, having regained his memory, must realise that with all his powers, he is practically invulnerable on Earth. This is indirectly confirmed in episode 6 when representatives of Hell and Heaven demand that the escapees be handed over to them. It seems like they are right in front of you, punish them all you want. By the way, humans don't have such problems, only Crowley's intervention saves Maggie and Nina from immediate transformation into salt pillars.

however, it's possible that Gabriel is just a very audacious son of a bitch.

there are more obvious signs that the fugitive is mentally sound: you can't fool Crowley so easily [21:24 Ep.2]. He carefully listens to the nonsense that Gabriel is spouting and says:

I think at that moment the Archangel realizes that it's better not to push Crowley further, "shines" his eyes, and delivers a biblical phrase. Think about it, if ALL his memory is in the fly, where did this piece come from? Well, the trick worked, and they back off.

Gabriel blurts out a prophecy about the Second Coming [38:45 Ep.3]:

«– There will come a tempest, and darkness, and great storms. And the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more. And there will be great lamentations. Everyday it's getting closer.»

Is this a conscious attempt to warn? Or a random trigger on the word «tempest»? The only thing that's clear is that his memory is with him again.

conversation with Crowley [41:35 Ep.3]:

« – You have no idea the trouble you're causing, do you? - No. Or yes. Or...no. - Yeah, I'll tell you something Jim, or Gabriel, if you're there somewhere. If any harm comes to Aziraphale because of this, I will…»

And Gabriel listens. VERY carefully. And he looks like he understands everything.

Crowley comes into the Archangel's room [14:20 Ep.5].

The demon openly berates him. Gabriel is visibly nervous. When Crowley says that Aziraphale wasn't at the execution, Gabriel asks in surprise, «He wasn't there?"». Not the reaction you would expect from someone who doesn't understand what's being talked about, right? And it becomes even stranger when Gabriel almost jumps out of the second-floor window. For a person, with or without memory, that's guaranteed injury (the floor is high, and there's asphalt below), and the action is completely senseless. But for an Archangel, such a jump poses no threat, but it's an excellent way to escape from an extremely unpleasant conversation. Then Crowley demands that Gabriel remember. He replies:

«– I don't have my memory. – Well, where is your memory, then? – In a matchbox. No, I took it out, first. I took it and put it in the box and I brought it here… And now it's everywhere.»

First of all, how do you know all this? Secondly, what do you mean, everywhere? It's no longer in the fly? You don't want to admit that you've already got it back, do you? I have a theory as to why the memory (partially) could have leaked back into Gabriel's head. And also why he doesn't hurry to get away from the bookshop, even though Heaven is already on his heels.

the part 5 is here

#good omens #go2 #go2 spoilers #good omens 2 #good omens season 2 #good omens spoilers #good omens meta #good omens theory #crowley #aziraphale

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1920sladydectective · 10 months

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A Table for Two (Part One) 7.5K

She had to orchestrate them seeing each other again, and the best way to do that was force him to collect books for her.

Aesop Sharp's fifteen year old daughter tries matchmaking her father with the new Bookseller in Hogsmeade to distract him from the news that she's dating Garreth Weasley

There were many things that Aesop Sharp struggled with, an entire list in fact, including a lame leg, career pivot and endlessly idiotic adolescents. The thing he struggled with most though, you ask? Parenting his fifteen year old daughter, who unfortunately for him, was a perfect amalgamation of all of his most cunning and mischievous traits, paired with her mother’s beauty and charm. Every day felt like an invisible battle he couldn’t quite understand and though he had been doing it for a decade and a half, walking around with his heart outside of his chest, placing all of his love with her was a fearful feeling.

Edelyn Vanora Sharp was his pride and joy. He was also quite certain she was sent from some kind of warped Hell to torment him.

Ever since she was very young, she had been daring and adventurous. Crawling across floors away from her parents, only to be scooped up, or climbing so far into a tree that she was unsure of how to get down, it only became harder for him to monitor her as she aged, especially since the death of her mother. She wasn’t old enough to remember her, a gentle and soft woman with her same emerald eyes and boisterous laugh, but she knew that she was a mixture of her parents and though he was rarely open about things, he would always share stories of her mother with her.

Edelyn Sharp was in a truly awful predicament. She was in love, which in all honesty was rather lovely, but it was who she loved that posed the problem. After years of bickering and easy friendship, she had had the misfortune of falling in love with Garreth Weasley. This wasn’t a bad thing at all, he was just a tad reckless, until she considered her father and then her life seemed to be neatly engulfed in flames.

She was certain that she should have been overjoyed when Garreth asked her on a date, she accepted after all, but now as she lay in her bedroom next to her father’s staring at the dark blue ceiling, she could only fathom the damage control needed for the boy to survive to the end of the term, she didn’t have the mental capacity to think beyond then. There were nine days before the date, due to thankfully busy schedules and Edelyn estimated that she had perhaps a month after that before her father would notice something amiss. That estimate was incredibly generous, and relied on everyone keeping their bloody mouths shut.

Having not slept a wink, she sat tugging roughly on her hair as she debated what to do with herself. It was Friday, she had Charms and Defence, then a free afternoon. Poppy had been yammering about a new bookshop that had opened in Hogsmeade a few days ago, and she had a hankering to see it. Donning her blue robes, Edelyn rushed down to the Great Hall, where her friends and father already sat eating breakfast.

“Tough night?” Natty asked, passing her the eggs as Edelyn stared dazedly at them.

“Didn’t sleep at all, considering you know what,” She grunted, fistfuls of food hovering around her mouth but never quite making it in.

Natty snorted, as Poppy just smiled, both girls fully aware of the ridiculousness of her life. They had been there when Garreth asked her out, in the Transfiguration Courtyard last week as the little group of girls had sat studying in the tentative sunshine.

“Anyway,” Edelyn said, hanging on the word for a few beats too long, “Do you want to come to that new bookstore with me today, Pops?”

“Ugh, Bugger, I can't. I've already agreed to help Howin later,” The Hufflepuff grunted.

“Books or Beasts, who will win?” Natty mumbled as both girls reached out to flick her ear.

“Fuck you then,” Edelyn groaned.

“Take your Dad, might make him chill out around you for a bit,” Poppy suggested with a bright beam, as the words turned over in Edelyn’s head.

That actually wasn’t the worst idea, books were her main connection point with her father and it might mellow him enough that she could add another few days to her doomageddon timeline. Standing with a sudden purpose, she waved away her friends and glided over to where her father miserably sat attempting to avoid breakfast small talk with Ronen.

“Professor Ronen,” Edelyn smiled gently down at her Charms Professor, though he acted more like a well meaning Grandfather, incredibly invested in the every rise and fall of her life.

“Eda,” He bellowed happily, “What news do you bring, Dear girl?”

She let out a little snort, “No news, I was just coming to ask Dad if he fancied scoping out the new bookshop in Hogsmeade this afternoon, as you don’t have the Seventh Years today,”

Sharp let out an indecisive little groan, pausing in his ordered mouthfuls, “Come to my classroom around two thirty, I shall let you know then,”

She nodded, giving Ronen another smile as he stood, “We may as well walk together, considering,”

Ronen nodded back, grasping a small pile of parchment she recognised as their essays, and gestured for her to lead the way, as they each mumbled goodbyes to her father.

Charms and Defence passed with very little fanfare. She scored excellently on both subject’s essays, which brought her a subtle sort of joy at the knowledge that she was succeeding as much as was expected of her, which would also make her father more lenient in the number of books she could buy later. Luckily for her, Garreth was nowhere near her, as their delicate situation would have fizzled under Hecat’s sharp gaze.

Aesop found himself surprised by his daughter’s offer, yet touched all the same. Spending time with Edelyn at this age was tricky, he always felt like he was on the back foot when it came to remembering how she wished to be treated. She had a ferocious temper, one of the unfortunate traits she had inherited from him, and their arguments were legendary. All that to be said, in the quiet of their shared chambers they would bond over books and chess, both avidly researching new theories and publications. Some of his fondest memories were of her proving him wrong, which was an odd feeling to have. Above all else, she seemed completely unphased by his leg beyond a deep sadness that he felt pain. Where shame and anger sat with him, only unyielding love rested in her. Despite their differences, Aesop felt it important that he try as hard as she was, so despite the niggling burn in his thigh, he would venture to the bookshop.

Soon enough, two thirty came and Edelyn stumbled into the Potions classroom, blowing frizzy black waves out of her eyes with a frustrated grunt.

“Papa?” She called quietly, as the man emerged from his office with a light smile.

“Shall we get going then, Edie?” Aesop said, gathering his possessions and a small pouch of powder, “You don’t mind if we take the Floo?”

“Course not, Pa,” She said, excitement fraying her movements as she took a pinch and firmly stated the Hogsmeade Square, suddenly engulfed in fiery green shimmers.

Aesop followed after, his wand locking the classroom room firmly behind him.

Hogsmeade was always a hub of activity, but in the sunshine that early spring brought, people were out in droves to buy new clothes, explore the surrounding fields or indulge in a nice Butterbeer. There was a slight buzz surrounding the new bookshop too, a large shop painted a stunning burnt orange, with visibly hand painted books and flowers covering the wood, a few even on the glass of the display window. Above the artwork the sign simply read ‘Once’ which seemed to amuse her father for reasons she didn’t quite understand. Storming ahead, she allowed her father to move at his own pace, as she rushed towards the shiny new Muggle novels.

Aesop regarded the shop quizzically, almost baffled by such an affronting colour, though a minor artist himself he could not argue with the painting’s beauty. Stepping in, he realised they must have come at a lull, as other than himself and Edelyn there was only one another patron, and a woman behind an ornate wooden till with her back to him. Her hair was a similar colour to the paint and it made him snort, as he took in the eclectic selection on offer. Sunlight fractured into tinted colours through the window as the woman turned, her eye catching his, as his breath caught in his throat.

Eliza Fisher wasn’t quite sure what had come over her when she decided three months ago to pack up her job as a Cursebreaker and move to Hogsmeade to open a bookshop, but she had done it now and there was no going back. Her parents were long since dead, something she had sat with as well as a young woman could, and she was lucky for the freedom her situation afforded her. It had always been a girlhood dream, but feeling it actualised as she finished the tender brush strokes of forgetmenots and daisies, made her feel a fizzy melancholy. Though she had never been here before, her parents choosing to home educate her for reasons she never quite understood, she felt a familiarness, an ease she had been chasing her whole life. Here, in a quaint wizarding village, she was quite certain she had found purpose in the form of bound pages and happy faces.

Grateful for such a wealthy inheritance, Eliza had spent the month since purchasing the huge premises renovating it and decorating her modest two bedroom flat above. With each lick of colour and fully itemised shelf, the space came alive. For weeks, the shop’s name had plagued her, until she settled on ‘Once; a calm and slightly amusing adage to the structure of all classic fables and stories. The opening had been hectic, filled with bustling curiosity as she attempted to greet everyone with kindness, ready to answer any question or bundle any books in parchment. Sales had been fantastic, with a slight lull in the afternoons afforting her a chance to re catalogue. It was an all consuming hobby, and though she felt safe, there was a slight anxiousness that she would not be able to make friends with so little free time. She had bonded well with Sirona, the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks, but had struggled to meet people beyond the etched carvings of her desk.

The bell rang with three cheery hums, as she carefully made her dissent down the ladder with a pile of books in her grasp, pivoting on her heel. Looking up, her eyes caught a warm brown gaze, as the inquisitive look of the most attractive man she had ever seen made her mind blank.

Eyes locked, air heavy, thousands of questions.

The door slammed and Eliza startled, her neatly catalogued books tumbling to the ground.

Equally shocked from his reprieve, Sharp found himself rushing forward to help despite his leg’s protests, as muddled hands entwined around a now slightly damaged copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Eliza said, words threatening to bubble out of her as her cheeks burned, “I really am too clumsy for my own good,”

“No, of course not,” Aesop replied, voice firm, “I startled you, please let me purchase those as an apology,”

“You’d read Pride and Prejudice?” She asked, slightly incredulous as she relinquished her grip on the pile to him, nervously brushing back her hair as she hazarded a glance at him. As handsome as her initial assessment then, an expanse of broad lines smoothed by the soft tufts of brown hair and patchy stubble lining his jaw, his eyes crinkled in the sunlight.

“I’m sure my daughter would,” He said noncommittally, focused intently on her rosy, freckles cheeks as she stammered and smiled. The slight burn in his ribs caught him by surprise, as rushes of interest and attraction stirred, long since dormant and confusing.

Amidst the commotion, Edelyn had turned, watching the interaction with an odd kind of fascination as something began to spin in the back of her mind.

As they stabilised from the startled introduction of names and Aesop insisting he buy the damaged books, he got to make the quip he’d been sitting on for five minutes, “Once?”

