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lilulo-12fanfiction · 4 years

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Rain Song- Chapter 1

So here is Chapter 1! This is super long. Almost 10K words. I’m not even sorry. lol I did want to get through this as it is mostly background information on who Hope is.

I’m taking liberties here. So if something isn’t factually correct...it is what it is. Since this is an OC story cannon will variate.

I hope you enjoy this chapter! If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! I also write for TVD, Supernatural & The Avengers. You can view each masterlist list at the top of my page.

Also- does anyone do character art/ digital portraits? I’d love for someone to put one together of Hope for me.

Series Masterlist

12 Years Later

Hope slowly stretched her arms out in front of her. She felt the release of the tension she hadn’t realized she had been holding onto. She pulled the earphones off of her head and cracked her neck. She felt a slight smile come to her face. Her Uncle Remus couldn’t understand her obsession with Muggle music. Yet whenever she spoke of the genius that was Freddy Mercury or her obsession with The Beatles he got a far away look in his eyes. There were things from his past that he outright refused to discuss. She stopped pushing for answers a long time ago. She couldn’t bear to cause him any pain. All she knew was that on Halloween when she was just shy of 2 years old her mother sacrificed her life to save Hope’s as her Uncle carried her to safety. Her father, was in Azkaban for life after he sided with Voldemort. Her Uncle was one of the rare few who would speak Voldemort's name. Her Uncle wouldn’t let her fear his name. She had seen to many shudder at the mere thought of the Dark Wizard. Remus wanted her to be strong. With Remus' strength and bravery, also came a sense of fear. She knew he was afraid his former supporters would someday come after her, so they stayed hidden away on their beach cottage. He tutored her in her magical studies when she became old enough. She loved her Uncle beyond measure and he was a brilliant teacher; but Hope craved more. She longed to have peers that understood her. Sure, she had made friends with the Muggle Children that came to the beach for holidays and the few that lived near year 'round, but it wasn’t the same. The only contact she had with other magical children were The Weasley family. She saw them on the rare occasion that Andromeda couldn’t stay with her when her Uncle’s condition kept him from her. Her cousin Nymphadora was much older than she, and while she adored her, she still couldn't relate. All Hope wanted was a couple of really good friends.

Hope had been sitting on the beach sketching for hours. What she was drawing, she wasn’t quite sure yet. That was how she controlled the visions that plagued her, she put them down on paper. Drawing and painting calmed her mind. The music pounding into her ears quieted the other noises. Lately, her visions had quite literally taken a dark turn. She had a persistent dull headache that would sometimes push her into a migraine for the day. Everything was black. That’s all she could draw was black. Black shapes, black lines and sometimes she filled the page with shadings of black. She could see the concern in her Uncle's eyes when he would peek at her drawings, but he said nothing. She hadn’t quite figured out how to piece her visions together yet, everything was still very jumbled. Often times they would make sense after the event occured, she was hoping to use those experiences to learn how to read them. She was still young. Remus was impressed with how far she had come on her own. He had tried to find someone to help her, but hadn't had any luck. From what he had told Hope, the Divinations teacher at Hogwarts would not be able to assist her. The one thing she had learned to control was pulling images from others. She figured out how to touch others without being overwhelmed with their thoughts. On a rare occasion where she wasn’t prepared did it happen. It always overwhelmed her and she hated invading anyone else’s privacy. Remus had shown her memories of her mother that way, when he couldn’t find the correct words. His memories were muted though. There was something he was trying to shield her from.

Hope leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the sun radiate light into the darkness that was swirling inside. Today was her favorite kind of day. The sun was hot and the water was clear. The breeze was blowing to keep her cool. Her wild blonde curls were piled on top of her head, the wind causing wisps to come free and blow around her face. She wanted every day to be like this, warmness and Led Zepplin pulsing through her veins. Yet the persistent pinch in her forehead was making it impossible to completely enjoy the day. Hope looked down at her watch and cursed. She had been gone an hour longer than she had anticipated. She quickly threw her sketch book, pencils and her disc man into her bag. She brushed the sand off her denim cut offs as she stood and threw her t-shirt back on over her bathing suit. Quickly she donned her flip flops and made the half mile walk back to the beach cottage she resided in with her beloved Uncle.

As she approached the house, something felt different. There was a tense energy in the air that caused a chill to go down her spine. She just wanted a day where she didn’t feel anxiety or cold. She wanted one day where the needling in her brain gave her peace. It had been far too long since she had a day like that. Something in her world was changing, she could feel it. She feared it was something that would color her whole world black, not just the pictures she had stashed in her bag. She saw a figure standing in the kitchen with her Uncle. By the way he was standing, she could see tension spilling from his every muscle. She quietly snuck in to try and overhear what they were saying.

“Remus it’s time. You can no longer keep her sequestered away. While I'm sure you are teaching her everything she needs to know, she needs to be around children her own age. She has lived almost as much of a muggle existence as young Harry. She will be safer at Hogwarts. Every manner of protection will be used for the school.” The voice was kind, grandfatherly almost. Hope’s ears perked up at the mention of Hogwarts. How she had longed to attend. To learn magic, make real friends, create an extended family beyond her and Remus. Hope was so lonely. Her thoughts of loneliness always made her feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. Her uncle had given up his entire young life for her, he should be enough for her. It made her feel incredibly selfish.

“Albus- there are still things she does not know. Things I can’t even begin to tell her-“ Dumbledore held his hand up to stop Remus from continuing.

“Hello Hope.” The gentle voice called out her name and she froze. She had barely stepped two feet into the house and she had been discovered, so much for sneaking in and eavesdropping. She set her bag down and slowly stepped into the kitchen. Her Uncle seemed more agitated than she had ever seen him. Uncle Remus almost never got angry or irritated, he always had an abundance of patience for her.

Her attention was quickly drawn to the tall man who had called her name. He had long silver hair and silver beard. His crooked nose reminded her of Billy Berkshire’s after she had punched him in the face for teasing another girl she had befriended one summer. Resting on his nose were half moon spectacles that allowed a clear view of his kind blue eyes. He donned the most magnificent purple robes she had ever seen. He was oddly wonderful. She just hoped none of the neighborhood kids saw him, she’d have some explaining to do. She knew the man before her was Albus Dumbledore, she never expected he would ever be standing in her kitchen.

“Hello.” Hope’s voice was filled with trepidation. Why would she need to be protected? She knew her Uncle was keeping secrets, but to hear him admit it to someone else was jarring.

“Come darling, sit.” She nodded and made her way to the table. Dumbledore also took a seat.

“I’m sorry for being late. I lost track of time.” Dumbledore was staring at her with an odd expression.

“It’s quite alright. Hope, this is-“

“Albus Dumbledore.” She finished the sentence before he could. She felt ill at ease as the blue eyes studied her. She wasn’t used to being studied quite so intently.

“Well I see my reputation has proceeded me. I hope your Uncle shared only the good things.” He gave her a kind smile that calmed her nerves. “I apologize for staring. It just, you are so very much like your mother. I wasn’t expecting it.” It was something Hope heard often. She would catch her Uncle staring at her, a sad look on his face, but only when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Andromeda had said many times how much Hope resembled her mother. As far as Hope could tell, the only thing she got from her father were her eyes.

“Why am I in danger?” Hope wasn’t interested in beating around the bush. She watched as her Uncle rolled his jaw.

“Your father has escaped from Azkaban.” Remus finally spoke. Hope felt like she had been slapped. Her father- the man she had wondered about for her whole life. The man her uncle could barely spoke of. She had only seen a few pictures, but his handsome and wild features were forever etched into her brain. All Hope knew was that Sirius Black had been best friends with her Uncle, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew. He fell in love with her mother while she was in her 4th year and Sirius was in his 6th at Hogwarts. They married shortly after Nora’s graduation. Remus had always stressed how much her father had loved her and loved her mother. It had been discovered that he was a Death Eater and after Voldemort’s fall he was sentenced to Azkaban. Remus would provide no other details, regardless of how hard she pressed. The idea of meeting her father was exhilarating. Only he could provide the answers she most craved. Yet she was terrified of him. What if he came to their home and hurt Remus to get to her. She had read all about the Dementors of Azkaban. She knew what they did to their inhabitants. Her father had spent 12 years there.

“That’s why you’ve been so tense this past week. Why I haven’t seen a single page of The Daily Prophet. Remus nodded.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” He admitted. He reached behind him and pulled a news paper out of one of the cupboards and handed it to her. The man on the front page was not the man she had seen pictures of. He was gaunt and had a waxy appearance to his skin. His once beautifully groomed hair was long and matted. She felt her eyes well up. She should be horrified, but yet she felt her heart break. How could she feel that for a man that caused so much terror?

“We are afraid he will come looking for you. We don’t know what kind of state he is in. But 12 years in Azkaban would have made an impact on his mental state.” Dumbledore was trying to be as sensitive as possible. “We think it’s time for you to join your classmates at Hogwarts. You would be under intense protection and would have the best magical education. Not to say that you haven’t done a splendid job, Remus.”

“We?” Hope looked to her Uncle. It didn’t matter how badly she wanted to go, she would never leave without his blessing. Remus ran his hand down his face. He took Hope’s hand in his as he had done many times, knowing it would ground her.

“Yes. We. Professor Dumbledore is right, as always. Hogwarts can offer you protection that I cannot. And it’s time for you to be around witches and wizards of your own age. I should have sent you two years ago. It was my own fear that stopped me.” Hope felt a jolt of excitement. That gave Remus peace of mind. Yet as quickly as he saw her stormy eyes light up, it died just as quickly.

“But yo- you’ll be alone. And if he comes here, will you be safe? What, what would happen to me if something happened to you?” Remus could see the panic setting in.

“As it so happens-“ Dumbledore interjected “It seems I am in need of a Defense Against The Arts teacher yet again. I was hoping Remus that you would consent to returning to Hogwarts with Hope.” Dumbledore watched Hope’s body relax as she looked expectantly at her Uncle.

“Albus, are you sure? My condition-“

“Is managed by your Wolfsbane potion. You’ve managed to raise an exceptional young lady. I assume you can handle teaching a few classes.” There was no way Remus could say no, not with how his niece was staring at him expectantly.