“Upon a time,” Eliza finished, a grin etched on her face, making her glow.

“Ran out of paint to finish the sign?” His smirk deepened, as she scowled goodnaturedly, shaking her head in fabricated frustration.

“I think we both know the answer to that, Mr Fables,” She let out a delightful giggle.

His eyes widened, though he supposed it was the most obvious thing in the entire world that he was named after the fables, especially to someone in her profession, “Professor Fables, if you will,”

It was her turn to be surprised, “A Hogwarts man, what do you teach?”

“Potions,”

“Ah, that’ll explain it then,”

“What?”

“The foreboding aura of a man constantly brewing trouble,”

Aesop couldn’t help but laugh, utterly disarmed by this bumbling, sarcastic witch with a toothy grin and hair like fire. Remembering himself, he glanced away and caught Edelyn’s passive gaze.

The chemistry was palpable and as she observed, Edelyn felt a candle light spontaneously in her brain. The best way to distract her father from her love life was to stimulate his own and the pretty bookseller had presented herself as the perfect candidate, delivered on a silver tray. Despite the convenience of it, seeing her father flustered and captivated by a woman was completely new territory. The Ex-Auror who taught her how to defend herself at seven or screeched at people’s foolhardiness in Potion brewing did not blush or twitch. Fighting through the befuddlement of such a sight, she considered her next course of action. All that was left for her to do was get Garreth on board with her plan, as she continued to survey the two adults, slowly moving towards them.

Aesop regarded his daughter, as she came to stand next to him with a pile as tall as her arms length of books, nodding to Eliza.

“Hello,” Her voice was calm and pointed, “I’m Edelyn Sharp, I see you’ve met my father,”

“Pleasure to meet you, you have quite the selection there,” Eliza said, nodding to the younger girl as her eyes scanned the spines for titles, “Is there anything else you’re searching for?”

“I think that’s certainly more than enough,” Aesop answered for Edelyn, raising a brow towards the girl as she sheepishly grinned.

Eliza stifled a laugh, taking the piles of books and wrapping them with precision, moving fluidly as she took the handful of galleons Aesop offered her.

The interaction simmered out from there, with a few loaded glances and murmurs, as Edelyn dragged her father out of the shop.

“Well, it was very nice in there,” Aesop said, mind far away as they stumbled towards Honeydukes.

“You certainly seemed to get something out of it,” Edelyn said, hugging the books to her chest as she basked in the sun, following him down the path.

Not wanting to rock the boat with too much probing, Edelyn allowed him to drag her around the sweetshop as she picked a few sweets here and there. He gathered all the usual suspects, toffees and jellybeans, a sherbet or two and some licorice. She could never understand his particular proclivity to the sweet, sour and pungent, but his mood seemed more risen than she ever could have hoped.

After a surprisingly pleasant afternoon together, Edelyn found herself searching for Garreth in the throng of people messily eating in the Great Hall. The ginger haired young man sat eating corn, as Edelyn flicked a piece of parchment to him with a time and place, causing the Gryffindor to raise his eyebrows in surprise.

For twenty minutes she sat gnawing on food, as she waited for the population to thin slightly, each minute dragging more slowly than the last. Finally, in an alcove in the Astronomy Tower, the pair sat whispering to each other.

“Sorry, Edie, What?” Garreth frowned, trying to grapple with the Ravenclaw’s words, “We’re setting up your Dad?”

“It’s ingenious, Garreth,” She rambled, “He won’t be able to focus on scrutinising us when he’s dating himself, so we’ll be able to interact in peace,”

“I wasn’t quite aware it would be this complex, love,” he licked his lips, contemplating her ideas, “Will he really mind that much?”

“Yes,” Edelyn said, gripping his hands, “Yes he will, you are the very bane of his existence, Gar,”

“That’s a fair summary, I suppose, though in my defence I am just a master Potioneer in the making,”

Edelyn rolled her eyes, shaking his shoulders in order to hold his attention, “I need that plotting mind to help me do this, but we have to be subtle Garreth, do you know what that word means?”

“I’ll try, for you,” He huffed, smiling down at her, “On that note, I’ve got to go and do some homework before I get stuck in Detention again and am unable to help,”

Edelyn grinned at that, standing on stiff legs as she squeezed his shoulder and then rushed off to the Faculty Tower.

Though it had appeared odd to her year group for the first few months of First Year that she stayed in the adult quarters with her father, the novelty had long since passed and just became fact, for which she was grateful. The first few nights she had spent in her assigned Ravenclaw dormitory had not been pretty, and by the week’s end she had moved back into her bedroom. It felt wrong to be removed from her father, despite the fact that they rarely had the chance to interact, and she desperately craved the comfort of her deep navy walls. As she opened the door into their little living room, her eyes fixed to the few empty spots on the bookshelf by her father’s desk.

She had to orchestrate them seeing each other again, and the best way to do that was force him to collect books for her. Plan cemented, she curled into her bed and began to read the slightly dented copy of Pride and Prejudice, curious to see what this Muggle book could hold.

Saturday was a new day, one which yielded the possibility of progress, as Edelyn haphazardly dressed and made sloppy note of the books her father was missing. Stealing toast from her father’s abandoned plate by the fire, she grabbed her hat and slipped out of the chambers, humming a slight tune as her feet slammed rhythmically onto the creaking wood.

Hogsmeade was in a similar state as the day before, though the calmness of the slightly colder morning still clung to the air, as she marched with purpose towards the shining, orange beacon. Again, the bell chimed, as Edelyn surveyed the books again, feeling a joy stir in her chest.

Eliza stood chatting quietly with an older witch, as she handed her piles of books on herbs and cooking, the thought making her stomach growl as she glanced up at the noise, slight panic stirring in her as she recognised the customer as the daughter of the handsome Professor from yesterday. Eliza fiddled with her hands, mind bringing forth the image of the tall man (not that it took much recollection, she could think of little else) as she pretended to dust the stock behind her.

“Miss Eliza?” Edelyn said, voice hesitant as she found herself in front of the desk, staring at the woman’s back. She really did have the most magnificent hair, tumbling curls of auburn and gold.

Eliza turned slowly, glancing down at the raven haired girl, “Oh, hello again! H-How,” a cough, “How can I help you?”

“I have a list of books for my father,” She murmured, “Some you’ll have to order in I think,”

“Yes of course,” Nervous flittering as she unintentionally snatched the paper from the younger girl, eyes scanning the list as her mind thought quickly, “I have two of them here, as for the others, your assessment was correct, they will probably take up to a week as I doubt I’ll be able to source them from the same place,”

“That’s fine,” a few moments as she stared at the older woman, “Is it alright to pay half and settle the bill when I come to collect?”

More overly enthusiastic nodding as Eliza noted everything down, slotting it into quite possibly the largest filing system Edelyn had even seen. Handing Edelyn the two thick Potioneers books, she grinned at the small girl, “Hope he likes them, send your father my love,”

Edelyn nodded back, giggling slightly as she rushed out of the shop.

Eliza was as red as beetroot, biting her cheeks and mumbling all manner of foul language under her breath as her anxiousness took hold. What had possessed her to say something so ridiculous? She’d only met the man the once for Merlin’s sake.

Later that evening, as Aesop prepared the weekly meal for the two of them and she finished some Arithmancy homework, Edelyn kept glancing at the small parcel obscured by her feet as he plated up and seasoned with the usual precision with which he brewed. The meal was lovely as usual and he couldn’t help but smile at his daughter’s vulgar mouth compared with her perfect posture and table manners. It had been many a moon since he had tried to dissuade swearing in their private chambers, considering how often he was prone to using them himself and he despised being a hypocrite.

After she had washed the plates with a flick of her wrist, Edelyn and Aesop retired to their respective armchairs, with tea and firewhisky placed on the shared end table, as she gripped the brown package paper and handed him the lump without a word.

His brow furrowed, as he tugged on the soft twine, “More books Edie, really?”

She waited until he had scanned the spines, eyes wide, before giggling, “For you, Papa, as you were a tad preoccupied...with me yesterday,” a long beat, “I had her reserve another three for you, Miss Eliza sends her love to you,”

“She did?” It was too fast for him to stop it, as visions of blue eyes and rosy cheeks battered his warm and tired mind.

“Yes, she said she’d keep them behind the counter for you, and that she’d look forward to seeing you,” Edelyn realised she was laying it on a tad thick, but her father’s dazed expression seemed encouraging.

“Me?” He asked quietly, “But you ordered them, Edie-girl, why would I be collecting them?”

“I have all these O.W.L.s mock examinations remember Papa, I’ll be far too busy revising,”

“Oh, of course,” Aesop was murmuring to himself, as she bit back a laugh, flicking through the pages as more images of the bright, enchanting bookseller bore themselves to him, “I’ll collect them whenever necessary,”

Their evening progressed as most Saturday’s did, both buried in books as drinks flowed and they would occasionally read a passage to each other, laughing at similar jokes until the yawns would interrupt them and they crawled to bed, after a tender kiss to the head and a warm embrace.

A few days later, on the coldest day of the week, Aesop found himself grumpily trudging through the town, uncharacteristic nervousness fizzling in his fingertips as he shoved the orange door open, eyes darting in search of his target. She was in a royal blue gown today that made her look like a running waterfall, flowing and ethereal as he choked on air once again. He was almost certain that she must use a fair share of products from someone such as Snelling to receive such an effect, yet her face was not shrouded by the appearance of such lacquer, as he gazed into her eyes.

“Professor,” “Miss Eliza,” They rambled over each other, bridging the gap as they both tried to take hold of the situation.

“You’re here for the books your daughter ordered? She said it would be her collecting,” Eliza said, sending him a smirk as she bent over to search through the crates.

“Y-yes,” a grumble as his eyes tried to look anywhere else than the round, suppl-”She delegated to me, lots of school this time of year, she’s a very hard working girl,”

“I’ve heard that is the general nature of Ravenclaws. Are you also that way inclined?” Somehow she was still bent over, words mumbled, tugging aggressively on a particularly heavy tome.

“No, I am a Slytherin myself, though she has a ridiculously keen mind much like her mother did,” Sharp gulped slightly, eyes betraying him as he looked, body hot as she stood up oblivious to his struggle, eyes bright as ever, “y-You?”.

“Oh, I was educated at home by my mother, but if I were to guess I’d say I would have been a Hufflepuff,” She answered, slamming the books down on the wood as the air made her hair bounce upwards slightly.

“I second that conclusion,” He said, leaning against the carved wood as he grinned down at her, some sense returning to his mind. Aesop refused to let an innocent bookseller get the better of him.

“So Edelyn’s mother is a Ravenclaw, does that make you always outnumbered by intelligent women?”

“Christine passed away before Edelyn was four, so I did not have the fortune of seeing them together,” Aesop said, voice light as he gently delivered the words. For all his faults and misunderstandings, he knew how to communicate death and grief.

“I see,” Eliza said, voice measured and soft, as she pondered her conflicting feelings of the man paired with the new information, “I’m sorry for your loss, and I am sure you are doing a wonderful job with her, she is a delight,”

He laughed, crackling and warm, “She has her moments, but she is a teenager after all,”

Eliza blushed, unable to keep his gaze as she fingered the twine bow, “Indeed,” she handed the books to him, “There you are. Can I sort anything else for you?”

Aesop paused, licking his bottom lip lightly, “Thank you very much,” He took the books and tucked them under his arm, “Speaking of teenagers, I was hoping to order some textbooks for my Seventh years and perhaps a new book for Edie?”

Eliza jotted the name of the textbook and the quantity needed, before scanning her shelves, “Anything specific in mind for Edie?”

“She devoured that Prejudice book, so perhaps more by the same author or a similar ilk?” He said, following her gaze.

“Bold of a father to let a daughter read something so romantic, I admire that, Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine too,”

Aesop didn’t exactly want to explain that he hadn’t known the book’s content and was now reticent to purchase more, so instead adopted a different angle, “I’ve heard it’s a favourite amongst many, what exactly makes it so special?”

As she floated from shelf to shelf, Eliza laughed into her chest, fingers brushing across a cover of the aforementioned book as she pinched two of its companions, “What isn’t special about a tall, handsome man admitting his faults and changing them to marry a girl? I daresay that is what most women long for, with varying success,” her eyes had come to rest on his frizzy hair, smile settling.

“I see,” a hasty drag of air, “Reflects poorly on us gentlemen, understandably,”

“Do something to change it then,” Eliza’s voice held an edge, a sword wrapped in cotton as she jabbed it at him, eyes shining as she confirmed her selections, “We have a few here, but if she enjoyed P&P, I recommend Emma,”

“Emma sounds suitable, thank you,” Aesop’s answer was a daze, his mind trying to keep up with the onslaught of new information the women seemed to present without even realising it.

“Marvellous, now school books are discounted for Staff, so that’s a little bit of joy for your day,” She said, applying the lessened fee to his new Potions books and Edelyn’s gift, even as he attempted to stop her, resulting in a momentary staring contest which he promptly lost.

“You’re too kind, Miss Eliza,” Aesop said, “You are definitely ensuring mine and my daughter’s business,”

She blushed at that, without a response as he took his items and left, his gait slow and hesitant, wanting to stay in her presence for longer, to talk to her until she rested in the silence she found herself in.

Aesop was aware he was in trouble, as he limped through the biting air towards the floo point, his mind playing her words on repeat as he found himself back in his classroom with very little recollection of the events in between.

Hours later, after the bookshop closed, Eliza found herself in the Three Broomsticks.

To say that Sirona noticed the behaviour of the bookseller was an understatement. They had met on the evening Eliza had moved to Hogsmeade, sharing a Butterbeer and one too many stories for simple acquaintances. Since then the pair had remained friends and customers to each other’s services in equal measure. A book for a beer was always a pretty arrangement, but now as Eliza sat fiddling with the foam atop her glass with distant eyes and warm cheeks, Sirona found herself sighing into a tea towel.

“Who’s the gentleman?”

“What?” Eliza startled, firmly grasping her pint glass to stop it tumbling all over the bar.

“We aren’t twelve, Fisher. Who’s the man that has you all dreamy eyed and vacant?” Sirona’s hand rested on her hip as she bore down on the redhead with single minded focus.

Her friend’s stare triggered a gulp from Eliza as she avoided the woman’s gaze, “Well, it’s awkward and I am certain you’ll know him so I’m not telling you,”

“Is this the same woman who told me exactly why her ex-partner was awful in bed after half a drink?”

“You said you wouldn’t bring that up, Sirona,” Eliza said, voice shrill as she swatted at the barmaid, before shushing her voice to a whisper, “But since you asked so nicely, it’s Professor Sharp,”

Loud, disruptive laughter echoed as Eliza shrank away from her, frowning, “Oh holy hells, you are buggered,”

“Don’t say that, stop,” Eliza whined, gulping back her drink as she looked away.

Sirona did not stop, instead she spent several minutes relaying parts of Sharp’s personality to further solidify Eliza’s anxiousness around the man, “You said he smiled at you? I don’t think he’s smiled at me in years and we’re friends,” a pause, “So, perhaps we might deduce from that, that you aren’t doomed, maybe your affections are returned,”

“It’s all complicated, I am making a mountain out of a molehill,” Eliza said to herself, tracing shapes in the spillage on the bar Sirona had yet to mop up, “I’ve met him twice and he has been lovely, but I do not involve myself with men anymore, especially ones with daughters,”

“Edelyn is lovely, Eliza,” Sirona answered, slightly puzzled by her friend’s train of thought.

“Exactly,” She replied, stress leaking out of her voice, “I don’t want to disturb their relationship or become attached to her and then have things with her father end badly!” another pause as she drained her glass, “What the fuck am I even rambling about? There is no ‘thing with her father’”

Sirona simply refilled the glass and stroked back her friend’s hair, a gentle smile on her usually dull face, before going off to tidy the mess around the pub.

Eliza’s forehead met the sticky wooden slab of the bar, as she let out a distressed groan.

Aesop was not faring much better, staring at the flames of his fireplace as he forlornly realised he had barely done any marking and it wasn’t likely any would be completed soon. Edelyn had loved her gift, disappearing into her bedroom to devour it, leaving him trapped with her.

Eliza seemed to dance across his mind as easily as the fire did in its hearth, her words sticking into him. She seemed almost otherworldly, her beauty and gentleness captivating, as he tried to recite potion ingredients. He barely knew her, had only shared two hasty conversations and yet he was so desperate to hear more. He wanted her perspective on everything and he wanted to see her like he had before, bent over beneath him but with very little cloth-

“Papa?” Edelyn had slipped out of her room, holding her book with an odd glint in her eyes.

“E-Edie,” The image of a naked Eliza slipped away from him, cheeks aching with heat as he beckoned his daughter forward, “Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to check on you, see if you fancied a game of Chess,”

“Of course, though you are becoming a tad too good for my tastes,” He said, attempting to recover.

Edelyn snorted as she gathered all the pieces and placed them onto the end table with a simple Accio, “You’re just getting too comfortable, Old man,”

He absolutely thrashed her in retaliation to that comment, though she did not make it easy, constantly bringing up the one thing he hoped to avoid.

“I’m surprised you managed to pick such a good book, Papa, doesn’t seem like your genre,” Edelyn said, brows raised as she placed a pawn forward.

“I do admit I had help from Miss Eliza,” He blinked back her smile, “She seemed excited that you enjoyed the previous novel,”

“She’s ever so helpful,” Knight stole his pawn, he did not flinch, “She seems to get on well with you,”

“What does that mean, Edie?” He murmured back, stealing her bishop.

Panic flared slightly as she retreated, not wanting to reveal her hand too soon, “You just seem to like chatting to her, Papa, she’s knowledgeable,”

“That she is, she also seems to always have a view on everything,” Aesop replied, smirking slightly as snippets of her voice echoed in his head, “But I am glad to see her bookshop thriving, it is a sweet little addition to Hogsmeade,”

Edelyn nodded along with her father’s words, frowning at the shambles the board as in as she attempted to work around him, both in Chess and real life, “She seems a tad lonely though, from what I’ve seen and heard,”

“Oh?”

“Pops was saying she’s there all by herself all day every day, never another helper and that she lives above the shop by herself, Edelyn said, twirling her Rook between her fingertips, “I do hope she’s making friends,”

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Her father replied, picturing the bubbly bookseller lonely and bored, “Though I can’t imagine her friendless Edie, she’s far too kind,”

“Might be nice for you to try to talk to her more often though, you’re not exactly overwhelmed with friends,”

“Edelyn!” His voice resounded out slightly harsher than he’d intended, eyes snapping up to his daughter.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” The girl said meekly, admitting defeat in both areas for now.

There was a heavy silence before he spoke again, tone softer, “I’ll consider it, now to bed with you,”

Though he doubted his daughter was aware of his internal romantic battle, her words had spurred his thoughts all the same, as he lay in his bed running it through in his head. His dreams were filled with Eliza.

Somehow, much to Edelyn’s surprise, Sunday had arrived. Garreth was scheduled to meet her by the school gates at noon and they were going to head off for a stroll and then perhaps a pint or two at The Three Broomsticks. She told herself she wasn’t nervous, as she pinned back waves and shined her boots, but the tremor in her hand and her jumbled thoughts spoke volumes. Evading her father, she slipped to the meeting spot, bouncing on her heels as he walked up to her looking as dashing as ever.

Gripping her hand, Garreth tugged her towards the floo point and with mumbled words they were gone. Landing in the plush fields of Upper Hogsfield, they grinned at one another as they anxiously began their date.

Aesop’s supply room was receiving a much needed overhaul and to his chagrin, it was missing things for no discernible reason. Or rather, the reason was a certain ginger fifth year who he would eventually take great pleasure in gutting like a fish. Unable to do such a thing yet, the Potions Master realised that he instead would have to venture to Pippins for the extra ingredients. Gathering his possessions and shopping list, he locked everything back up and made his way to Hogsmeade.

Garreth let out a loud sneeze half way through a sentence, as they climbed over a short stole wall, letting out a quip that made Edelyn giggle, “Must have been your dad cursing me somewhere,”

“He wouldn’t curse you if you stopped stealing from him,”

“I am innocent on all charges, Miss Sharp,”

Laughter mingled as they continued their walk, arms linked.

Pippins was in sight as he forced his leg to stop whining, the door swinging open as Aesop found himself staring at a back that he recognised all too quickly.

Pippin glanced up at him from behind the counter, “Just a second, Sharp,”

Aesop gulped as Eliza’s head whipped around, their eyes meeting as she bit her lip ever so slightly, “Professor, Hello!”

“He might be the person to ask actually, Miss,” Pippin interjected their meagre greeting, turning to the man, "She is in need of a pain salve, but I am out, I don’t suppose you have any?”

Aesop rolled his eyes at the older man’s heavy handed wink, hand diving into his pocket until he felt the coolness of the small circular tin, tugging it out and offering it to the bookseller, “Of course I do, Perry, as you well know! I do hope you’re alright, Miss Eliza?”

She took the offer gratefully, reaching for a handful of galleons, “I am well, just a victim of my own clumsiness, how much will I owe you?”

Aesop couldn’t resist a scoff at that, “Nothing at all,”

“But,”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He said, fixing her with a stare that disarmed her, warm blossoming in her stomach, “You have been more than kind and I am in bountiful supply of the stuff, take it,”

She nodded, eyes wide as she rubbed a small amount of the salve on her wrist, stepping to the side to allow him to step towards Pippin, “I shall take my leave then gentlemen, I hope to see you soon, Professor, thank you for trying, Pippin,”

As she slid past him and out of the door, Aesop was hit with a blast of flowers and old parchment, his eyes fluttering slightly as he fought the urge to chase the smell, swallowing roughly as he placed the order with a robotic voice, mind reeling.

If Pippin had noticed, he said nothing, though his smirk seemed a tad wider that day.

Feeling the spring breeze on his face as he stepped out of the Potions apply shop, he couldn’t shake the concern in his chest. Edelyn had said that Eliza was all alone in the bookshop, and he wanted to ensure that she was safe. No other motivations were pulling him towards the shop, none at all.

Eliza sat at the tall stool behind the counter, curled in on herself as she winced and groaned, attempting to contort to reach all of the injuries she’d acquired from falling from the ladders twice the day before. Though she had flipped her sign to closed for the moment, the high pitched chime showed that she hadn’t thought to lock the door, as the object of most of her thoughts strided in.

Aesop was surprised at the sight of her, skin paler than usual, as she murmured to herself.

“Are you alright, Eliza?”

“Not really,” She laughed humourlessly, “I’m not open at the moment, Professor, I’m sorry,”

“That’s perfectly alright, I came to check on you,” His voice was sweet, washing over her as her body seemed to calm slightly.

“You did?”

“You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a predicament, can I help?” Part of him was aware that he was overstepping, but seeing her contorted in pain with her hair and skirts a mess, made his heart clench as he inched closer.

“Yes, please,” She said, barely aware of her response, as he moved behind the desk, his body close enough that she could smell the dark scent of his hair mixed with the dampness of the outside.

With his calloused hand, he lifted her fingers from her wound at her collarbone, taking a swipe of the salve and replacing them with his own, his skin on fire as he made contact with her soft flesh. Both seemed to be holding their breath, as she melted into his touch, the pain fading away the more he worked it into her skin.

“Anywhere else?” He croaked, eyes drinking in as much of her as they could, watching as she hesitantly raised her skirts, revealing the worst of the injuries, a scrape to the back of her knee and upper thigh.

The silence grew thicker, as his hands worked with quick efficiency, his mind supplying him with images of her wrapped around him or beneath him, her flesh soft and hot for other reasons, as her chest huffed in a similar way, as he resisted a groan at her slight murmur of relieved pleasure.

Eliza was struggling to stay composed, aware he was just offering her medical assistance, and yet his every move felt so sensual, calculated and rough, his ministrations mixed with the salve removing all of her pain as her mind drifted slightly, eyes flickering shut as a happy whimper left her.

Shocked by herself, Eliza’s eyes opened to find him staring into hers, the warm brown now a dark molten that seemed to eat at her, as he removed his hand from the back of her thigh.

“Better?” Aesop asked, well aware of the answer, as he fought back the dark smugness growing in his chest. Two voices battled now in his mind, one insisting he just ask her to dinner in that very second for it was obvious that she felt the same, the other wanting to be a tad more tactful and reserved.

Eliza sucked in her bottom lip, trying to calm the thoughts of him shoving her against the desk and kissing her senseless, the blush spreading down her face to where his fingers had rested on her collarbone, trying pitifully to respond, only to nod slightly.

The thoughts were overwhelming him, as he tried to wade through them, mumbling responses in his head. A Dinner date would be nice, he supposed.

“I agree,” Eliza said, a smirk forming at his shocked expression.

Aesop realised a second too late that he had spoken aloud, but her immediate answer was what threw him off, panic and euphoria were at war in him as he let out a small laugh, his grin eating up all the space on his face, “Truly?”

“Of course, Professor,”

“Aesop,”

“Of course, Aesop,” She quipped, tongue poking out, as she felt the heady rush of lust and joy flood through her, despite her previous attempts to ignore it.

“Uh, Um,” He was grasping at straws, the first part done as he tried to follow through, “Does next Friday evening work for you?”

“It does,” She said, brushing back the tuft of hair that had stuck to his face, sending him a dainty smile that melted him.