“If you’re sure Albus, I would be delighted.”

“Now, Hope, Hogwarts doesn’t normally have a student start midway through their education. Your peers have much more knowledge on the school than you will. I think it will be best to have you come a few weeks prior to the other students. I would like to get you sorted into your house and settled before they return.”

“But that’s around the time of the full moon, Uncle Remus won’t be able to bring me.”

“Hope- you will have to go without me and I will meet you there in September 1st.”

“Professor McGonagall will be there to get you acquainted with the school.” Hope sat for a moment with her thoughts. She didn’t like the idea of being away from her Uncle for that long, but this had been what she always wanted.

“Okay.” She agreed.

“Splendid. Remus, I trust you can get Hope to Diagon Alley for her books and supplies. I will send an owl with her list.” Hope had so many questions for Dumbledore but didn’t know where to even start. He was already standing and she couldn’t get her thoughts together. “I will see you both very soon.” Then, with a crack, Albus Dumbledore was gone.

“Go get washed up darling. I’ll start dinner.” Her uncle stood to go and prepare them something to eat. She knew the question portion of the evening had ended. She would get no further information from him that night.

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A week and a half later Hope was pacing her room. She had 3 days before she was to arrive at Hogwarts. She had gotten no further information from her Uncle. They had just gotten home from having dinner with what Hope thought was her only other family. Except Nymphadora had come home for dinner to see Hope. It had been a long time since she had seen her. Her Auror training kept her quite busy.

“Hopefully that little prat Malfoy doesn’t give you a hard time. I hate admitting that he’s our cousin.” After she said it, Hope knew she realized she let something slip.

“I’m sure everything will be fine!” Ted had exclaimed.

“Hope you will love Hogwarts. It is beautiful.” Hope glanced at her Uncle out of the corner of her eye and he was carefully avoiding her gaze. She picked at her food as the four of them talked fondly of Hogwarts. Hope stewed in her own anger instead.

Hope felt rage building within her. She wasn’t a baby anymore. She’d be 14 soon. Granted she wasn’t an adult, she could handle a lot more than Remus had given her credit for. He had led her to believe that himself and The Tonks were her only remaining family. That was clearly a lie. He had been careful to not provide any information on the rest of her Father’s family.

Remus knew what was coming. The other trait Hope inherited from Sirius was her temper. While she held it together much better than Sirius ever did, when she hit her breaking point, she was explosive. She was like a hurricane and he was approaching the eye of the storm. Remus had never been on the receiving end of her anger. He knew tonight would be the night. He knew he would have to give her answers. He could not believe he didn’t consider Draco Malfoy knowing of his relation to Hope.

But what could he tell her to ease her mind? What could he tell her to make her feel better. Any information he had to give her on her father and he wretched family would only hurt her. He knew that hurt all to well. All he wanted to do was shield her from the pain that he knew Sirius had carried with him. He was being idealistic. Wasn’t it better that it came from him and not someone else?

He winced as her bedroom door slammed. He took a deep breath and approached her room. A teenage Hope was something he was ill prepared for. The older she got, the more she became her mother which included Nora’s deep sarcasm and sass, that coupled with anger would mean a most unpleasant experience.

“Hope- please open the door.” Remus sighed leaning against the wall. “You do realize I can just use my wand to open in.” He could picture her face as she considered his words and he braved himself. As anticipated her door whipped open. “We need to talk.” She gave him a withering look.

“Now you want to talk? You’ve had 12 years to talk.”

“Hope-“

“No! Don't 'Hope' Me! I have family! I have a cousin my own age! AND YOU KEPT ME FROM THEM! FOR 12 years all you have done is LIE to me!” Remus had expected anger, but the bitterness that was pouring from her took him by surprise. He heard it so often from Sirius. He felt right then that he had failed Hope. He wanted to save her from this. “I have no friends that actually know me. They think I’m a little weird and that I’m sick because I have these headaches all of the time. They don’t understand me because they’re muggles! I’m alone.” Her last two words were spoken as a sob. Remus realizes the magnitude of his mistake. He felt like an outcast for most of his life. His condition made it hard to really connect with anyone. Everyone thought he was just ill. It wasn’t until James, Sirius and Peter that he felt truly accepted. He at least had his sister before that. Hope had no siblings. Remus pulled his niece into an embrace and she struggled against him for a moment. She finally gave in and let him hold her as she cried. Once she settled down he led her to their living room to sit on the couch.

“Hope, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to isolate you. I didn’t even realize how alone you felt. All I have wanted, all I have ever wanted is to keep you safe. But, I kept you away from your living relatives because it was what your mother wanted.” Hope looked up at her Uncle in utter confusion. Her tear filled face almost broke him. Her silence urged him to continue. “Your father comes from a long line of Pureblood Wizards. The entire Black family are blood purists. Your father and Andromeda were the only ones to push against that. In fact, your father being sorted into Gryffindor was a huge scandal. He ended up being disowned and moved in with James. His parents welcomed him like he was their own. That is why your middle name is Euphemia. It was James’ mother’s name. Sirius’ mother loathed YOUR mother for being a half-blood. When Nora died, the Black family tried to take you from me. Your mother wanted you no where near their hateful rhetoric. They also had no leg to stand on in getting custody of you. So I kept you away from the magical community as much as I could so they couldn’t try to get their hands on you. I just didn’t realize how damaging it was to you. The majority of that family were Death Eaters. They were responsible for your mother’s death. As for Draco Malfoy being your cousin, his mother Narcissa is Andromeda’s sister. Her husband, Lucius Malfoy was among the top of the Death Eater food chain. He also escaped Azkaban by claiming he was under the imperius curse. He continues to believe in blood purity and has unfortunately ingrained that ideal into his son. Hope, I promise you that if anyone other than Andromeda had been a good person I wouldn’t have kept you away.”

“If my father was so against everything that his family stood for, how is it that he ended up being a Death Eater? Did HE kill my mother? What did Voldemort want with her?” Remus could see you spiraling. He took a deep breath and continued.

“Darling I honestly don’t know why your father sis what he did. I do know he loved you and my sister very much. I’m not sure what caused him to switch sides. I can tell you that I am sure he is not the one that hurt your mother. That is unimaginable to me. He started pulling away from me before that. Your mother trusted him implicitly. I wish I had more information for you Hope. As for why Voldemort wanted your mother, it was her Seer abilities. He could have done so much more damage if he had someone like her on his side. That was another reason to keep you away from Sirius’ family. If they were to get their hooks into as a child, they could have corrupted you and manipulated you into doing their bidding.” Hope was silent for a few moments.

“Hope, I’m sorry for the pain I have caused you. I know what it is like to feel like an outcast. To feel so alone and that no one will ever understand you. I should have know. I am so sorry.” He felt Hope lean back into him and he wrapped his arms around her. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you that your father was the reason that James and Lily Potter were dead. That would have been a horrific blow. His mind drifted to the small vault at Gringott’s that held Hope’s name. Inside was the money that Sirius and Nora had amassed from the inheritance Sirius got from his Uncle. Remus made sure to use it carefully to take care of his niece, never using any of it on himself. What really stuck in his mind were the few journals and vials that Nora had left for her daughter. Keeping those from her was something he had struggled with for years. But she were still too young. He was not going to burden her any further. Perhaps in a year or so when Hope came into her own he would bring them to herS There was too much darkness for her young mind. He needed to preserve Hope’s innocence for as long as he could.

“Does Harry Potter know who I am?” Nora knew of Harry. How he had somehow stopped Voldemort. How the two had played together as children. When his parents died he was brought to live with his Muggle family. Hope had overheard Remus and Andromeda mention the Sorcerers Stone and The Chamber of Secrets. It seemed that Harry had a knack for getting into trouble. Hope had tried to catch more details, but the adults in her life were always careful to not share too much information.

“I don’t think that he does. His muggle family doesn’t look kindly on the magical community. From what Dumbledore told me, he didn't even know he was a Wizard until Hagrid had to personally deliver his Hogwarts letter. Apparently his Aunt and Uncle were determined to keep him away from magic and wouldn't give him his letter. He hasn’t been around many people that know of the history that links the two of you. The Weasley children wouldn’t know to mention you. I doubt Molly or Arthur would tell them any personal details without speaking with me first. Dumbledore and the other professors wouldn’t say anything. But you will meet him soon enough.” Hope was itching to meet Harry Potter. Not because he was famous, but because he was a connection the past you so desperately wanted to know. Remus studied your face for a moment, watching you process what he was saying. "You and Harry have quite a bit in common. I have a feeling that you will be good friends. James and Lily would have wanted that, as would your mother."

“Will I ever understand what happened?" How did a loving father and husband turn into a mass murderer? Hope couldn't reconcile the two people that encompassed who her father was.

"Perhaps someday, when you're older you'll be able to reach a level of peace." That didn't really answer her question. Hope still felt like he was holding back, but this was more than they had ever discussed before.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you." Hope looked down, deeply ashamed. She had gotten better at controlling her temper, but occasionally she lost control. She had never behaved this way towards her uncle..

"Oh darling, it's alright. I'm sure this wont be the only go you have at me. You are after all your mother's daughter. She was never afraid to give me a piece of her mind." Hope was grateful for his never ending patience with her.

"I think I'm going to go to bed. I love you, Uncle Remus, very much." She felt his facial hair tickle the side of her head as he gave her a quick kiss.

"I love you too, get some rest." Hope retreated to her bedroom. The polarized descriptions of her father running through her head. What if she was also polarized. The way her Uncle had raised her was the exact opposite of what the Black family believed. But if the entire half of her family were comprised of Dark Wizards, did she have that capability too? In the end, her father had turned that way. Maybe that was why all she could see was black. She too, would turn bad in the end as well.