“I’m afraid Hogsmeade isn’t too exotic, but I could host you if you like?” His offer sounded rather boring as he said it, mind distracted by her fingers grazing his cheek.

Eliza jumped at the possibility of seeing Hogwarts and more importantly into seeing more of his life, since hers was so readily available to him, “That sounds perfect, Aesop, I shall arrive at the gates at seven,”

He smiled back, apprehension and excitement building as she dropped her hand, turning at the sound of the bell chiming with several witches who had missed the sign. Aesop fought the urge to curse at them, as she hopped up and offered her assistance.

The interaction firmly ended, he sighed and made his way towards the door, shocked as he felt himself being pulled, as smooth lips made contact with his cheek and the echo of a giggle sounded in his ear. It happened in mere seconds, her skirts already swishing away by the time he could respond, as the breeze tugged the door open and he found himself stepping out.

#aesop sharp #aesop sharp x reader #aesop sharp x oc #aesopsharp #hogwarts legacy #garreth weasley #garreth weasley x oc #poppy sweeting #sirona ryan #bookshop #romance #fluff

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bethanydelleman · 1 year

Text

Margaret Dashwood: Is it canon?

Short answer: Margaret Dashwood basically isn’t in the book, so it’s all fanon. She is mentioned 36 times total. Compare that to Mrs. Jennings at 234 and Mrs. Charlotte Palmer at 62.

Margaret Dashwood has a tree fort, a favourite atlas, sword fights with Edward, wants to be a pirate, has a pony, does puppetry, hides under things, etc.

Fanon (I’m using this term to cover adaptations and JAFF), not canon. Here is the sum total of stuff we know about Margaret: Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.

Margaret Dashwood literally has no possessions mentioned in the novel. Also, unless he actually paid for it, Edward stole that atlas.

Margaret Dashwood bonds with Edward

Fanon, not canon. The only time we know that Margaret even speaks to Edward is when she opens the discussion on what they would do if they were all rich. Edward never actually replies to Margaret and he only mentions Marianne and Elinor in his speech

“I wish,” said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, “that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!”

“Oh that they would!” cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.

“We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,” said Elinor, “in spite of the insufficiency of wealth.”

“Oh dear!” cried Margaret, “how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it!”

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

“I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “if my children were all to be rich without my help.”

“You must begin your improvements on this house,” observed Elinor, “and your difficulties will soon vanish.”

“What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,” said Edward, “in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you—and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books!—Thomson, Cowper, Scott—she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes.”

Margaret is not mentioned again in this conversation.

Margaret is rude to Fanny Dashwood

Fanon, not canon. Margaret doesn’t even have quoted speech until the Dashwoods are settled in Barton. I can’t even find an instance of Marianne being rude to Fanny or John, though we know she dislikes both of them.

What the heck is canon?

Margaret plays a few important roles. She that lets slip that Elinor has a lover left behind at Norland whose name is “F” to Sir John and Mrs. Jennings. Margaret is also the one who saw Willoughby request a lock of hair from Marianne, which she tells to Elinor. Margaret is also the one walking with Marianne when Marianne falls and is saved by Willoughby. She is the one who romantically calls Willoughby, “Marianne’s preserver”.

Her presence at home allows Marianne and Elinor to travel to London without leaving their mother to be lonely.

I think it is clever to use Margaret to make Edward more of a fleshed out character, but it’s not actually in the novel. Edward only says one single line of speech before the Dashwoods leave for Barton, this is it: “Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?” For a visual medium, this just doesn’t work. You need to do something with Edward and both 1995 and 2008 used Margaret to help with the Edward problem.

#margaret dashwood #fanon or canon #sense and sensibility #jane austen is a genius #edward ferrars

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oliversrarebooks · 4 months

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 35: Oliver's Walk

Previous Masterlist Next

September 1925

TW: Captivity, mind control

Oliver woke up slowly, stretching and yawning and rolling over several times to doze off again, before finally sitting up.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so well. He was utterly relaxed as he lounged in bed, with nothing particularly pressing driving him out of his soft cocoon of blankets. He was free to daydream about what had happened the night before, how pleasing he'd been to his master.

He'd successfully fed his master, made him happier and stronger, fulfilled the purpose Miss Lily had set for him back at the auction house, and it felt just as good as he'd hoped it would. Better, truly.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was low in the sky, so he had some time before Alexander awoke. He didn't even really seem to have particular duties here besides the feedings and making his master coffee. He'd have plenty of time to have breakfast and read.

Before too long, he was in the library with a steaming hot mug, perusing the books once again and trying to pick out something to sit down with. He chose a comprehensive-looking book on merfolk, bound in attractive teal letter with embossed silver ink, and was delighted to find that it was illustrated with many interesting plates of strange sea creatures.

All of this was real -- merfolk, vampires, magic -- and he was a part of it.

It felt right, the distress of how he'd arrived here slowly starting to ebb from his mind. It was just so comfortable here in his Master's library, curled into a leather sofa with a mug of rich coffee.

As the sun dipped low in the sky, forcing Oliver to ignite a gas lamp to have enough light to read, he remembered that he wanted to make fresh coffee for his master as he awoke. It was the least he could do, really.

He bought you at auction, you were kidnapped --

Oliver pushed aside the unhelpful intrusion as he bustled about the kitchen. He was here now, with no means of escape. Wasn't it better to be contented with it?

"Good evening, Oliver," said Alexander from the kitchen doorway. "I thought I smelled coffee. Thank you for making it."

"You're welcome, sir," said Oliver, pleased to be helpful. His master really did look much healthier, his eyes brighter and skin less deathly pale, and he was glad to see it.

Useful, he was useful. And wanted.

Alexander sipped at the coffee, and nodded in approval. "The weather is fine tonight, if a bit brisk. I was thinking some fresh air would do me good. Would you care to accompany me on my walk?"

"Yes, sir!" Oliver eagerly jumped at the chance. He hadn't been outside for more than a few minutes ever since the night he'd been kidnapped.

Soon enough, he was perusing his wardrobe for something warm that didn't expose his neck, and settled on a soft red flannel shirt and slacks. Everything fit him perfectly, which made sense given that his master had his measurements from the auction house.

And then his master opened the front door, and he was out in the cool night air, in the ordinary bustle of the city, unrestrained except for the very real fetters on his mind. Alexander just trusted him to stand on the sidewalk and wait patiently while he fiddled with the key to the mansion. Oliver glanced around at the ordinary people going about their usual nightly business. A workman in overalls tipped his hat and bid Oliver good evening. No one would ever have guessed that he was in thrall to a vampire.

"How about the park?" Alexander wrapped around Oliver's arm possessively as they began to make their way down the street, stirring up the deeply buried desires Oliver had often felt while watching other people walk down the street arm-in-arm. Even if they were master and thrall and not lovers or even truly friends... perhaps he was affection starved enough that simply feeling wanted was enough.

He couldn't help but notice how passersby seemed to instinctually give them a wide berth. It was no doubt a result of his Master's vampiric aura. How had he not sensed it before, when Alexander was a customer in his shop? Or had he, and it was one of the things that had interested him in his former patron long before he realized Alexander's true nature?

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it? Crisp and clear," said Alexander, He gazed up at the sky, and Oliver's gaze followed. The moon was half-full and bright stars were visible, with no clouds in sight. "An ideal night for stargazing. Perhaps I'll perch myself on the roof later. You're welcome to join me. I could teach you how to read the stars."

"You know fortune-telling, sir?"

"A dear friend of mine taught me," he said. "I don't put real stock in it, of course. Comforting fairy tales."

"I've rather always enjoyed comforting fairy tales, sir."

"As do I."

They passed a grand theater, where well-dressed patrons in fine suits and furs were lining up to see an evening performance. Alexander stopped to look at the scene. "Do you enjoy live music, Oliver? The theater? Stage performances in general?"

"It's not something I partook in often, sir, but I think I would enjoy it, given a chance." Money had often been tight, movies were cheap, and books were always at hand, so the sort of high society entertainment offered by the theater Alexander was pointing out to him had not been a priority.

"The next performance at this theater is going to be a renowned ballet company from France. I've been spending too much time hidden away in my manor lately, so I was thinking of attending. Would you be interested?"

"Me, sir?" He was surprised that his master was inviting him along to the ballet, as though he were a companion and not a thrall. "I think it'd be very interesting, but I don't know the etiquette. I don't want to embarrass you, sir."

"Nonsense, you wouldn't embarrass me in the slightest. You're perfectly conditioned and I would set out an appropriate wardrobe for you. You wouldn't have to worry about a thing other than enjoying the dance. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds more than agreeable, sir," he said, pleased that his master trusted him, and that he would be allowed entertainment and pleasurable outings.

They reached the park, and the moon and flickering gaslights gave just enough light for Oliver to see the trees turning red and gold. It'd be the height of fall soon enough, and he'd been looking forward to fresh apples and cooler temperatures. Now, he was just grateful to be here in the park, with the chill night wind blowing across his face -- during his time in the auction house's captivity, he had often feared never seeing the outside again.

"Oliver," said Alexander, breaking his train of thought. "I would like to get to know you better."

Oliver looked away. "I'm afraid there isn't a lot to get to know, sir. You already know of my bookshop, which consumed the bulk of my time."

"I'm sure there's more than that." His intense eyes bore down on Oliver. "I wish for you to be happy while you're in my care. What is it that you want? I'll try to provide, if I can."

Was this a test? "I wish to serve you, Master?"

The displeased look in his Master's eyes indicated that that wasn't the answer he wanted. "I mean before all this. Before me, before vampires. I want to honestly know what it was you desired from life."

He was a bit stunned that his master had even asked that, surprised that he could still have desires other than feeding and serving the vampire. What did he want?

Growing up, he hadn't had much in the way of dreams. Dreams were for the books he read. His designated path was to inherit the bookshop from his ailing father and run it according to his best instincts -- and he'd been reasonably content with that future. Other dreams, of seeing the world, of adventure and romance, of art and culture, those had always seemed so far away, meant for other people. There was no use in trading a comfortable, ordinary life to chase something risky. He'd never been the sort.

Strange, then, that the first time in a long time that he'd given serious thought to what he wanted in life was after being imprisoned and conditioned.

He trusted his master. He didn't think he would be punished for speaking his mind. He'd said there would be no punishments, after all.

"I would like to travel, sir," he said softly. "I always wanted to see more of the world than this small city. To enjoy different cultures, to see the sights I read about in books... but money was always tight, and I had the bookshop to look after, and the idea of leaving home was overwhelming. But that's one thing I think I might want."

"Indeed. I'm much the same." Alexander sighed. "Unfortunately, I'm as trapped in the city as you, the curse of my sire. Otherwise, I would happily take you along to travel the world. Someday..."

"Why has your sire trapped you in the city, sir?"

"What else would you desire?" said his master, as though he hadn't heard the question. "There must be something in my power to grant you."

Something smaller, perhaps. "I enjoy sketching, although I've never been good at it. If I could have a notebook and pencils."

"Of course, that's no trouble at all. I'll locate the finest supplies in the city. Anything else?"

"Well... I spent a great deal of my time thinking about the supernatural, sir," said Oliver. "Now that I know that the inhabitants of fairy tales and horror stories are real, I think I'd enjoy learning all that I can about them."

Alexander brightened at this. "Now, that's absolutely within my wheelhouse. When we return to the manor, I can put together an assortment of books that will serve as a primer on the actual supernatural world, not the fantasies imagined by humans," he said. "There are places I could take you to meet more of my kind, and others besides. Social clubs I don't often frequent, but would be welcome. I could keep you safe."

"Oh, can you?" said a snide voice behind them.

His master whipped around in a flash, pushing Oliver behind him. It was a young woman in a torn, dirty red dress, her messy hair falling around her face. "You've got a real treat there, don't you?" she said, grinning. "He smells delicious, and I'm awfully hungry."

"Newly sired," Alexander said. "I advise you against challenging vampires like me unless you are sure you can win. There's plenty of blood in the city, but also plenty of vampire hunters, and a fight could attract their attention."

"What's a little attention? I'm not just hungry for blood, you know. I'm hungry to take down cocky old vampires like you who haven't been challenged in a century. I think -- I think --"

His Master's vampiric aura had been growing unbearably thick and oppressive as they talked. Oliver found all thoughts being forced from his mind, fighting the urge to drop to his knees in a daze. The other vampire seemed to be struggling just as much, her speech faltering and knees shaking.

"I remember what it was like to be a young vampire," said Alexander, stopping a few steps away form her. "That's why I'm going to give you a chance to leave. Go to 32 Sparrow Road, about a mile and a half from here, and you'll find a place that sells blood cheap. Have your fill there."

The vampire nodded slowly, and then faster, backing away from his master and breaking into a run.

"You scared her off," said Oliver, as his thoughts began to return to him.

"It's the best way to handle situations like this. It's unlikely she'll last out the winter, but I don't care to be the one to kill her. Even if she's learned her lesson about confronting stronger vampires, she'll probably be picked off by a hunter while stalking the streets for food." Alexander shrugged. "In fact, if there are fledglings about, there are probably hunters. Let's go home before we receive any more unwanted company."

Oliver wasn't sure if it was his imagination or if Alexander really was gripping him more tightly on their way back to the manor.

"Let me check the mail before we go inside," said Alexander, pulling a few cards from the box. "Oh, a calling card from Lily. I suppose she did say she would be by for a social call soon. And she wants to bring Ruth." He turned to Oliver. "I believe you've met Lily's thrall, Miriam. Ruth will probably bring her favorite thrall, Charlie. You'll have someone to talk to that isn't a vampire."

"That sounds very good, sir." Oliver was surprised yet again, as he didn't expect to be allowed to socialize with other thralls. Miriam wasn't much of a conversationalist, but perhaps this Charlie would be better.

His master was flipping through a few more envelopes until he reached one plastered with stickers and stamps. Overseas mail, it seemed to be. Alexander's face lit up in a way Oliver hadn't seen before. "Let's go in."

Alexander only stopped briefly to remove his shoes and coat before heading into the library, Oliver trailing behind. He tossed the rest of the mail down on the desk before fetching a letter opener and ripping open the mail that had captured his attention. His eyes traveled back and forth rapidly, his smile growing.

"Sir?" said Oliver, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Oliver," said Alexander, startled as though he'd forgotten Oliver was there. "My dear friend is arriving for a short visit in the next few weeks."

"You seem very pleased about this, sir," he said. "Is your friend also a vampire?"

"You have nothing to fear. He'll like you."

He noticed that Alexander didn't say that Oliver would like him.

"I was going to put together a reading list for you, wasn't I?" said his master, breezing past Oliver and into the stacks, that uncharacteristic smile still plastered on his face. "Let me put that together, and that will occupy you while I compose my response to my friend."

Oliver nodded, questions swirling in his mind, unsure which, of any, to ask, and feeling that Alexander was likely to dodge them all.

Previous Masterlist Next

A bit of an interlude before the shit hits the fan.

I'm trying to build up a bit of a buffer so that I can continue weekly postings of the main story, and then I hope to burn down some of this inbox backlog...

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives

#whump #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #vampire whumper #vampire #mind control #captivity #rare bookseller #alexander #oliver

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sebastianswallows · 6 days

Text

The English Client — Seven

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

She called him at ten o’clock the next morning, right as he returned from breakfast. She sounded very excited. And scared. They agreed to meet the next afternoon not at the shop, but on a broad street from where they would walk to the Baron’s office. It all had more secrecy than a muggle dabbler merited, but Tom played along.

“Ready?” she asked once they were outside his building, a tall wide limestone white manor.

“As ready as you are,” grinned Tom, his eyes glinting. He was teasing her, and enjoying it far too much.

“Oh dear, I hope not,” she chuckled.

Its doors were as big as city gates, thick old wood with one much smaller door inset on the right. Above it in a shield of stone, a fat snake swirled as it ate a child, legs first. It was a biscione, the Baron’s sigil.

She pushed a button on a metal box beside the door, and a low voice answered on the other side.

“It’s us.”

The door unlocked with a buzz.

The inside was wide and sparse, a naked vault that rose high into the darkness, all cold corridors and decorous marble. There were no carpets, no paintings, not even chairs or tables, only stains and scratches on the stone to tell there ever were any. Golden candleholders clung lightless on the walls, replaced it seemed by fake-crystal fixtures that hummed with electricity.

There was a lift, but they ignored it and went up the stairs instead.

“I’ve been to mausoleums with more life than this,” said Tom.

She giggled. “He’s had to sell a lot of his family assets to renovate the shop. He could probably have them replaced by now, the last few years have been profitable. But I guess he prefers it like this. It’s just his way.”

They climbed the wide and stately stairs up and up and up, going past the first floor, and the second, and the third, and Tom began to wonder if the building was abandoned when a hollow noise came through. A steady murmur. A monologue.

They reached the fourth floor. She opened another door, the only one there between two naked walls, and they stepped into a vestibule.

It was a little livelier and richly decorated. Low red sofas lined the walls on either side, and a tall stove made of ceramic tiles was fixed into the corner. Bookshelves lined the walls, and busts of ladies in black marble were set against the corners.

In the centre, behind a tall imposing desk, sat a woman who nearly dwarfed it with her presence. She was flanked by stacks of papers and a telephone. Although her suit of blue and bronze was feminine in shape, Tom felt a bit emasculated. Her hair was pinned in a harsh style, slinked back and practical.

“Ciao, Berit! Come stai?”

“Bongiorno. Bene.”

“He’s still speaking?”

“Yes. You’re free to enter, silently.”

“I think we’ll wait here. Oh, by the way, this is Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Mrs. Berit Boveri, the Baron’s secretary.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Tom, staying where he was.

The woman was impressive, and he wondered briefly whether this Baron had hired her for security rather than for answering his letters.

“Please,” she said, extending a hand in a quick, precise movement, “sit down.”

She appraised Tom coolly, quickly, before turning her attention back to the newspaper before her. An orange the size of a child’s head was cut open on the desk beside her, filling the room with a fresh scent.

The pair of them sat down, and Tom turned his attention to the sounds coming from the room behind them. A man was speaking in a low and shaky drawl, droning in Italian about what sounded to Tom like the Malleus Maleficarum, a compendium on witchcraft and demonology written by a sadistic German inquisitor in the 15th century. The silence of his audience was heavy and intense, chairs groaning now and then beneath their anxious squirms and ink pens scratching eagerly on paper.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered to her after a sudden thought.

“What?” she whispered back.

“About the nero di seppia… I looked a perfect fool all night, didn’t I?”

She giggled. Tom frowned at her.

“I warned you not to order it.”

“Yes, but perhaps next time I’d like an indication as to why.”

She was going to say something else when the doors opened, and the Baron’s audience ambled their way out. The air buzzed with their excited murmurs, some laughing nervously, some crying.

The pair of them got up, ready to greet the Baron. Tom looked over the crowd as they filed out, a mixed group of all sorts of people, from students to the elderly.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“He’s coming over,” she said.

“Where? I can’t —” He was going to say he couldn’t see anyone else, but then he looked down.

The figure that approached them was far from what he had imagined. Although not diminutive in size, the white and wrinkly lump that came took Tom by surprise. He sat, like a deflated balloon, in a stout but polished wheelchair, and was rolling toward them.

“Hello, Baron,” she greeted with a little bow. “Thank you for seeing us today. This is —”

“Come to my office,” said the old man as he rolled right past them.

The room was golden-lit with deep and intimate colours, as natural as an autumn forest. There was something to look at everywhere. The walls were dense with paintings and photographs in black and brown of little groups of men. The chairs were wide, majestic things with crimson wings and cushions. The carpet was a floral red, the windows tall and gilded. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, low and opulent and gleaming, and from a cabinet on the side a set of golden spoons with handles like rose stems shone among fine china glasses shaped like gaping koi. It couldn’t be anything further from what Tom was used to.

The Baron’s desk was small and delicate, overburdened with ink wells and notes, a lone lamp hard at work between them.

“So, how are you?” the Baron asked them once they were alone.

“Very well,” she answered, smiling widely. “And you, Baron?”

“Fit as an ox on the field, and twice as strong,” he answered in an imposing voice. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” she said, her nervous gaze flitting to Tom. “Should I —”

“Thank you. You may go.”

She nodded and turned without another word to Tom, her eyes lingering on his for just a moment as if to wish good luck. He watched her as she left like a chastened child, then turned his attention back to the old man.

“Pleased to meet you, Baron,” he said with a light bow. “My name is Tom Riddle. At your service.”

The man rolled his way slowly from behind the table, his face set in a frown — or perhaps the rolls of skin were so heavy that it was his fixed expression. He’d clearly been corpulent once, but old age and disability drained him of his strength. He stopped in front of Tom, the wheels almost atop his shoes, and extended his hand — to shake? to kiss? Tom had never met muggle nobility before… Although he was looking at him from two feet below, the old still managed to look down his nose at him.

Tom squared his shoulders, took a breath, and shook the Baron’s hand.

“Julius Eugenio Victor Agarda,” he introduced himself. His grip was still quite strong. His mouth seemed flimsy beneath a sparse moustache, and he spoke with a slight lisp — unless Tom’s eyes deceived him, he was missing a few teeth — but his eyes, a clear blue, had a steady gleam to them. “How do you do?”

“I’m well, sir, thank you,” said Tom, finally getting his hand back. “I came about the books.”

“So I’ve heard.”

With a flourish, the Baron directed Tom’s attention to the right, where a pair of doors stood closed.

“Help me with those, will you?”

Tom looked at him, feeling a bit puzzled, but he maintained his air of calm. He steadied the messenger bag over his shoulder and bowed.

“Of course, sir,” he smiled.

The doors were delicate and white, with carvings on their edges like a frame. Tom grabbed the brass handles and pushed. Beyond them was a large and sunny room in the same style as the Baron’s office but much wider. Its centre was dominated by a dark brown table and its walls with books. The east of the room was all tall windows framed by a thin balcony, and beyond that was the street and the canals.

“My most precious possession. My private collection.”

Tom rolled the Baron through, but quickly let go of him to stroll along the bookshelves without waiting for an invitation. They held every kind of esoterica, from the Corpus Hermeticum to the Grimoire of Armadel. Archidoxis was there, as was De Umbris Idearum, a book Tom had not seen since his first year at Hogwarts.

Others were more recent books, like a cluster on Bacchanal arts written in the 19th century. There stood among them also a well-worn copy of the Metaphysics of Sex. Tom curled his nose at it and looked over his shoulder with disgust. Some books were held in chains, with locks connected to the bookcase, and others were held safe behind glass panes, bright lights in the darkness.

“Impressed?” asked the Baron from the doorway.

“A remarkable collection,” said Tom as he turned.

The old man rolled forward with a peculiar twist of his heavy brows that Tom suspected to be pride. He went to one shelf in particular and reached as high up as he could, carefully picking out a volume. It was bound in leather so aged it was completely black, its spine capped in silver fastenings.

“Look at this,” the Baron said.

Tom stepped forward and carefully lifted it from his hands.

“Michael Psellus, De Operation Daemonum,” Tom read. “Byzantine books on demonology are hard to come by. It must be worth a fortune.”

“Seventeenth-century edition,” he said, slipping right over Tom’s praises. “One of five copies. They survived hidden among the volumes of Psellus’ Mathematics. Only the most important families of the time had access to them.”

Tom smirked. With the Baron’s toothless mouth and his scraggly sparse hair, he didn’t cut a very noble figure. “I don’t suppose you inherited it.”

The Baron took the book from him and set it on his lap, his fat hands folded over it. “I might have,” he said measuredly. “My family traces its roots to the eleven hundreds.”

A mocking smile played on Tom’s lips. He hid it with a timely bow. He’d rather not tell the old man he could brag of the same through Salazar, and so instead he said, “I’m honoured, then, to be in your presence.” But he didn’t hide as well as he meant to.

“Don’t be obsequious,” said the Baron tersely.

Tom straightened and looked down at him, steadying the strap over his shoulder once again.

“I showed my collection to you to illustrate a point. I have some of the rarest editions in my collection, first. And second, there is nothing that I want that I cannot acquire. Now, you may attempt to barter with me.”

Tom regarded the old man coolly for a moment, then took the messenger bag off his shoulder and placed it on the table. The Baron, after that little speech meant to humble him, had nevertheless given himself away: he may have had a grand collection, but he was still willing to entertain a nobody, a stranger, an unknown, for a chance at something rarer. A small man with a big ego and an insatiable hunger, Tom thought, I am well familiar with his kind.

“Then let me show you what I’ve brought for you today,” he said, “and you’ll tell me if it meets with your approval.”

The Baron went to place the books back on its shelves, and by the time he turned back, Tom had lined them all along the table.

There were six books in total. First was the Liber de Lamiis et Phitonicis Mulieribus, a 15th-century manuscript on witches and demonic possession. Then, the Liber Belial,a medieval grimoire with an unknown author, highly sought after and obscure. He took out The Grimorium Verum, an illuminated copy of The Sworn Book of Honorius, the Codex Palatinus Germanicus, and finally the colourful Le Livre de la Vigne Nostre Seigneur.

The Baron approached, retrieving from his breast pocket a thin-rimmed monocle that he perched upon his nose. He looked down at the books while Tom waited a little to the side, one hand stuffed casually in his pocket.

He picked the first one up, his old hands trembling slightly, and opened it, spine cracking. He threw his eyes over the frontispiece, then peeled away the first few pages.