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Hope sat staring into the fire. All of her things had been sent to Hogwarts and were waiting for her arrival. She had spent the morning on her beloved beach. She knew she would miss the briny smell of the air, the way the water would bite at her toes. She wanted to give the Ocean a proper goodbye. It had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. Now the only thing left to do was take the Floo into Professor McGonagall’s office. All of the excitement she had felt had turned into nerves. She had never been apart from her Uncle for more than a few days. Two weeks seemed like an eternity to be with strangers. She knew she was being silly, but she felt the tears welling up in her eyes as she waited for her Uncle to see her off. She looked down at the wand in her hand. 10 1/2 inches of birch wood with a Phoenix core. She had always loved the black and white of birch trees. How the black bark bled into the white leaving shades of gray. The Phoenix feather core gave her a little bit of trouble at first. Remus had reassured her that her wand just needed to get to know her. Phoenix cores were known to be powerful, yet took a while to gain control. In the end, he had been right. She slid her wand into the small bag at her feet and looked back at the fire.

Her visions and dreams had taken a strange form. She felt surges of anger, desperation and an intense sadness. A melancholy so deep she thought she would drown in it. It was affecting her moods more than it every had before. Shades of black and muted grey. But always black. She was starting to loath the color. It was so strange, all she was seeing was the color black, nothing concrete for the past month and a half up until a few nights prior. There had been a flash of purple and a set of green eyes staring back at her. Who they belonged to, she had no idea. Though she assumed she would soon enough. At this point, she only had visions of people she was connected to or came into contact with. Her mother had progressed far beyond that point by the time of her death. Hope didn't know if she would welcome that.

“Ready Darling?” Remus clapped his hands together, smiling at Hope. He too had felt a sinking feeling of being away from Hope for an extended period of time. When he saw the emotion swirling in her eyes he made sure to stuff his back down. “It’s alright. It’s only two weeks.”

“I know.” Hope’s voice felt like sandpaper as it exited her throat. “I’m just nervous.”

“I know. But it will go by quickly. Professor McGonagall will get you acquainted with the school and you’ll meet with your teachers briefly to get to know them. Remember what we talked about.”

“I know. I know. I’m Hope Lupin. I don’t think introducing myself as a member of the Black family will curry me any friends anyway.” Hope scoffed. Remus tried to hide a smile. “No one but Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall know about my abilities so it’s best to keep it quiet for now.”

It had been confirmed that Draco Malfoy knew nothing of their relation. The Minister of Magic himself had instructed Lucius to not breath a word of it and to make sure his wife kept it to herself as well. Hope had no idea why the Minister was so keen on keeping her lineage a secret. It didn’t matter to Hope. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than coming to Hogwarts in the middle of her education would draw. Incidentally, the Weasley children were in the dark about who her father was as well. All they knew was that Hope was the niece of a friend of their Arthur and Molly’s and that she had lost her parents in the war. Remus had never took Hope to The Burrow himself. He had always met up with Arthur. It had been years since they had seen Hope. She always felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of boys in the house. Hope was more inclined to stay with Andromeda and Ted as she got older.

“Just until you’ve found some people that you trust to tell them. Now, Arthur promised me that he spoke to the Fred, George and Ron. They’ll be looking for you when they arrive.”

“What if I’m not in their house?”

“Hope you are brilliant, funny and talented. Regardless of what house you land in, you will make friends. You will find your niche. The same way I did.”

“What if-“ Hope could feel all of her fears that had been festering about to tumble out. “What if I’m a Slytherin? What if I end up just as awful as everyone I’m related to? I mean, my father was wonderful when you were in school and then he turned. What if that is my destiny? What if that is why all I can see is black?” Hope had stood and was pacing. She always paced when she was coming undone. Remus had noticed it had been happening more frequently. He was counting on being at Hogwarts to be a distraction to keep her grounded. Remus stopped her and grabbed her by her shoulders.

“Hope, darling, stop. First of all, all members of Slytherin house are NOT dark wizards. Each house has produced its fair share. If you happen to end up in Slytherin then you will make them proud. You are not destined to go bad. You are not destined to be evil. That’s not how the world works.” He felt her relax. “This is why I’ve always avoided talking to you about them. You are better than that. When you forget that, think of Andeomeda.” Hope nodded her head.

“Okay.” Hope wrapped her arms around her Uncle’s torso and he hugged her tightly.

“Albus and Minerva are there for you while I am not there. But if you need me, all you need to do is send me an owl and I’ll write back immediately.” Hope let go and looked up at her Uncle and forced a smile.

“I’m ready.” He kisses her forehead.

“Remember, it’s only two weeks.” Hope nodded and approached the fireplace. She reached her hand into the bucket and pulled out the floo powder. After taking a deep breath she threw it into the flames.

“Hogwarts!”

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Hope stepped out of the large fireplace and brushed the soot off her her clothing. She really hated traveling by Floo. She looked around the small office. To her left was a large window where she could see the Quidditch pitch and what must have been the training grounds. She had expected a more grandiose office for a Hogwarts Deputy Mistress, but the smallness of it made Hope feel safe. Standing next to the desk was a very tall and stern looking woman. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore the most beautiful shade of emerald green robes. Her sternness melted away when she smiled at Hope.

“Welcome Ms. Lupin. I am Professor McGonagall." Hope smiled back.

"Hello Professor."

"I hope you don't mind me saying, but I have so looked forward to meeting you. I enjoyed teaching your mother and Uncle very much." Hope had been expecting the "you look so much like your mother" speech. She was grateful Minerva McGonagall kept those thoughts to herself, though Hope could see it in her eyes.

“Well I do hope you'll share some stories about my mother with me. Uncle Remus has obviously told me so much, everyday. But it would be nice to hear about her from another person's perspective."

“I would be delighted. I look forward to getting to know you over these next few weeks. First thing we must do is get you sorted." As soon as the words hit the air, there was a knock at the door. "Enter!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed. Hope grinned as Professor Dumbledore entered with a dilapidated looking hat. He was so eccentric and wonderfully odd. He radiated calmness which put Hope at ease.

“It's very good to see you again Hope. We are very happy to have you here."

"I wont lie professor, I was a little nervous leaving my Uncle but I do feel better now that I am here."

"I'm very pleased to hear that. I'm sure you'll find all of the staff at Hogwarts will be very willing to help you get settled. Now, we must get you sorted so we can get you set up in a dorm room." Professor McGonagall conjured a chair and motioned for Hope to take a seat. Her Uncle hadn't told her how they would choose her house. She watched wide eyed as Dumbledore approached and put the filthy looking hat on her curly blonde head. After a moment the hat came to life and it made Hope jump. She watched as McGonagall tried to contain a smirk.

“Well, well....what an interesting mind you have brought for me today.I was wondering when the youngest Black member would be joining us. This one will prove to be very difficult, very difficult indeed. I see that you have a long history of Slytherin blood in your veins, but cunning you are not. An ocean worth of talents much like your parents. Hard working and Loyal would make you an excellent Hufflepuff. But what is this? Bravery and courage, a little stubbornness. There it is...the nerve of your father. Let's make it- Gryffindor!" Hope felt her body relax, not realizing how tense she had been. She at least would have some people she knew in her house and hoped she would be able to call them friends.

“Wonderful Ms. Lupin. I will be your Head of House. You will share your room with Ms. Granger, Ms. Brown & Ms. Patil. I'm sure all 3 girls will be most welcoming. I will have your belongings brought to your room. For now, I will take you around to meet your professors."

At the end of the week, Hope was sitting in the common room of Gryffindor House. She ran her eyes across all of the plush arm chairs and couches that she loved to sink into already. Tables adorned the room near the furniture and there was a large bulletin board, while empty now, she was sure it would start filling up come September. She enjoyed the shades of red and gold around the room. It brightened her day and helped push the blackness back into her mind. She loved the extensive windows that looked out over the beautiful grounds of the school. She was drawn to the scarlet tapestries that depicted witches, wizards and various magical animals. They spoke to the artist within her. Though her favorite part was the extensive book collection on the shelves.

She had sent an owl to her Uncle letting him know she had been placed in the house that her and her mother had resided. Also told him off a bit for not warning her about The Sorting Hat. She hadn’t left out what the hat had said. “There it is, the nerve of your father.” had been swirling in Hope’s brain ever since.

Hope looked up as a hooting stirred her from her thoughts. Perched on the Griffyndor window sill was a Tiny Owl. Not often found in Britain, it had her curious. She was pure black and was hopping around the windowsill with a letter tied to her foot. Hope stood from the squishy arm chair she had planted herself in. As soon as she approached, the owl started nipping at her fingers affectionately. She recognized her Uncle's neat hand writing immediately. With a grin she gave the owl a quick pet and ripped open the letter.

Hope-

I'm sorry for not warning you about the Sorting Hat. But really...the surprise is the best part. Mostly for Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore. I didn't want to deprive them of that. I'm glad you're relieved that you're in Gryffindor. I do hope it is because you know the Weasley family and not because you're still worried about going bad. Your house does not determine whether you are good or bad. Yes, your father did have quite a lot of nerve. If I'm being honest, I see a lot of him in your personality. From his younger and more carefree days. The way your eyes smile when you’re happy. The sound of your laugh. You most certainly have his eyes. Hope, I know that many people compare you to your mother quite often and ignore the traits of Sirius. There was a good person there at one point. The good in him radiates from you. However, you are so much more than the parts of her and the parts of your father that can be seen within you. You are your own person. Please don't forget that. I've attached this letter to a beautiful Tiny Owl I found at Diagon Alley. She is yours. I wanted to get you something special for the start of school. Her black nature is rare, but I wanted you to see that black things can be beautiful. That darkness doesn't always have to be bad. Remember, even when you feel that you are in the deepest and most dark parts of your self, there is a light within you that will outshine it. I can't wait to hear what you name her. I'm starting to feel very worn down, but I look forward to seeing you soon. I heard you've impressed both Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick with both your charms and transfiguration abilities. I'm sure Professor Snape will be equally impressed with you, though he may not be willing to show it.