Tom waited patiently as the Baron looked through the second book, and the third, and not a word was said. He could only hope the illusions he had cast on them would hold. It was difficult to even tell what the old bastard was thinking.

When the Baron was done, he took the monocle off, and slowly rolled to face him.

“Remarkable,” he said, his fat plum lips aquiver. “What vitality in these images… And The Grimorium Verum in particular I have been hunting for years.Where did you find them?”

Tom breathed a sigh of relief and grinned. “I’m afraid that will have to remain one of their mysteries. So, I take it you are interested in a trade?”

“I am,” he grumbled, taking from his pocket the list of books Tom had provided, “but it can not go forward.”

Tom cocked a brow. “And why is that?”

The Baron rolled forward and past him, going back into his office. Tom frowned at him and packed the books again before he joined him. With one last longing look at the vast library, he turned and closed the doors behind him.

The Baron was back behind his desk, stuffing a black pipe with tobacco.

“I wish I could,” said the old man, “but I cannot afford it.”

“I’m sure we could —”

“No,” he said, “I do not mean fiscally. I mean ethically.”

Tom regarded him without blinking for a moment. He searched the Baron’s mind for truth and found only a nest of brambles. Too many ideas, conflicts and confusion, plans that stood to shatter at the lightest touch. How much was going on with his little bookshop? Was it to do with that ‘auction’ he’d heard about?

“I don’t see how ethics come into it.”

“Nor do I,” chuckled the Baron with a puff. “That’s the problem.”

He fixed his steely gaze on Tom, and then he understood. Distrust. The old man didn’t trust him.

“Ah,” Tom smiled, “that is a pity.” He bowed, the books tight by his side. “Thank you, nevertheless, for your time. I shall be in Rome for at least another month. If your ethics should change, I would be honoured to be invited to see you again.”

“Be sure I let those books leave my office with a heavy heart, Mr. Riddle.”

“Oh, I know, Baron,” he grinned. “But you might yet see them again. And me.”

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

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solottrpgchronicles · 2 months

Text

2c. Fresh Paint - Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop

Bookseller: Merry the capybara

Town: Thistledown

Date: 2nd of Bloom

Total customers: 44

Books: 470

Coins: 155

Dear Diary,

I opened shop for the first time today.

The locals must have been waiting to check it out; despite the relentless rain, many of them walked in.

I'd rather chill in a corner and mind my own business, but it was clear that at least some of the customers wanted to exchange a few words.

For instance, there was a riverstrider otter named Hunch who can't wait to go back home to his kids after Thaw week is over; he ended up buying a pop-up book about otters holding paws; he's sure his kids will love it.

Another interesting encounter was with Attie, a snake who earns her livelihood as a fisher. Apparently, she plunges headfirst into the water to catch fish with her fangs. She clarified the fangs are not venomous, and I'm thinking she must get questioned about it a lot. Poor Attie, her job sounds exhausting. She ended up buying Tales of the Great Sea upon my suggestion; I hope it'll help her relax in her free time.

The day progressed smoothly until a pompous lizard in a top hat walked in, scrutinizing every detail of the decor. He strode towards me, extending his paw in greeting. Introducing himself as Rigo, the proprietor of "Quill Your Inks" in Thistledown, he bombarded me with ideas for redecorating my shop. Insisting on a fresh coat of paint to replace what he deemed "garish orange," he pointed out the patchy areas while I nodded along, suddenly feeling drowsy. Perhaps I was having a hard time digesting my lunch.

Rigo left empty-handed, and now I was itching to fix the patchy orange walls.

As the rain intensified into a thunderstorm, I decided to paint over the patchy spots while keeping the shop open. There were a few cans of paint in the back, but they were yellow - so I decided to paint sunflower shapes over the ruined spots.

I'm not sure they actually look like sunflowers, but the result is still quite charming.

I was evaluating my painting skills when the strangest customer I've had all day walked in.

And elderly rat in a flowery dress, matching purse and grey gloves greeted me with a serene smile, completely unbothered by the miserable weather outside. She headed to the Fantasy section and picked The Heir of the Frozen Lands.

As she handed it to me over the counter, she proceeded to ask about my life in Thistledown so far, commenting that despite my extensive travels, I would surely grow fond of this small town in no time.

I was taken aback by her words - alright, she must have figured out I'm not from here because she hasn't seen me around before. But how did she know I'm well travelled? Was she just guessing?

"Remember to write a letter to your old friends every once in a while though, no matter how much you want to move on. What happened is not their fault - you know that, right? Be good, and have a good life. We'll be watching over you!"

I watched her leave, speechless, realizing I didn't even get her name. How did she know all that? And, "we"? Who's "we"?

Gosh, I need a vacation already.

--------------

This is a playthrough of a solo journaling TTRPG called "Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop" by lostwaysclub.

You can check it out on itch.io: https://lostwaysclub.itch.io/floating-bookshop

#indie ttrpg #itch.io #journal entry #journaling #playthrough #ttrpg #solo games #solo ttrpg #tabletop role playing game #tabletop roleplaying #capybara #animalfolk #bookshop #bookstore #fox curio's floating bookshop

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mimisempai · 3 months

Text

LITTLE SEEDS OF HAPPINESS - Chap 3/4

Chapter 3 : Watering

Chapter Summary

Aziraphale is confronted with his past, but is no longer the same, much to the surprise of his visitor.

But once the latter has left, one question remains: will the bookseller be able to get closer to the florist?

Notes

We learn more about Aziraphale’s background

On Ao3

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4

Aziraphale stared blankly at the street, which was beginning to come alive through the shop window, when his eye was caught by movement inside the flower shop.

He saw Crowley - at least he knew his name now - coming out of the shop, his arms laden with a long cardboard box from which Aziraphale could see flowers protruding. Seeing that he was heading for Justine's restaurant, the bookseller figured it was probably the floral arrangements Crowley had been talking about and needed his book for.

Aziraphale couldn't help but stare at the red head until he was out of sight, then sighed again.

He hadn't opened the shop yet and had no intention of doing so today; he didn't feel like seeing anyone, especially after yesterday's ostentatious visit. He was sure that the local gossips would soon inquire about yesterday's event, and Aziraphale wasn't about to tell them.

However, if he was honest with himself about not wanting to see anyone, there was one person he would have liked to meet. But in light of the events of the previous day, it seemed that any chance of a connection had been rather compromised.

His gaze was drawn back to the florist, who was returning empty-handed this time; he saw him stop in front of his shop, then, as if he'd changed his mind, continue on and enter Nina's café.

Another sigh, deeper than the previous one, left Aziraphale's mouth as his eyes fell on the green plant Crowley had given him the day before.

Aziraphale gently picked it up and placed it neatly on his desk before rummaging through a drawer and pulling out a small floral doily to place under the plant.

"If you like, I could come and look after it for you and..."

He remembered the florist's hesitation right after those words. He couldn't have imagined the hope in the other man's voice when he offered to look after his plant, could he?

It was as if Aziraphale could see his own expression in a mirror. As if he could see the longing that was his in the florist's demeanor, so of course he'd said yes.

But it didn't matter now, it had all been ruined in a split second.

He felt ashamed of the way he'd let Crowley down and couldn't help but feel a flash of anger as he thought back to the scene the day before.

"What the hell is he doing here?!"

Aziraphale was barely aware that the florist was leaving, so tense was he at the sight of the man approaching him with his sure step and arrogant air.

The bookseller's expression hardened and his fists clenched; it was exactly the same attitude this man and the other members of his family had had towards him for the first twenty-five years of his existence, and which he had left behind more than fifteen years ago.

**********

"Mom! Here's a wreath of daisies I made for you!"

As he ran toward his mother, who was reading in the shade of the old willow tree in the garden, Aziraphale heard a sneer in the bushes he passed.

"Pfft, what an idiot! A wreath of flowers!"

"Gabe, you know he's not like us. He can't help it if his mother doesn't come from the same background as our father. As far as we know, Dad is probably not his father. "

Aziraphale shook his head, swallowed back his tears and continued walking towards his mother, who opened her arms to him with a big smile. They could say what they wanted, he loved his mother with all his heart and he would always do his best to make her smile at him like that.

**********

"Mother, you really should be careful that Aziraphale doesn't eat too much. We're all so slim, it would be a shame if he stood out."

At Gabriel's words, Aziraphale lowered his head, instinctively pulling in his stomach and putting down his fork.

"Gabriel, be nice to your little brother."

"But, Father, it's true. The Heavensby family has an image to uphold. It's bad enough that he's the only curly-haired blond in the family, he shouldn't make himself any more conspicuous."

Although his mother gave him a slice of apple pie slightly larger than the others, Aziraphale was unable to swallow a bite before Gabriel left the table.

**********

Aziraphale had just finished an impromptu dance in front of his mother and finished with a graceful curtsy.

"Amazing, sweetie! How lovely! You're so talented!"

Aziraphale smiled ecstatically as his mother applauded, then approached a little more shyly with a sheet of paper in hand and asked her softly, "Mama, I'd like to learn to dance."

"Oh, you want to take ballet lessons?"

He nodded vehemently and his mother said quietly, "I'll have to talk to your father about it, of course, but I'm sure he'll say yes."

She stood up, kissed him on the forehead and said with a wink, "My little prima ballerina," then left the room.

Aziraphale, thrilled with his mother's reaction, came bouncing out of the living room a few moments later when a voice whispered in his ear, "I know what you are. I won't let you bring shame on our family."

Gabriel pushed past him, causing Aziraphale to stumble.

"You, a prima ballerina! What a joke!"

Aziraphale never took dancing lessons.

All it took was one look and all those memories came flooding back.

Aziraphale had said goodbye to his family and his past over fifteen years ago, and he had never regretted it for a second.

His only family had been his mother, his father far too busy with his empire to take an interest in his youngest son, who was too tender and sensitive.

So when his mother died the year he turned fifteen, Aziraphale lived in utter loneliness, despite being part of a large family. His half-brothers and sisters had long since made it clear to him that he was not part of their family.

It was his mother who had instilled in him a love of literature, art, music and dance, always pushing him to be himself, unafraid to be different.

It was the love and strength she gave him that enabled him to stand up to the hostility of his so-called siblings who were hungry for power.

This competition for power intensified when, ten years later, his father fell ill and they all gathered greedily around his bed to get their hands on the inheritance.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, wasn't waiting for anything; he just knew that his father's death would mean that nothing would keep him here.

So it was with surprise that he learned that, despite his position in the family, he had inherited something. Something incredible.

Along with a letter from his mother, he had been given almost all of the buildings on Whickber Street in London's Soho district.

In her letter, his mother had explained that the bookshop had belonged to his grandfather, who had gradually bought up the various buildings without changing anything, just to keep the street as it was, charmingly colorful and welcoming to all who passed through or stayed there.

Of course, Aziraphale hadn't hesitated more than half a second before making his decision; he'd turned his back on his life in the big, cold family mansion without looking back, and two days later he'd moved into the dusty old bookshop. He'd dropped the Heavensby name and taken his mother's, Fell, severing all ties with the rest of his family.

He'd found a different kind of family on the little street made up of eccentric, colorful shopkeepers. A place where he could be himself without being laughed at or looked down upon.

So, of course, Gabriel's arrival in his world came as a shock.

But the more shocked of the two had not been Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale, my beloved little brother! Come into my arms!"

Aziraphale didn't smile, didn't rush into the outstretched arms of his so-called brother and ignored the greeting dripping with false affection.

He stood in front of Gabriel, preventing him from advancing further into the bookstore, and asked coldly, "What do you want?"

Gabriel kept his honeyed smile on as he replied, "It's more like what I can do for you little brother. I want to buy this street back from you."

Aziraphale was so surprised that he burst out laughing.

"You... want what?"

"I want to buy this street."

"Are you stupid or what?"

He saw the moment when Gabriel dropped his fake friendliness and showed the calculating flash in his eyes as he looked around disdainfully, scanning the room, and said, "Honestly, what's it all worth?"

Aziraphale took a step forward, and his face, close to Gabriel's, replied coldly, without an ounce of fear, "It's worth far more than you'll ever be able to pay. It's not for sale and it never will be."

"Everything can be bought, little brother."

Then he smiled sardonically and added, "Even your mother."

Aziraphale had been able to take a lot without flinching, but one thing he would never accept was someone insulting his mother. He took a step forward and grabbing Gabriel by the collar, said almost spitting in his face, "You absolute tosser, my mother had more dignity in her little finger than you and your whole gang of idiot bastard asshole brothers and sisters have put together. I don't know how you got the idea to buy this street, but you will never, ever get your hands on it. You're going to get the hell out of here, and may I never see the shadow of your bony ass or anyone else's from there again. Get lost and never come back!"

Aziraphale pushed him out and slammed the door behind him, still seething with anger.