All of my love

-R

Remus always knew the right thing to say. He was right, she needed to push the idea that she would turn bad out of her mind. It was ridiculous. She knew that rationally she was being absurd. She should be excited. She wanted to attend Hogwarts for her entire life. The nerves she felt down were more from excitement than dread. She had already proven herself advanced in Transfiguration and Charms. She knew her Magical History. And while she was horrible in herbology, she hoped that learning with other students would help. She was also confident in potion making, though she was terrified of meeting Professor Snape. The side comments from the other professors lead her to the impression that he was not easily won over. Her Uncle had never mentioned him in a disparaging way, just that he would be a tough teacher. She looked at the clock on the wall and realized that it was almost time to meet with Professor Snape. She hurried to the portrait hole in the wall that swung open and climbed out of the common room, straightening her school uniform as she walked. The uniform would take some getting used to. She was used to jeans, t-shirts and comfortable dresses. Hope quickly made her way through the castle corridors and headed to the Potions Classroom in the Dungeon.

Once she reached the door, she paused for a moment and took a breath. She felt her nerves bubbling to the surface again. She made sure to steel herself and then pushed the door open. The room was rather large. She suspected it had to be to hold a full class of students and all of their potions equipment. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin hit the floor. While the rest of the castle radiated warmth and light, the Potions classroom seemed dark and cold. "How I've felt on the inside." was all Hope could think. There were pickled animals in jars along the wall that gave Hope pause. She had a feeling this would be her least favorite class if she had to look at those. There was a supply cupboard and in the corner of the classroom a basin where the water poured from the mouth of a gargoyle. The room as a whole was intimidating, just not as intimidating as the man stationed near the blackboard. Severus Snape had long black flowing robes adorned to his thin frame. His sallow skin reminded her of the photograph of her father in The Daily Prophet. His black hair was in sheets and framed his face. His dark eyes appeared to have never seen happiness a day in their lives. They both stood silently, sizing each other up. Hope could see recognition in his eyes, he must have known her mother. After what seemed like ages, he finally spoke.

“Good Evening Ms. Lupin. I am Professor Snape. Tonight we will see how adept you are at your potion making. I do hope you've kept up with your studies, I will not tolerate you falling behind." Hope simply nodded. "Tonight you will brew a Sleeping Draught. Standard for any 2nd year student."

"Yes Professor." Hope didn't even try to hold a conversation with Severus Snape. She knew it would be futile.

"Off you go." Hope saw a cauldron waiting. She quickly went to the the supply cupboard and pulled out the Lavender, Flobberworm Mucus, Valerian Sprigs and a large amount of their "standard ingredients". Once she got to her table, she flipped open the book and looked over the instructions. She added 4 springs of lavender and 2 measures of Standard Ingredient into the motar and crushed them into a creamy paste. She then added 2 blobs of Flobber Worm Mucus to her cauldron along with 2 more measures of Standard Ingredient into the cauldron and heated it for 30 seconds. She added the crushed mixture as directed and waved her wand. Time seemed to drag as she waited for the potion to brew. She could feel Snape's dark eyes on her but she didn't dare look up. She hoped this would be a more pleasant experience when the room was filled with classmates. Finally, the potion was ready for trhe next steps. She added the rest of the ingredients in, careful to follow the directions precisely on how to chop and stir. She made the final wave of her wand she saw the dark luscious potion bubbling back at her.

“I’m done Professor.” Snape slowly sauntered to her work station. He looked around and noticed that while she had been waiting for her potion to brew she had cleaned up her station.

“Perhaps you can give your fellow housemates some pointers on organization.” He murmured. He studied her potion, stirring it slightly. After a few agonizing moments. “This is...passable. I was concerned when I found out your Uncle had been educating you.” Hope narrowed her eyes at him. He looked at her smugly, challenging her to contradict him. I’m her mind she was telling him off. Her Uncle was blood brilliant and her potion was perfect. She swallows any remark she wanted to make. When he was satisfied she wasn’t going to mouth off he waved his wand and the potion she made vanished. “You may go.”

“Thank you Professor. Have a good night.” She turned on her heel and quickly left the dungeon, feeling his dark eyes watch her as she fled. As she was rushing back to the Gryffindor Common room she felt the familiar twinge in between her eyes. She knew she was in for a rough night.

**************************************************************************************

Hope had a difficult time settling down for the night. She piercing in her skull had been gaining intensity. For the first time since she had been there she regretted coming without her Uncle. He always knew how to help her feel better. Whether they spent the night talking or he would just sit with her as she struggled so she wasn't alone. He took care of her, he always took care of her. She spent the night tossing and turning, her mind turning against her. Black liquid was flooding her brain. The same pair of green eyes were starring back at her. They would go from a state of shock and morph into eyes of confusion. The feeling of melancholy worked its way back into her soul and it was stifling her. Never before did she ever think that her own mind would suffocate her. She was all alone and there was no one there to wake her from the prison of her mind.

As daybreak hit, Hope found herself in the bathroom with her head over the toilet. The piercing agony in her head was beyond anything she had ever felt before. It was as if someone were driving a hot poker from the fireplace directly into her brain. Tears poured down her face as the last wave of nausea finally passed. She needed help, but she was too weak to get up and go to Professor McGonagall. Instead, Hope laid her head down on the cold hard floor for some brief relief. Cold always helped ease her pain before, but this pain was beyond measure. She needed to at least get back to bed, but she didn't have the strength to pull herself off of the floor. Eventually she slipped into a deep sleep with her face pressed against the floor. After what seemed like only moments later a voice woke Hope up with a start. She sat up quickly and immediately regretted it as the piercing pain returned.

“Hope...my dear are you alright?” Professor McGonagall’s frantic voice filled her ears like hot lava heading to her brain. Everything was too loud. Hope squinted as the brightness burned her eyes and looked up to her Head of House.

“What time is it?” Hope saw sunlight streaming into the room. It had been barely light out when she was last conscious. Confusion flooded her exhausted mind.

“It’s after 2pm. I was informed that you missed your flying lesson with Madame Hooch. I thought perhaps you had mixed up the time as we've kept you very busy this past week. I went to check the great hall to see if you were eating lunch and the house elves informed me that you hadn’t been down to eat.”

“I’m so sorry Professor. I- I had a bad night." Hope groaned and clutched the side of her head. "My headache was so horrible it made me sick. I've never had one this bad. I couldn't get up to go for help. I must have fallen asleep here. I didn’t mean to miss a flying lesson.“ Minerva helped Hope to her feet.

“I remember your mother having some nasty spells like this. Do not worry about missing your lesson. There is plenty of time for you to learn how to fly on a broom. That isn't what is important. Let’s get you down to Madam Pomfrey. She used to make your mother feel better.” Hope looked down at her baggy sweatpants and your loose V-Neck t-shirt and felt embarrassment flood her face.

“Don’t worry about how you are dressed. No one will see you. Come Hope.” Professor McGonagall wrapped a firm arm around Hope's body and led her down the stairs and out of the Common Room through the portrait hole. If it hadn't been for the professor's strong grip, Hope was certain she would have fainted. The walk to the hospital wing had Hope feeling dizzy. As soon as they walked into the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey made a fuss over Hope and got her into one of the beds. Hope heard her tell Professor McGonagall that she would keep her updated. Hope felt a cool compress on her head that was soothing and the room darkened.

Unbeknownst to Hope, she spent the next 4 and a half days in and out of consciousness in the hospital wing. It wasn’t surprising that the healing potions Madam Pomfrey had tried were ineffective, they had never worked well before. The would sometimes take the edge off of the pain so that Hope could function, but this pain was incessant. One evening as Hope slipped briefly into consciousness she heard Professor Dumbledore’s calming voice.

“Remus said she’s never had a spell that has lasted this long. As the full moon is about to hit, he cannot come to the castle. I have precautions prepared for subsequent full moons, but I was unable to get them ready so quickly. He is beside himself with worry and his condition makes him more agitated now than he normally is. I promised to send him updates." Hope felt a pang of guilt. It was bad enough Remus had to deal with the full moon, he shouldn't have to worry about her too. Another set of footsteps approached. Hope was in too much pain and far too exhausted to let them know you were awake. "Oh Severus good." Dumbledore continued speaking. "Do you have it? And you had no problems brewing it?” Hope felt the pain overwhelm her again and she slipped back into the darkness before she could hear Snape's response..

Whatever Severus Snape had brought to Dumbledore was helping. The pain was very slowly dissipating. It also must have been keeping her asleep as she hadn't been awake since the last time she heard Dumbledore's voice. Her dreams had begun to change. Instead of inky black and green eyes, her dreams were of being a little girl and her Uncle walking her on the beach and in hand. He had a youthful glow about him, but a deep sadness in his eyes. She heard his laugh as he spun her around. They built sand castles and she watched as he helped her paint her first picture. As difficult as it had been for the both of them, Remus had given her a wonderful life.

It was two more days of pleasant dreams and memories before Hope slowly opened her eyes. For the first time in almost a week, the pain was gone. Three pairs of eyes peered down at her, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape. She was surprised to see that Snape seemed just as concerned as the other two. Hope blinked her eyes to adjust.

“How are you feeling Hope?” Professor Dumbledore gave her a comforting smile.

“I- better- I think. Yes, definitely better. How long have I been here?”

“All week. You gave us all quite a scare. I must say your Uncle is beside himself. He will be arriving tomorrow. I’m sure he will be thrilled to know that you’re on the mend.��

“A week? It’s never been that bad.” Hope looked at Professor Snape. She wasn’t sure if he knew her situation. She wanted to be careful about what she said. Dumbledore must have sensed her apprehension.

“Remus agreed that it was essential to bring in Professor Snape into the fold. We needed his potions expertise. None of the remedies that used to work for your mother were helping you. He was able to brew something up that seemed to help. Though it is not something you can take frequently.”

“Wh- What was it?”

“Oh a very complicated potion. We can discuss that at another time. For now, we will leave you in Madam Pomfrey’s capable hands. I wish for you to stay for the rest of the day just to make sure you are truly okay. You can return to your dormitory tomorrow morning if all goes well. I will stop back and check on you this evening.” McGonagall gave Hope a smile that was filled with relief, where as Snape still looked worried. Without another word, all 3 professors were retreating. When Hope looked to the side table, there sat her sketch book and pencils and smiled. Even from far away, her Uncle was making sure she was getting what she needed.

She spent the day being fawned over by Madam Pomfrey and being fed by House Elves. Hope was obsessed with all things chocolate, a love she and Remus had in common. The chocolate cake from the Hogwarts Kitchen was divine. In between it all, she sketched. She sketched the only thing that had been on her mind for almost two weeks. The pair of emerald green eyes surrounded by a fluid black background. They were quite nice, whoever they belonged too. Hope had just finished adding the color to her drawing when Dumbledore walked in. He had something in his hands.

“Good Evening Hope. I’m informed you’re doing quite well. I'm happy that Remus wont have to storm the castle to get to the hospital wing to get to you. I see you found your sketch book I had left for you. Remus said it helps clear your mind. May I?” He gestured her book. Hope slowly handed it to him. He studied the eyes staring back at him and it was like a light of recognition went off in his mind, though he didn’t say why. “May I ask what made you draw this?” She sighed. She always had a hard time explaining what you were seeing.

“For a month, all I have seen is darkness, blackness, despair and longing. Then suddenly these eyes started popping into my dreams.”

“When?”

“Not long before I came here. Maybe 2 1/2 weeks ago.” He nodded, but didn’t give anything away. He clearly had an opinion and no plans to share it.

“I brought these for you. I thought you might like them.” He handed her two photos. One was of a much younger Remus and her mother. Remus had his arm around her and they donned their Hogwarts uniforms, they were both grinning madly. When Hope pulled out the picture behind it, she gasped. There she was, sitting on the lap of a beautiful red headed woman and next to her, on her mother’s lap was a little boy with dark hair and a bright smile. Standing behind Lily was a tall man, with messy dark hair and wire rimmed glasses. Finally, standing next to him and behind her mother was the most handsome man she had ever seen. A man whose face she had only seen a few times, her father.

“Is that...” Hope’s voice trailed off and she covered her mouth holding in a sob.

“Yes Hope. You’re sitting with Lily. And Harry is with your mother. James and your father are behind you.” Seeing her mother so happy and laughing made tears fill her eyes. She couldn’t have been alive much longer after this was taken. Hope wondered if she knew this was one of the last times they would all be together? She could barely look at her father without her heart breaking. He and James were so joyful and carefree. Harry was turned towards Hope and gripped in his hand was hers. Both children were laughing along with their parents. “Had fate been kinder, you and Harry would have led much different lives. You would have grown up together. I think you will find a very good friend in Harry Potter.”

“Professor, thank you. I-“ Hope couldn’t say anything more.

“You are most welcome. Now don’t get too upset or you’ll get me in trouble.” You laughed slightly as Dumbledore’s blue eyes sparkled down at you. “Now get some sleep. I will see you tomorrow.” Dumbledore smiled once more and headed back from where he came.

Hope spent the rest of the evening staring at the pictures Dumbledore gave her. She wasn’t sure why he had them, but she didn’t much care. She stared at the picture until she fell asleep, dreaming of the family that she longed to have. What would it have been like to grow up with both of her parents or even just one of them? She loved Remus so much, but she couldn’t help wanting what she couldn’t have. Snape's potion must have still been working because for the first time that Hope could remember, she had a dreamless sleep. She slept in the following morning and ate the breakfast that the house elves brought her. When she was done, Madam Pomfrey wished her well and sent her on her way.

When Hope got back to her room she hid the pictures from Dumbledore into the bottom of her trunk. She wasn't quite ready to share that part of her with anyone. She couldn't imagine the reaction to Sirius Black being her father would be a good. one. It was best to keep that photo for just herself, for now. She pulled out a clean uniform and robes and laid them out for later. She dug out some clean lounge clothes and proceeded to take the longest, hottest shower she had ever taken. She ate lunch in the common room while looking through more of the books on the shelves. She lost herself in a copy of "Household Stories from the Collection of the Brothers Grimm" .

When she realized that her classmates would be arriving any moment. She cleaned up her mess and ran quickly to her room to get changed. Once she was dressed she tried to smooth out her hair, which was pointless. There was no taming the curly blonde locks that adorned her head. She really hoped one of the Gryffindor girls knew a spell to help her straighten her hair. She excitedly bound out of her room and through the portrait hole. She wanted to get to The Great Hall and see her Uncle before the feast started. She rushed through the hall as students started piling in. As she weaved through the mass of students she smacked directly into another student.

She stumbled back and they grabbed her both of her arms with strong hands to steady her. She looked up to see a boy with unruly dark hair, a bit of a scar on his forehead peaked out below his hair. He wore wired rimmed glasses. Behind the glasses stared the eyes that had been haunting her for weeks. The brilliant emerald green eyes belonged to Harry Potter.

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d-criss-news · 4 years

Text

When it was announced that The Rosie O'Donnell Show would be back for one night only with a guest list of about 15 million Broadway talents, many of us wondered, would it be a return to the glory days of her multiple Emmy-winning daytime talk show or more like her ill-fated attempt to resuscitate the primetime variety format on NBC in 2008. It turned out to borrow from both those predecessors while evolving into something completely different — a low-tech lovefest that felt like eavesdropping on a group chat among friends looking out for one another in a time of need.

It was spontaneous, messy and blighted by some of the worst audio glitches imaginable. Yet it was often affectingly intimate, and even over an endurance-testing three-and-a-half commercial-free hours, also strangely addictive. The lack of slickness seemed to carry through to the relaxed manner of the guests, and their refreshing unpretentiousness.

Conceived by actor-producer (and occasional tech-support helpmate) Erich Bergen and live-streamed on Broadway.com and the website's YouTube channel, the show was a benefit for The Actors Fund, the charitable organization founded in 1882 that supports performers and behind-the-scenes theater workers. It raised more than half-a-million dollars, O'Donnell announced at the end of the marathon, sitting in a Hamilton hoodie and offering a champagne toast in a glass emblazoned with the face of Barbra Streisand.

She conducted the entire show from behind a laptop in her New Jersey garage, its floor spattered with the paint spillage of countless craft projects. "I'm a little bit of a Broadway nerd, I admit it," said O'Donnell, establishing her dual role as host and superfan.

Part of the show's unique pleasure was seeing favorite Broadway performers chilling in their own homes, almost all of them dressed down, with little visible attention to makeup or hair, and zero concern about unflattering angles. It was a great equalizer, proving that even artists who can hold packed theaters in the palm of their hands with a song are housebound and trying to make the best of a bad situation just like the rest of us — staying close to their families, killing time, learning to cook, wondering how long this unnerving isolation will last. Or how much longer we can put off that shower.

It was kind of comforting to see Idina Menzel sitting by her microwave and confessing, "I guess I'm going a little bonkers," while lamenting a failed lasagna attempt and sharing the challenges of homeschooling her son when she's no math genius. Likewise, hearing Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker talk about watching Columbo reruns or catching up on The Crown, while SJP begged for no spoilers on the final episode of The Sopranos, which she may now get to at last. Seeing Annette Bening on her Los Angeles balcony wearing a "Make America Kind Again" baseball cap was as much a tonic as watching Neil Patrick Harris do a card trick with his adorable twins. And who doesn't want to meet Gloria and Emilio Estefan's cute rescue dogs or hear about Lin-Manuel Miranda's kids' reaction to their first exposure to Singin' in the Rain?

Then there were the musical interludes.

Where else could you catch Patti LuPone, in magnificent voice, singing the urgently upbeat 1930s standard "A Hundred Years From Today," unaccompanied while sitting by the jukebox in her basement? Or Kelli O'Hara nestled into an armchair honoring Stephen Sondheim's 90th birthday by wrapping her crystalline soprano around "Take Me to the World," a hymn to unity from Evening Primrose? Or husband and wife Audra McDonald and Will Swenson duetting on the Charlie Chaplin evergreen, "Smile," from their Westchester living room? Or Darren Criss pouring his heart into another Sondheim classic about the desire for connection, "Being Alive," from Company, accompanying himself in a lovely pop arrangement on acoustic guitar from the sofa of his Los Angeles home? And while sound problems plagued Barry Manilow's selection of hits, ending with "I Made It Through the Rain," I was tickled to see his Judy Garland Kleenex dispenser.

Many of the song choices were thoughtfully apropos of the current crisis, offering comforting reassurance of the eventual return of resilience and togetherness while people in major cities all over the country self-isolate as the infection rate of the coronavirus pandemic continues to climb. Maybe Tituss Burgess at his home keyboard singing "The Glory of Love" is exactly the kind of uplift we all need right now.

Even in the seemingly random numbers, the entire enterprise was characterized by a spirit of generosity and sharing.

Kristin Chenoweth celebrated a Starbucks romance in "Taylor the Latte Boy." Matthew Morrison goofed it up on ukulele to a mashup of "The Bare Necessities" and "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah" from his Disney Dreamin' album. Alan Menken whipped through a medley of his songs from The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast and Little Shop of Horrors, among others, at the piano. Ben Platt, also at the keyboard, did Bob Dylan's "Make You Feel My Love." And Adrienne Warren, the sensational star of Tina: The Tina Turner Musical, growled out "Simply the Best" from her bathtub. That was on the third attempt during a particularly troublesome audio patch, by which time her bubbles were history.

Prompted by O'Donnell, more than one guest reminded viewers that The Actors Fund is not just about Broadway artists pulling star salaries but also stagehands, makeup artists, wigmakers and ushers who work in what is very much a gig economy. The organization provides emergency financial assistance, social services, affordable housing, healthcare and insurance counseling and addiction support.

"Everything's a one-off," said Tony-winning actor Brian Stokes Mitchell, who serves as chairman of The Actors Fund. "That's how we get by, and many people are living on the edge right now."

"We're all just one, two, maybe three paychecks away from bankruptcy," added Billy Porter, whose mother is in an Actors Fund nursing home. "In this community, our whole job description is insecurity," said Judith Light.

Porter, along with Lea Salonga and longtime activist Light recalled how Broadway was on the frontlines of another life-threatening struggle during the early days of the AIDS crisis. All of them urged viewers to stay strong and take the time to reflect on the value of solidarity.