Gabriel had seen with his own eyes that Aziraphale was no longer the little brother who took everything in and never spoke up.

But even though Aziraphale felt immense satisfaction and pride at the way he'd stood up to his jerk of a brother, he still vibrated with the anger he'd felt when Gabriel had insulted his mother.

Not to mention the missed opportunity to get closer to the florist.

Wait, missed?

"When it looks impossible, look deeper and fight like you can win... even if it's something as trivial as tying your shoelaces."

His mother's soft voice still rang in his ears.

As Aziraphale was trying unsuccessfully to tie his shoelaces for the tenth time, she had said those words to him, and he had often thought of them when he was facing a wall.

"Fight like you can win."

The missed opportunity with Crowley would only become one if he gave up now, without even trying. Aziraphale had always fought for what was important to him, as recently as yesterday against Gabriel, and getting closer to the florist was important to him.

He was tired of standing behind his window, staring at things and convincing himself that he couldn't have it.

He muttered, "Fight like you can win," took a deep breath and left the shop, striding towards the flower shop.

When he arrived at the front of the shop, he watched for a few seconds as the florist delicately placed flowers on his countertop.

Aziraphale swallowed, then muttered again, "Fight like you can win," before walking to the shop door and stepping through.

When the doorbell rang, Crowley looked up with a smile, then a surprised expression as Aziraphale said softly, "Good morning, Crowley. I hope I'm not intruding."

Crowley wiped his hands on his apron, then waved the bookseller in, saying, "No, no, of course you're not intruding, in contrar..."

He paused, cursing his mouth for moving faster than his brain, then walked around his counter to join Aziraphale.

Aziraphale moved forward a little, then, without giving Crowley time to continue, began to speak, "I... um, I wanted to apologize for the rather rude way we parted yesterday. I was surprised by the visit I received...surprised is actually an understatement. It took me a while to get over it, but I really wanted to see you to clear things up between us. More than the visit I received yesterday, I hated the fact that we had to part in such a way and..."

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"What?"

Crowley stopped himself from slapping his face.

What had possessed him to blurt it out like that?

But then again, Aziraphale had been so damn sweet in trying to apologize, and he'd taken the trouble to come to Crowley and tell him....

"You know, Crowley, when you plant something, there's always a risk that the seed won't grow, but if you don't plant it, you'll never know what flower it might become."

With the old gardener's words in his head, he took a deep breath and prepared to repeat, "Would you..."

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll have dinner with you."

"Ah... Oh good, very good."

Doing everything he could to hide how thrilled he was, Crowley leaned against the worktop to look composed and then continued, "What do you think about having dinner at Justine's tomorrow night? Then you can see for yourself what you've contributed."

Aziraphale nodded and replied, "It's absolutely perfect for me." Then, pointing to the lotus flowers on the worktop, he added, "I'll leave you to your work. I won't bother you any further. I am glad things are good between us. See you tomorrow, Crowley."

He held out his hand, and Crowley shook it gently, and though their handshake lasted a little longer than convention dictated, neither was upset.

Then Aziraphale headed for the front door, but as he passed through, he turned and said with a small smile on his lips, "You know Crowley, as much as I look forward to seeing your creations, it's you and not the flowers I'm coming for."

As if embarrassed by his audacity, he hurried out and walked briskly toward the bookshop, unaware that he was leaving behind a florist whose cheeks had taken on the same hue as the lotuses on his worktop.

Next chapter : the long-awaited first date...

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #human au #alternate universe #flower shop

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birdofdawning · 8 months

Text

The Bookseller’s Eldest Daughter and the Witch’s Girl

The first part is here.

Chapter Two

The next day the Bookseller made his eldest daughter stay inside and watch her poor bespelled sister while he managed the shop alone. “And no arguments! If anyone finds out about this, this unfortunate situation the Inkmaker may decide not to marry you!” he said, as if the whole situation were somehow her fault, “And I will not have that. So you must sit with her and keep her quiet.”

However, this suited the Bookseller’s eldest daughter very well, for she was able to use the time to consult several old books and to sit and make lists at the kitchen table. She filled up two sheets (both sides) with notes from her books, with some hypotheses and suppositions, and finally with a four-step plan that was subdivided into Actions, Secondary Actions, and Potential Reactions [1]. She only slipped away once, while her father was busy arguing with a customer about Horace, and that was to visit the butcher.

The three of them spent another gloomy evening, this time over a rather sad gruel that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had over-seasoned. While the Bookseller worried and catastrophised in his chair his eldest daughter gently hand fed the sheep’s head that sat upon her sister’s shoulders and made attentive noises.

“No, I’ve quite made up my mind,” the Bookseller finally said, “We’ll have to have the wedding as soon as possible, before any word of this gets out. And it must be the Inkmaker; I doubt you could draw anyone richer — you’re not much of a housekeeper and you have that annoying way of making everyone feel foolish when they’re not as clever as you.”

“Perhaps not everyone,” said his daughter, looking at the clock on the mantel, “It’s almost Eight o’clock, father.”

So the Bookseller went grumbling off to his room, leaving instructions and reminders in his wake, and his eldest daughter gently put her sister to bed. And when she could hear her father snoring, she put on her sensible old boots, crept down the stairs, and stepped outside, locking the door behind her.

And then the Bookseller’s eldest daughter walked through the city — from the Antique Quarter into the Clockmakers’ Quarter, and from the Clockmakers’ Quarter into the Ostlers’ Quarter, down front streets and back streets — until she came to the Witch’s rickety old house at the end of its lonely lane. This time she prudently avoided the front porch altogether and crept around the house to tap at the kitchen door.

The Witch’s dark-eyed girl opened the door and looked her up and down. “It’s you,” she said impassively, drying her hands on her apron, for she had just been washing the dishes.

“Has the Witch gone to bed yet?” asked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“No. But I think you’ll be relatively safe if you stay in the kitchen,” said the Witch’s girl, “though I make no promises.” She opened the door wider in invitation and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped in.

“I need your help again,” she said and bit her lip while she waited for the Witch’s girl to respond.

The Witch’s girl turned away and began preparing a pot of tea. “I don’t know how you expect a mere Witch’s girl to aid you against the fairies,” she said, “That seems more like the sort of task you’d want the Witch for, conjuring helpful spirits and casting spells of protection and bargaining (always a tricky proposition with fairies I am given to understand), and all that sort of carry-on. However, it so happens—”

“No, no,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I don’t need the Witch. I have a four-step plan. But I do need something from you first.”

“Oh.” said the Witch’s girl, looking back at her with an eyebrow raised. “Well. What do you want?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter took a deep breath. “I really do need to know where the fairies are keeping my sister’s head. It’s the only thing I can’t do by myself.”

“I already told you,” said the Witch’s girl as she carefully carried the two cups of tea over to the kitchen table, “I can’t find her with a few old hairs now that she’s with them. Fairies are irritatingly jealous of their privacy.”

But the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was already unfolding a pillowcase out from her pocket.

“What is that” said the Witch’s girl suspiciously.

“This is my sister’s pillowcase. And last week she spent a whole evening crying into it because her sweetheart had said that he was considering getting his hair cut short and she thinks long hair is romantic.”

“Really?” said the Witch’s girl, “That seems rather a stupid thing to do. Are you certain you want her back?”

“Of course I’m certain! And a footnote in chapter seventeen of John Quartle’s The Roads to Babylon: Contemplations on the Thaumaturgic Practices of Six Centuries suggests that since tears emanate from the soul they can (if used correctly) overcome the most obdurate of magics. So I thought that… well, perhaps you might be able to use this to find her?”

The Witch’s girl opened her mouth, then closed it. And then she sat back and said that she thought possibly something along those lines could be attempted, perhaps. “But you understand, of course, that I am only a Witch’s girl,” she added, “And that there will be a price. That’s how magic works, even for a Witch’s girl.”

“Yes, I understand,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I am a Woman of Business.” And then she took a deep breath and asked: “What would you like this time?”

The Witch’s girl looked at the Bookseller’s green-eyed, long-limbed, tangle-headed daughter. “I could ask for all your memories of a dear friend, or of the happiest day you ever spent,” she said, “I could ask you for the next gift you are given, no matter what it may be. But I think that this time I will take… two kisses. On the lips. From you. It’s a slightly more laborious job, you see,” she explained.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter let out the breath she was holding and agreed to the bargain.

“Well then,” said the Witch’s girl, “To work.” She stood up and fetched a lantern from the scullery, opened it and handed it to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. Holding up the pillowcase by a corner, she lit a taper at the stove and moved it under the cloth until it caught aflame with a silver fire.

“What are you doing!?” cried the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in horror, taking a step towards the Witch’s girl.

“Oh, hush!” said the Witch’s girl, “And watch.”

The pillowcase was almost all ashes and embers now, and the Witch’s girl let it go as the final corner burnt up. “Be ready with the lantern,” she said, watching as the remains of the pillowcase drifted down to the floor. And as it collapsed into dust upon the cold stone the last ember flew up upon silver wings.

“Why, it’s a butterfly!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in astonishment.

“Don’t gawp — trap it in the lantern!” cried the Witch’s girl, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter shook off her surprise, stepped forward, and caught the shining butterfly in the lantern with one sweep of her long arms. She closed the glass door upon it quickly, then held the lantern up to examine the fluttering creature.

“That was almost graceful,” remarked the Witch’s girl, fetching a dustpan and brush.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter still staring at the butterfly. “Is it a tiny part of my sister’s soul?”

“What a ridiculous idea! Of course not,” said the Witch’s girl from where she was sweeping up the ashes. “It’s just the memory of the tears she wept. You’re lucky your sister seems such a melodramatic sort of person, otherwise there may not have been enough.”

“She’s not really like that at all, she just cares about hair and clothes and things,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “Otherwise she’s quite practical. The butterfly keeps butting up against the glass pane facing east. Is that the direction my sister’s head is in?”

The Witch’s girl stood up and tipped the ashes into the oven. “You’re quite clever really,” she said, “in your way. Yes, the memory wants to return to the mind that thought it up, so if you follow the butterfly it will take you to your sister’s head. But as soon as the sun rises the enchantment will end and you will just have an old lantern. Which I shall want back, by the way, I only have two. That is, the Witch only has two. Oh, now what is it?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter was looking at her in horror. “Only until sunrise! But I have to go home and prepare first, and then I have to go to the botanical gardens, and then I have to find the fairies! All on foot! How will I have enough time?”

The Witch’s girl shrugged. “Perhaps the fairies are close by,” she suggested, “I don’t know. Why do you need to go to the botanical gardens?”

But the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had started pacing. “And I need to find my way past the city watch; it’s easy enough to get here, nobody cares about here, but they’ll be patrolling the streets further into the city, and will ask so many awkward questions! Not to mention avoiding footpads! And lamplighters!”

“Do the lamplighters have a quarrel with you?” asked the Witch’s girl, interested, “Although, having met you, I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. I suspect you probably have disagreements with a very many people.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter ignored her. “I had thought I could find out where my sister was tonight and then go there tomorrow. Oh, none of this was in my plan!” she wailed (not unlike her father, though she didn’t realise it). “Why didn’t you explain what you were going to do first?”

“Why didn’t you explain your plan?” rejoined the Witch’s girl. “I must say, you don’t seem particularly good at extemporising when the unexpected occurs. Those long legs look like they could keep up a good pace if you put your mind to it. And only a dull-wit would be stumped by a few night-watchmen and so-on.”

At this the Bookseller’s eldest daughter glared at the Witch’s girl, who stared quite unrepentantly back at her, and I am afraid that they each thought several uncharitable things about the other but happily neither was impolite enough to speak any of them aloud.

Finally the Witch’s girl sighed and said “I suppose I could lend you the Witch’s horse.”

“She wouldn’t find that... disagreeable?” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter before she could help herself.

The Witch’s girl waved the comment away. “The Witch has been thinking that it needed some exercise for a few days now, but I haven’t had the time to take it out. You’d be doing me a service.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “a poor girl riding a horse at night will be even more noticeable than a poor girl alone. People will want to know where I got it from.”

“Ah, but you’ll be upon a witch’s horse,” said the girl, “and it has a knack for passing by unremarked. Just tell it where you want to go, give it its head and you’ll see. Drink up your tea while I saddle it.” She walked to the back door and then paused. “Not that it’s my affair, but you have worked up some sort of countermagic to protect you, haven’t you?” she said over her shoulder, “Otherwise the fairies will enchant you as soon as they see you.”

“I’m hoping they won’t even think to try,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I have a four-step plan—”

“Have you at least tied some red thread around your wrist?” sighed the Witch’s girl.