While O'Donnell has never been shy about her opposition to Donald Trump and everything he stands for, the show was remarkably light on politics, with just the occasional dig slipping through. She opened with a little celebratory "Yay!" while admitting she had missed the president's daily coronavirus press update, and then explained that she and her guests were not there to talk Trump. When Harvey Fierstein, O'Donnell's 2005 stage husband in Fiddler on the Roof, reminded her of all the election work still to be done, she said, "Let's all just know, we deserve a leader who tells the truth." And the delays in making coronavirus testing more widely available prompted a comment that the government should have gotten busy on that back in January when the writing was already on the wall.

Mostly, however, the hastily revamped Rosie O'Donnell Show was about bringing people together at this time of anxiety and isolation, as the host reconnected with artists whom she has championed since her reign as the Queen of Nice. "Everyone in the community loves you," she told Chita Rivera in a particularly effusive greeting. "You are our queen mother!"

Many of the performers would have been decompressing after rehearsals or Sunday matinees if the Broadway shutdown hadn't happened — Criss in American Buffalo, Broderick and Parker in Plaza Suite, Warren in Tina, Lauren Patten and Elizabeth Stanley in Jagged Little Pill. Sunday would have been LuPone's opening night in the gender-flipped revival of Company. Gavin Creel, who abruptly ended his London run in Waitress to fly home and is in isolation in a cabin in upstate New York, revealed the fear that he might have contracted the virus, given that several others in the cast have fallen ill, with one of them testing positive.

The show bridged the gap separating us from artists whose work we normally experience on the other side of the footlights. Most of us will never again get to see Stephen Sondheim and Andrew Lloyd Webber exchange greetings in song on the birthday the two composers happen to share. From those celebrated veterans to rising-star newbies, the common denominator here was everybody facing the crisis just like us, reaching out a hand of friendship, albeit from a mandatory safe distance.

#darren criss #rosie o’donnell #rosie o'donnell show livestream #the hollywood reporter #press #march 2020

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veneataur · 6 years

Text

Fandom: Salvation

A/N: This is a continuation of sorts from day 23. There’ll be at least one more follow up to this plot line.

On day 24 Darius and Liam wind up in bed together, but there’s nothing romantic about it.

When Darius finally manages to open his eyes it’s late and he’s not 100% sure what is going on, but that might be a result of his rolling stomach and fever-muddled mind. He goes to rub at the sleep in his eyes, hoping that might help and is stopped when an unfamiliar hand grabs onto his. He can’t help the jump because he knows it’s not Liam’s hand and no one else he trusts and besides, they’re all in the bunker for another week.

“It’s okay, Darius,” Liam says, no more strong sounding than him. “It’s just my mom.”

“Your mom?” Darius feels like he’s in a Twilight Zone episode. He remembers someone shoving him off to bed. Liam might’ve been there too. But mostly he remembers throwing up almost since sun-up, Liam waking concerned but too sick to help much. They both just laid on their respective couches, too ill to move, save for Darius to turn over to vomit in a bucket. When had Evelyn Cole arrived?

“Mid-afternoon,” Ms. Cole answers. “Liam texted me that you were both sick. It took some time to get here, but he said you had no one else to turn to.”

“How’d you get past security, Ms. Cole?”

“Call me Evelyn and security’s nothing compared to a mother’s worry for her son and friend.”

Friend? Darius startles at the word.

“How’re you feeling, Mr. Tanz?”

“I think,” Darius begins, taking stock of how he feels, including the IV in his arm that he hadn’t realized was there, “that considering how much you’ve done to look after us, you can call me Darius. I mean, I think your son lasted all of a few days before he ditched the Mr. Tanz and I’m his employer.” Darius gives her what he hopes is some semblance of his usual charming smile. By the way he feels, though, he doubts it’s anything close.

“Alright then, Darius, how’re you feeling?” Evelyn knows Darius better than he thinks. In her years as a nurse, she’s run into plenty like him and, as much as it worries her some, she sees traits in him that are so much like Liam. Darius is a good man. She knows this because Liam wouldn’t’ve stuck around, befriended someone who wasn’t. But she knows that Darius is not a happy man. She sees that every time he did a public appearance. He looks better now though, and that’s not in reference to the illness. Something had happened over the last few months, the last few months with little news of the tech genius.

“Better, I think,” Darius answers cautiously. “Liam, how’re you?” Darius turns his head to see Liam. His eyes are closed as though asleep.

“Fine.” The congestion is still clearly heard in Liam’s voice.

“No wonder you two got into such a state. You’re just as bad as the other,” Evelyn says, sighing.

“Huh?” Darius and Liam give her matching puzzled looks as they speak in near unison. Evelyn laughs, which makes them more confused.

“Neither of you can move from this bed and you think you’re fine.”

“We’re not that bad off, are we?” Darius looks at Liam. His eyes are open, but Darius sees the strain it causes.

“You’re not vomiting anymore because I’ve given you an anti-emetic and Liam’s still dealing with the last bit of a headache while the painkillers kick in. Not to mention, you both have fevers that are nicely north of 101.”

“Oh.”

“But that you’re both awake and mostly coherent for the first time since I arrived, you are doing better.”

“Thanks for coming and staying.”

“I’d do anything for Liam and one of his friends, even one who’s taken him away from me for so many weeks.” Evelyn sees Darius pause. “He’s said a lot of good things about you, though. I know you’re his boss, but you’ve done more for him than any of his bosses or professors in grad school.”

“I’m right here, mom,” Liam moans.

“Get some more sleep, Liam,” Darius says, patting the younger man’s shoulder.

“Then stop talking about me.”

“Okay,” Evelyn says, smiling. “You should get some rest too, Darius.”

“I will, but first I need…” Darius hesitates, trying to find the words.

“Thanks to those fluids you’re hydrated again, and you need to go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a nurse, Darius. This is normal to me. Let’s get you up and see how steady you are.” Evelyn helps Darius to get to his feet. It’s slow with a number of pauses as his stomach starts acting up again and his head feels light, but Evelyn waits. On his feet, he sways enough that she sticks close by until he’s standing in front of the toilet, one hand on the counter to hold himself steady.

“You don’t strike me as the shy type, but I’ll wait outside with the door half shut,” Evelyn says. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t dare nod because he’s already feeling unsteady. Evelyn takes one last look before stepping outside to wait. She knows he’s not doing well, but she knows from Liam that Darius likes his privacy. When he calls for her after finishing and washing his hands, she’s glad that he’s not unreasonable either.

“I do appreciate you coming all this way and helping us both out,” Darius says quietly once he’s settled back on his side of the bed. Liam is finally asleep.

“As I said before, I’d do anything for Liam and his friends. Though, I would’ve rather met you under different circumstances.”

“My apologies for that. Another time, perhaps?”

“When you two are better.”

“And this crisis over.”

“Yes, this crisis,” Evelyn says wondering what her son has gotten himself into. “Now, get some sleep.”

“Are you staying much longer,” Darius asks after a pause.

“Through morning at least. You two are doing better, but you’re both still too sick to be left alone.”

“There’s a foldaway bed in the closet. Sheets and a pillow are there too. I can help you get it if you want.”

“No, I can manage. Thanks. Now, get some sleep.”

#cbs salvation #darius tanz #liam cole #evelyn cole #darius' and liam's thirty days #fan fiction

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haltandcatchfiretothemax · 7 years

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Halt and Catch Fire Soundtrack Appreciation 4/??: The Breeders and “Cannonball”

So, Back In The '90s, corporate interest in 'underground', 'alternative', and 'grunge' rock seemed to have this weird effect on how we categorize 'cool' versus 'uncool', and 'popular' versus 'unpopular', and how we value those categories -- suddenly, 'popular' was broadly considered unfashionable? it was a bizarre but important cultural moment where literally mentally ill, working class, former foster care kids like Courtney Love, Kurt Cobain, and a lot of other talented but generally socially invisible people began to achieve the kind of celebrity reserved for movie stars, pop stars and athletes, and were suddenly seen by certain outlets as cooler, smarter, more interesting Hollywood's beautiful people. By the time I got to middle school, the weirdos I knew were already listening to grunge, and the preppy kids I knew followed suit, and suddenly started to be nice ('nice') to som4 of the weird loner types.

The cool outcast misfit types listened to grunge, but who were the cool kids' fave bands' fave bands? Well, they listened to early/first gen punk, 'real' underground, 'indie' and college rock. I remember reading interviews where Courtney and Kurt would talk about their devotion to (now relatively well-known) bands like R.E.M., Big Black, The Replacements, Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü -- and especially Pixies and The Breeders.

"Cannonball" is the first single from the Breeders' 1993 second album, Last Splash. It is an incredibly deceptive alternative pop rock jam whose feel and lyrics make it sound like it's about a crush or a fling ("want you/cuckoo/cannonball"; "I'll be your whatever you want") when it's actually a musical eye roll at men (and/or male bandmates?) who like to bully the people around them. Musically and sonically lighter and sillier and more upbeat than a lot of grunge and other alternative rock, "Cannonball" and the rest of the Breeders' catalogue is also still really loud, percussive, and electric guitar/distortion-oriented (as evidenced by the album's opener, which might be my favorite song by them, volume UP, my friends).

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The Breeders are fronted by twin sisters Kim and Kelley Deal, a pair of women who really just aren't about being image-conscious in the way that even platinum selling women musicians are expected to be. There is nothing conventionally ~feminine~ about their affect or behavior, nothing about them feels managed or like it's wearing Spanx, you feel me? (I'm not shaming or shading anyone who does wear Spanx or performs conventional femininity, I'm just saying.) They don't look 'bad' when they're on-stage or onscreen, but they also don't seem to bother themselves with making any special effort to look any particular way, forget particularly alluring. In interviews, they're thoughtful but a little kooky, a little rambly, very funny, but they're assertive. Nothing about either of them comes off as shy, self-deprecating, or self-conscious.

The Breeders' buzz initially came from Kim Deal's work with another huge 'indie' band of the era. She was a founding member of Pixies, who are still one of Those Bands that obnoxious music snob bros will cross-examine you about if they get the chance. Those bros all revere Pixies' frontman as a genius and never seem to have anything to say about Kim, or her and frontman’s reportedly poor professional relationship. It happens that Kim Deal is largely responsible for what is arguably Pixies' most beloved and recognizable song, "Gigantic", from their 1988 debut album. It is definitely the most gorgeous and energetic of their songs that people actually know.

Which might really be the source of the tension that always existed between Kim & Pixies' frontman. He thought of Pixies as his project, for his artistic ~voice~ or what have you, and despite the success of "Gigantic" he refused to record and release any of her songs on their later albums. It's difficult to understand that as anything more than run-of-the-mill insecurity, and possibly jealousy. A talented, creative woman, trapped in a project with an obstinate, intractable, possessive male 'genius' -- does that sound like any characters we know? -- Kim did the only thing she really could do: she used Pixies' hiatus to go off and start a new project of her own, which would become The Breeders.

Which brings us, finally, to Cameron and her Airstream. (Spoilers for Halt and Catch Fire 4x04 below.)

We hear "Cannonball" over a montage of Cameron driving her new trailer out to a parcel of land she's just bought and setting up her temporary campsite. It's easy to take this scene for granted -- honestly, who would say no to any montage where Mack is wearing that sleeveless crop top, overalls, and boots??? -- but inadvertent lesbian eye candy aside, why does the show want us to see this? It's not really necessary; we would have guessed that Cameron did that work without seeing it.

The work that she's doing is important though. Cameron is slowly starting to build her own life, by herself. In a way she's rebuilding, but on some level, this is the first time she's embracing her autonomy, as opposed to her prior attempts to build a life and maintain a marriage by ceding her autonomy to a man. Cameron literally owns everything in that scene, and she bought it herself, with money from her financially successful game design career.

Not unlike Kim Deal forming the Breeders, Cameron is in kind of a strange if mostly good spot here. She's ten years into her career, and she's not a kid anymore, but she's a young adult whose life and career are from settled or over. She's worked hard, and had some successes, and she's also faced some real setbacks, and she's learning to work through these sort of first real grown up life/work challenges. In this scene, we see that she's okay, and that she's starting to figure what needs to be done, and she's doing that work. When she sits down by her new fire pit at the end of the scene, she seems content, in contrast to the later scene where she sits by herself after Gordon and Bos leave, and she looks like she might cry. Staying busy and doing necessary work is good and helpful for Cameron, but clearly, hoping that the people in her life will solve her loneliness and other personal issues doesn't work. (Life hint: other people never solve anyone's loneliness, and the sooner you learn that, the better for your emotional health and stability.)

Learning to fully assume responsibility for and take control of your life is a luxury that doesn't feel luxurious. It's daunting, it's expensive, and no matter how hard you work or how positive you think, you realize that there is so much over which you have no control, and that you really don't know how it's going to work out, or what's going to happen. After childhood trauma and years of rootlessness, Cameron is particularly prone to real anxiety about The Future, and where she'll end up.

As for Kim Deal: the Breeders were massively successful. Pixies broke up (also in 1993, hmm), Kim was allegedly notified by their frontman via fax (…lmao), and then the Breeders went on hiatus for a while, and then came back, and then Pixies reunited and Kim wound up finally leaving the band. The point is, none of it stopped her from working or becoming a well-known and respected songwriter, or from spending the last 20 years making the Breeders a hugely influential and inspiring band.

None of us know where we'll end up, or where this show is going with all of this, and we're all worried about what these showrunners are gonna do to Donna and Cam. But the invocation of "Cannonball" and the sound of Kim Deal's wise, irreverent, irrepressible voice bodes well, or to me, at least.

#i enjoyed writing this way too much #i am a geek and i accept it #cameron howe #halt and catch fire s4 #4x04 #tonya and nancy #halt and catch fire to the max originals!#original halt and catch fire to the max analysis!#h&cf soundtrack appreciation

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spiteweaver · 7 years

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Interview #1: Banrai

[ From the private files of Delucius Shadowheart ]

“Thanks for taking the time to chat with me, Banrai.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.”

As I shuffle my parchment into place, I glance up briefly to meet Banrai’s gaze. I am pleased to note that he appears sincere--this interview really isn’t a bother, and judging by the gentle, relaxed slope of his shoulders, he’s perfectly comfortable in my presence. I don’t know what I was expecting. He’s the clan’s emotional core for a reason.

It does make me question how someone so good-natured ended up with a terror like Dreamweaver, though--and not for the last time.

“Have you ever been interviewed before?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “No one’s ever asked to interview me.”

“Huh.” I tap the tip of my quill against the inkwell. “Feldspar is a major hub for trade in the east,” I say. “I’m shocked my colleagues didn’t beat me to you. You and Dreamweaver aren’t exactly nobodies in Sornieth after all.”

Banrai laughs. It’s that deep, fruity laugh, like a late-summer afternoon, that he’s so well-known for. “Surely you’re exaggerating,” he says. “Our clan isn’t even that large. I could understand Dreamweaver being somewhat of a celebrity abroad--they’re old, powerful, and one of the Lightweaver’s most trusted disciples. I’m just a common tailor, though.”

“You...” I catch his eye and feel my brows furrow. “No offense, but you’re a little on the oblivious side, aren’t you?”

“None taken!” Banrai laughs again, then takes a long, thoughtful sip of tea. “Business doesn’t take me out of the village often,” he explains, “and Dreamweaver is so much more politically experienced than I am that I rarely have anything to do with official clan matters. They don’t like to talk about work when we’re together either; they’d much rather hear what I have to say, for some unfathomable reason.”

“So you don’t get info from outside often,” I conclude.

“Yes,” Banrai says, “I suppose that’s what I’m getting at. If I feel I need to know something, I make an effort to know it. Otherwise, I’m more interested in affairs here at home.”

“Well,” I say, “you’re just as popular 'abroad’ as Dreamweaver.”

“Really?” he asks. “I can’t imagine why.”

“People admire your kindness and generosity,” I reply. “You may not be a political genius, but you’ve got one hell of a heart.”

“That’s...” Banrai’s cheeks turn a shade darker, and he averts his gaze shyly. “That’s good to hear,” he says. “I’m honored. I hope I can live up to their expectations.”

“You already have, if they’re out there singing your praises.”

“O-oh.”

I’m beginning to understand myself why everyone I’ve interviewed has spoken so highly of Banrai. Not only is he pure of heart, but he’s humble to boot. Once again, I find myself wondering how in the Arcanist’s good name he fell for a hellion like Dreamweaver--but I’ll save that question for last.

“So,” I begin again, “let’s talk about your life before Feldspar.”

“Goodness...” Banrai touches a hand to his cheek in thought. “There’s not a whole lot to talk about,” he says. “My world didn’t expand much beyond my birth clan until I met Dreamweaver. I learned a great deal in my travels, about history, and language, and culture, but I didn’t experience it.” He smiles uncertainly. “Does that make sense?”

“You were an outsider looking in,” I supply. “It makes sense.”

“Meeting and falling in love with Dreamweaver sparked something in me,” he goes on. He’s staring into his tea now, his once unsure smile melted into a warm, giddy grin. “I was happy with my family before they came along, but after--after, I felt I needed something more. I had a life before Feldspar, it just wasn’t nearly as full as this one.”

“How would your parents feel,” I say, “knowing that you feel fuller away from them than with them?”

“It’s not a matter of being or not being with them,” Banrai is quick to assure. “If my parents were here with me, my life would be even fuller. It’s more about what new opportunities founding a clan opened up for me. My mother and father never did anything to stifle me, but, as you’ve already pointed out, I’m a simple drake, so I wasn’t even aware there were options other than staying with them and tailoring.”

“Dreamweaver made you aware of those options?”

“Yes.” Banrai nods his agreement. “My childhood was warm and full of love,” he says, “but it was limited. Now that I’ve grown, looking back on my youth is like--like staring at the tiny figures in a snow globe. They’re happy, their world is comfortable and safe, but they know nothing beyond it. It’s not a bad life, it’s a very good one, but there’s no growth, there’s no change.

“My parents--they prefer a more static existence. It’s less complicated, and neither myself nor they have ever been complex dragons. They’re also much older than I am, however--and I was even younger when I met Dreamweaver. They were comfortable where they were, they had grown enough, they had changed enough; I was not, had not, have not.”

“Hmm.” I look between Banrai and the parchment, scribbling frantically to keep up with his impassioned speech. “That’s unexpectedly profound,” I say, “for a simple drake.”

“I’ve had a long time to think on it,” he replies.

“I guess that answers my other question then.”

“Hmm? What might that be?”

“I was going to ask what you see in Dreamweaver,” I confess. “The two of you make an odd coupling. Dreamweaver is more cautious, more reserved, more prone to weaponizing their status--”

“Dreamweaver does not weaponize their status.”

I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Banrai, who, for as long as I have known (and observed) him, has been nothing but forgiving and compassionate, is now looking at me with anger in his eyes. His serene smile has been replaced by a frown, and he’s drumming his fingers on the table rapidly.

I’ve touched a nerve.

“You have to admit, Banrai,” I continue tentatively, “that they have a bad habit of intimidating anyone who disagrees with them.”

“They don’t intimidate others over mere disagreements,” Banrai insists. “They use fear only when they feel it is absolutely necessary. Delucius, I’m simple, I’m oblivious, but I’m not an idiot. I know that I’ve convinced them to grant residency to a good number of potentially dangerous people. Those are decisions I will have to live with should any of them ever succumb to the darkness within their hearts, and I made those decisions, because I really and truly believe everyone deserves a second chance, everyone can be a good person.

“Dreamweaver is doing what they feel they must to ensure that they do not succumb to that darkness before it has a chance to be quelled. If that means reminding them that they could never hope to stand against the might of their founder, so be it. In the meantime, I and the rest of the clan will do our best to bring light into their hearts. Dreamweaver is protecting us.”

“So they’re not just in it for the rush?” I ask.

“That you would suggest that is grossly offensive,” he replies. “You must not know Dreamweaver well if you think so ill of them.”

“I don’t think ill of them,” I say. It’s a half-truth, and Banrai knows it. His eyes narrow. “I don’t think that ill of them, anyway. You’re right, though, I don’t know them very well. My brief meetings with them have not been pleasant, and I’m not ashamed to say I hold a nasty grudge.”