“Yes, of course,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, pulling up her sleeve to check, “as Gregory Fellowick recommends in—”

“Yes, yes,” said the Witch’s girl quickly, “that’s well. Good luck. Don’t eat or drink anything you’re offered and all that. Possibly we’ll see each other again (though I doubt it). But I hope so.” And out the back door she went.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter drank up her tea, and then she waited a while, and finally she picked up the lantern and stepped outside. There in the yard stood a pretty little black horse, already saddled and bridled and waiting. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked about her but there was no sign of the Witch’s girl — or, indeed, any stall or stable to keep a horse, only an old hen-coop. “Hello?” she called, taking a step toward the coop, “Where are you?”

At this the horse gave an impatient shake and trotted a few paces toward the back gate, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, remembering how little time she had, shrugged and stepped up to the little horse.

Of course, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had led and groomed many a visitor’s horse, and she had ridden on wagons, and several times — after obtaining a large collection of books — she’d even carefully driven herself home in a hired cart. But she had very little experience in riding a horse. However, she recalled The Noble Steed: A Manual for Calvary Officers, With Several Colour Plates and An Appendix of Famous Rides, particularly chapter Four (‘Mounting’), and she lifted her foot into the left stirrup, threw her leg over the horse’s rump, and found herself rather higher from the ground than she would have expected for such a small horse. What next? She remembered that the Witch’s girl had said to tell the horse where she wanted to go, so she leant forward and said “My father’s bookshop in the Antique Quarter, please,” feeling not a little foolish as she did so. But the little black horse’s ears turned to listen, and then it trotted out of the yard, down the lane and through the Brazier’s Quarter. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter held the reigns loosely and tried to remember to keep her seat with her legs, as The Noble Steed had instructed, and not cling to the saddle with her hands.

Now as I have said, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was very familiar with her city, its streets and districts, its character and people. But she had never travelled through it upon the back of a Witch’s horse. And maybe it was being higher up, or maybe it was the mist that seemed to have rolled into the city from the ocean, but everything about her seemed quite changed. The streets and buildings seemed dreamlike and hazy, as if faraway. Old-fashioned lamps illuminated the fog in an odd manner, casting queer blue lights in the streets, and half-glimpsed figures hurried past without a word. Indeed, along with the mist, a thick restful quiet had covered the city, smothering the sound of any footsteps or cheerful voices calling greetings. All she heard was the steady clip-clop of the Witch’s horse itself; and once some distant bells ringing out the hour.

And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who knew that city so well, slowly realised that she was hopelessly lost. At times she would see a house or a market square that she thought looked perhaps a little familiar, but then they would get closer and she would decide that no, she didn’t recognise it at all. Perhaps it was the fog, and the strange blue lamps shining everywhere that made everything seem so strange.

And then, all of a sudden, the horse came to a halt, and she found that they were standing outside her own house in the Antique Quarter without her having the least idea how they had gotten there. She sat looking all about her in astonishment until the little black horse give itself a sort of impatient shake and she found herself apologising as she made an awkward dismount. “Just… please stay here until I return,” she said to the horse, and she let herself back into the shop and crept upstairs.

On their bed she found her sister lying quietly, her great sheep’s eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. “I’ll be back soon,” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, patting her hand. Then she brought out the old satchel she used for books when she visited the auctions and second-hand markets, and began packing it. She put in a knife, and a ball of twine, her spool of red thread, Lady Colbertain’s Herboria Antiqua: A Gentlewoman’s Guidebook to Worts, Weeds, and Wonders, Fully Illustrated, and several other small things that she thought she might want. But most of the bag was taken up with a large parcel tightly wrapped in oil cloth that she fetched from the kitchen.

Once that was done she changed into her best dress: it was a dark red and decorated with the finest of needlework that her sister had once spent weeks painstakingly working on for a family wedding, and which the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had only ever worn once. Then she shouldered her satchel and went back down to the little black horse waiting patiently for her in the street. And again the Bookseller’s eldest daughter thought back to chapter Four of The Noble Steed, threw herself up onto the little black horse’s back, leant forward and whispered “The Botanical gardens, please” and off they trotted.

Once more that strange mist rolled in all about them and the lamps burned blue. They passed through one quarter-gate, and then another without challenge. And then they were trotting down twisting streets and tiny back-lanes and through silent squares with the only sound she could hear being that of the little black horse’s dainty hooves upon the flagstones.

And despite how closely the Bookseller’s eldest daughter kept looking about herself she was still taken by surprise when the tall iron gates of the Botanical Gardens rose out of the fog before her. “Oh!” she said, and then “But they’re locked, of course! Oh, how stupid of me, how will I—" But she needn’t have worried for as the little black horse approached the gates they swung open before them.

“Well!” said the girl, as the horse trotted through and the gates closed quietly behind them, “What a clever horse you are! Because I suppose it was you. Although how you manged it I don’t know, for I have read that cold iron is remarkably resistant to magic.”

The horse gave a snort that would have sounded rather contemptuous in a person, and came to an abrupt stop, swishing its tail.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and she slid to the ground and unhooked the lantern from the saddle so she could see about herself. “Now let’s see. I’m afraid I haven’t visited these gardens since I was quite a little girl, but I do seem to remember…” and she chose a path and began walking, the little black horse following curiously.

These gardens had been made by the current King’s great-great grandmother [2]. They contained trees and bushes and flowers from all about that country and beyond, as well as lawns and statues and water-features and aviaries and so much more. This is why it took the Bookseller’s eldest daughter a good hour of searching and backtracking before she found what she wanted. But finally, after first carefully consulting the illustration in Herboria Antiqua and comparing it to the flowers in front of her by the light of the lantern, she took out her knife and stepped into a garden to cut several long stems. Folding them up she stepped back onto the path, and almost into the inquisitive nose of the little black horse who had taken a great interest in the proceedings.

“Verbena,” she explained to it, “I read about it in James Heskett and Agnes Tallow’s The Whitsuntide Letters: A Thirty Year Correspondence Between Two Country Magicians. Heskett has several entries on how verbena carries the scent of old magic. And, of course, Tallow disagrees, as usual, and says that he’s writing utter rubbish and he ought to go and clean chimneys for a living because he’s obviously not much use as a magician and so-on; but I was inclined to believe Heskett on this matter because of—” Bored, the little black horse began to wander away.

“Yes, well. Now I have it, I suppose we should carry on,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, and she hurried after the animal and pulled herself up onto its back again. “Now we need to follow the Witch’s girl’s lantern,” she told it, “Do you mind if I use the reins to guide you?”

The little black horse didn’t, so they proceeded through the Gardens and out between a second set of gates that opened silently before them and closed after them. There was no mist this time, just the yellow dancing lamps of the Garden District — where the wealthy lived — and a warm summer breeze dancing around them. The girl steered the horse down several well-lit avenues, past fountains and rose gardens and tall wrought iron gates and tidy lines of cypress trees, always moving east.

Only once did the horse disregarded the pressure of the reins, when it suddenly stepped back into the shadow of a gateway. Instinct made the Bookseller’s eldest daughter cover the silver lantern. A moment later the Watch strode past, swinging their cresset lamps to check every doorway and back-lane; but somehow-or-other they forgot to check the gateway where the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and the little black horse hid.

Finally, just as a distant belltower rang out two o’clock, the two reached a willow-lined boulevard that overlooked a slow canal. On the other side of the boulevard from the canal, rising above high white walls, several villas had been built to enjoy the prospect of waters and willows and the ornamental bridges that spanned the waterway.

In the lantern the butterfly was now fluttering madly as if determined to find its way past the glass and out into the night air. And when they reached the very last villa on the boulevard the poor thing was almost battering its tiny body against the glass.

“I suppose this must be it,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, gazing up at the darkened house through locked iron gates. It was a very fine building set up high on grassy terraces, with tall roofs and wings on either side… that is, so far as she could tell in the starlight — for not a lamp or light shone from the place. But she could see long grass and untended hedges, giving her the feeling that it hadn’t been inhabited in some time. And as you know, this is just the sort of place to draw ghosts and fairies and other Things.

Yet something felt wrong. She slid off the little black horse and considered the villa. It felt… too empty. The horse nudged her with its nose and she stepped away from it to think. If she released the silver butterfly she knew it would fly straight to her sister’s head — but would she be quick enough to follow it? What if her sister wasn’t as close as she had assumed?

The little black horse nudged her again. “Stop that!” she whispered, still staring at the villa. It was no good, she had to take the chance and open up the— This time the horse gave her a buffet that knocked her around on her feet. “Will you please stop—!" And then her voice stopped in her throat.

Beside her slowly flowed the black waters of the canal, reflecting the starry sky like a mirror. She saw the rippling image of the silver lantern lighting her and the little black horse as they stood on the white stone boulevard… but behind them the empty villa was ablaze with light! Its gates were flung wide open, and she could see figures promenading along its terraces and capering behind the windows of the house! Stepping forward she descended a short staircase that lead to a dock and there she crouched down before the slow current. As soon as her hand touched the water she could hear a riotous music all about her. It was a jarring, uncanny tune that was both unsettling and yet horribly compelling; it seemed to whisper Come, forget your errands and dance! For soon you will be dead and in your grave, your life frittered away on mundane trifles, and when will you ever get this chance again. Listening to it, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter shivered and fought down all her instincts to plunge into the water and go to the music, while at the same time ignoring all her Reason that told her to run back up the steps, take the horse’s reins, and ride away as fast as they could go.

She stood and carefully made her way back up the steps. This time she didn’t hesitate: she opened the door of the lantern and the butterfly immediately flew out, circling over the canal, and then diving down into the waters. But then on it went, beneath the surface! The girl watched it, still fluttering as if in air, approaching the reflection of the villa, passing through an open window, and disappearing.

“Well!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Well!”

Beside her the little black horse snorted.

“I was surprised!” she said, defending herself. “One doesn’t expect to meet magic, even when one has set out to find it,” she added, staring down at the capering figures and flickering lights in the water below her.

The horse thought this rather a silly thing to say, so it stepped lightly on her foot.

“Ow!” said the girl, “Yes, yes! Settle down. I know what I’m doing, I have a four-step plan.” Then she nodded once, as if to assure herself of this, and opened her satchel. She rubbed some of the verbena lightly over her best dress, then she carefully put her hair up — rather clumsily, in the manner of someone who doesn’t often bother with fancy styles and is regretting that now — weaving the rest of the flowers into her hair as she braided. “How do I look?” she asked the horse, practicing a courtesy. “I’m hoping the 'old magic' scent of the verbena will make me seem like a mortal enchanted and carried Away. And so it won’t occur to anyone to try and enchant me again.”

This struck the little black horse as a remarkably good ruse. It gave the girl an approving glance, then (being a contrary sort) pretended it hadn’t and went to stand under a nearby willow.

“Alright,” said the girl, turning back to the canal. She shouldered her satchel and made herself tall. “Alright. Well then. Off I go.” And again she descended the steps to the waters.

Before her was the lighted house, filled with leaping shadows. It was ever so eerie watching them behaving so riotously while all she could hear was the wind and the water. She took a deep breath, thought of her sister lying enchanted at home, and let herself topple into the reflection.

There was a strange sensation of cold water passing over her and disappearing, like walking though a draught in an old house. And then she was upright and dry and back in a warm summer night, with the white stone steps leading up from the waters ahead of her and that wild music everywhere. Turning back, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked down into the waters: reflected in them she could see the stars and the real boulevard — if it was real? Honestly, it was hard to know what to think! — and a shadow under a willow that must be the little black horse. Above all this sat the darkened villa, still and cold. But she herself had no counterpart at all.

Biting her lip, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked again at the blazing house above her. Then she straightened her best dress, shouldered her satchel, and started walking up the steps and across the boulevard to the villa. The sound of viols and fiddles and pipes swept down from the open doors and swirled down around her, urging her to give herself up to it. It pulled at her blood and tugged at her mind and tried to make her forget everything she was supposed to be doing. Forcing herself to stay resolute in her errand she passed through the open gateway and entered the revel.

[1] The Bookseller’s youngest daughter later folded these notes up carefully and kept them for many years in the back of a cookbook. She only brought them out on special occasions, usually at Christmas, when she would retell this story for her children (and later her grandchildren). But she would always tell the middle part quickly, so as not to scare them. As a consequence, the children would often play at being their aunt and have grand and very loud adventures, usually involving swordplay, which their mother found extremely funny. “But I’m not like that at all!” her sister would insist on her occasional visits, and she would reply “Hush. In my stories you are both just like that.”

[2] This was Queen Dorcas, a ruler with a passion for botanical researches — occasionally, it was suggested to the detriment of her royal duties. It was noticed that those who did suggest this often contracted strange, very sudden, and invariably fatal illnesses, so most people decided to just enjoy the gardens.

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#the bookseller's eldest daughter and the witch's girl #myka bering #helena wells #Why doesn't tumblr enable footnotes #unless... unless all of tumblr IS a sort of footnote?#bering and wells #bering & wells

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