“Delucius...” Banrai sighs. His smile returns. It’s weaker than before, but still genuine. “That’s because you’re constantly causing trouble for the clan,” he says. “They’re wary of you, that’s all. The dragons here have painful secrets to keep, and you--well, not to be rude, but you’re a gossip hound.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“They’re just worried you’ll dig a little too deeply one day.”

I purse my lips. I can’t argue with his reasoning. In fact, I’ve very likely already dug a little too deeply. The image of a certain necromancer flashes through my mind.

I am suddenly very glad Dreamweaver declined to be interviewed.

“Okay,” I say, “I guess it’s good to know that they aren’t as power-hungry as I thought they were. I ‘dunno if we’ll ever get along, though. We’re just too different, they and I.”

“That’s all right,” Banrai says, “not everyone has to get along with everyone else. I’ll settle for setting the record straight.”

“So what do you see in them, beyond the part they played in broadening your horizons?” I ask again. “The two of you may as well be night and day, even if they aren’t a power-hungry tyrant who gets their kicks bullying poor, defenseless investigative journalists.”

“I never said they didn’t get their kicks ‘bullying’ you,” Banrai says with a chuckle. “They do like watching troublemakers squirm.”

“Would they, uh, appreciate you sharing that information?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,” he replies, “and neither would the clan. They aren’t particularly shy about it; it’s common knowledge by now.”

“You see?” I say. “Night and day.”

“Opposites attract,” Banrai says with a shrug. “We complement each other. They help me stay logical. I help them sympathize. They’re brilliant, beautiful, wise. They are--” He pauses, his grip tightening on his mug. “They are so full of light. They are so radiant that I sometimes have to turn away from them, fearing I may go blind.”

I have been an investigative journalist for cycles of my life, a detective for even longer, and never, in all my eons, have I seen a drake look more in love than Banrai looks right now, sitting in this cramped room, talking about how wonderful his mate is. It strikes a chord deep within me.

“There’s no one in this world I love more,” he says, “and it’s because of our differences that I love them so.”

“Your relationship is inspiring,” I say. “I’m not one for such things, but even I can see that the two of you are something special. It isn’t any wonder young dragons from all across Sornieth consider your marriage ‘relationship goals.’”

“Ah, do they now?” His smile becomes strained. I can tell that he doesn’t quite grasp the concept. “Well, that’s very kind of them,” he says. “I’m happy to know that Dreamy and I are good, er, role models.”

“On a more serious topic...” I lean forward slightly. Banrai’s smile grows tighter. “How do you feel about the direction the clan is going?” I ask. “There’s been a great deal of turmoil around here lately. Dreamweaver’s in charge of that mess, but, well, I’d like to hear your opinion.”

“I can’t speak on it in the sort of detail Dreamweaver can,” Banrai says, “but I think things are going as well as they could be, given the circumstances. The appointment of our Flight Representatives went smoothly; they’ve been accepted by the clan, and that’s the best we could have hoped for. Clan Aphaster is settling in well after their ordeal--”

“Let’s talk about Clan Aphaster for a bit,” I suggest. “How do you think relationships with them are now, with the Shard line discontinued?”

“The same as they’ve always been,” Banrai replies. “They may no longer be Clan Shard, but they are still our friends and allies. Telos is doing a bang-up job of things, the reconstruction is coming along, there haven’t been any major incidents. Their move to Light opens up greater opportunities for both clans too; but, again, Dreamweaver could speak more intimately on that than I ever could.”

“You don’t think there’s any hard feelings between your clans?” I ask. “They’re Arcanites, and they don’t seem particularly keen on assimilating.”

“That’s between them and the Lightweaver,” Banrai says. “They have their traditions, and I like to think She will accept that. We’ll do our best to help them adjust in a way that preserves their culture and identity.”

“Even if the Lightweaver disagrees?”

“I don’t think it’s our place to say what the Lightweaver agrees and disagrees with,” Banrai says. “Dreamweaver seems satisfied, and they’re in direct contact with Her. If the Lightweaver takes issue with anything Clan Aphaster does, I’m sure Dreamweaver will speak with Telos on the matter and come up with a solution that benefits both parties.”

“You really don’t seem worried,” I note.

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “Telos is a bright young dam, and Dreamweaver has the experience of an ancient. They’ll be able to figure out most anything, if they put their minds to it.”

“What about other tensions?” I ask. “Lutia remains a part of Clan Aphaster. You don’t think her presence might cause some upset?”

“I’m sure it will,” Banrai says, “but this isn’t her fault. She’s a victim in all of this, as much as anyone else. What happened was a tragedy, and it took her son from her.”

“People died.”

“Yes, and Dreamweaver and I still mourn their loss.”

“Doesn’t that deserve some sort of punishment?”

“Is the guilt not punishment enough?” he asks. “Is the loss of her son not punishment enough? Is the fear she sees in her clanmates’ eyes not punishment enough? She is suffering for what she did and from what she lost. Anything more would be insult to injury.”

“There are those in both clans who disagree.”

“That’s their right.”

“You’re surprisingly stubborn.”

“I try not to be,” he says, “but Lutia is one of our oldest friends. We know what caused all of this, and it wasn’t her. She isn’t the root of the problem; punishing her more than she has already punished herself would accomplish nothing positive.” He smiles again, wryly. “Can we go back to talking about how much I love Dreamweaver? That was nice.”

“Sorry,” I say, “but you’re a founder. I’ve gotta ask the hard-hitting questions.”

“I understand,” he says with another sigh, “but political talk is so exhausting.”

“Are you worried about other inter-clan clashes?” I ask. “The Smoke Gyre frequents Clan Aphaster. Your Beastclan Ambassador, Fiver--won’t he have something to say about that when he returns from the Volcanic Vents?”

“If he does,” Banrai says, “he’ll go through the proper channels. Fiver isn’t a rash drake. I trust him to handle any bad blood with dignity.”

“How do you think Clan Aphaster feels about Shard?”

“The Radiant?”

“Junior.”

“Oh.” Banrai casts his gaze down. For the first time since the interview began, he looks anxious. “I hope they won’t hold it against him,” he says. “He was manipulated, just like Sliver and Fragment. He’s also a victim, and I feel he suffers more terribly than anyone.”

“More terribly than those who lost their loved ones?”

“It’s a different kind of pain,” he says. “It’s a kind that not many in either of our clans can fully comprehend. If Lutia ever forgives him, they’ll have quite a lot to talk about.”

“You think they suffer in similar ways?”

“Yes,” he says, “and in different ways as well.”

“If Clan Aphaster shuns him,” I say, “what action will Clan Feldspar take?”

“Dreamweaver and I will stand by him,” Banrai assures. “We will do what we must to help our allies see that he isn’t their enemy. I don’t think it will come to that, though. Clan Aphaster is made up of many wonderful people. Junior is barely old enough to be called a drake. They won’t shun him for his mistakes.”

“You seem confident.”

“I am. I trust our friends implicitly.”

“Final topic.” Banrai seems relieved. His shoulders slump, and he lets out an inaudible sigh. “How do you feel about Phantasos spending so much time in Aphaster territory?” I ask. “He’s your son and your heir by blood, and rumor has it he’s been consorting with a certain being of unknown origin.”

“Faded?” Banrai says. “I don’t think their relationship is anything to worry about. Faded has their own way of doing things, but I’ve never known them to be malicious without need. I think Phantasos can learn a great deal about being Other from them.”

“‘Other?’ What does that mean?”

“It’s a word Dreamweaver uses to describe non-draconic beings,” he explains. “Phantasos has my draconic blood running through his veins, but he’s still fundamentally different from a dragon. Having an Other friend in Faded may help him grow and adapt to life among dragonkind.”

“You don’t worry about Faded’s nebulous nature?”

“No,” he says, “Dreamweaver is the same. Neither of them are natives of this world--not strictly speaking. Just because we can’t possibly understand everything about them doesn’t mean we can’t trust them. Trust comes from who you are, not what you are.

“Besides that, Dreamweaver would never let Phantasos associate with a dangerous Other. If they trust Faded, so do I. They know more about Others than I do.” He smiles again, bright and warm. “Phantasos adores Faded. He thinks they’re fascinating. It’s really quite cute.”

“Cute...”

I don’t know if I’d call two beings of incomprehensible power and unfathomable origin getting together to talk otherworldly phenomena “cute,” but Banrai’s married to one of them, so I guess I just don’t get it.

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #the delucius files #c: delucius #c: banrai

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over Shakespeare. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry painted girls who sat by them. Some women were laughing in the pit; their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.

“What a place to find one’s divinity in!” said Lord Henry.

“Yes!” answered Dorian Gray. “It was here I found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. When she acts you will forget everything. These common people here, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.”

“Oh, I hope not!” murmured Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said Hallward. “I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvellous, and any girl that has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age,–that is something worth doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. God made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete.”

“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I [37] knew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good in me.”

A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at,–one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded, enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Dorian Gray sat motionless, gazing on her, like a man in a dream. Lord Henry peered through his opera-glass, murmuring, “Charming! charming!”

The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim’s dress had entered with Mercutio and his friends. The band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, as she danced, as a plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were like the curves of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.

Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo. The few lines she had to speak,–

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss,–

with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in color. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.

Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.

Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her.

She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She over-emphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage,–

Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night,–

[38] was declaimed with the painful precision of a school-girl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines,–

Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, “It lightens.” Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet,–

she spoke the words as if they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she seemed absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.

Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself.

When the second act was over there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let us go.”

“I am going to see the play through,” answered the lad, in a hard, bitter voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to both of you.”

“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted Hallward. “We will come some other night.”

“I wish she was ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. To-night she is merely a commonplace, mediocre actress.”

“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art.”

“They are both simply forms of imitation,” murmured Lord Henry. “But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one’s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don’t suppose you will want your wife to act. So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating,–people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”

“Please go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I really want to be alone.- -Basil, you don’t mind my asking you to go? Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to his eyes. His [39] lips trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.

“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry, with a strange tenderness in his voice; and the two young men passed out together.

A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up, and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots, and laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act was played to almost empty benches.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing alone there, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried.

“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement,–"horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered.”

The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips,–"Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don’t you?”

“Understand what?” he asked, angrily.

“Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never act well again.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn’t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored.”

She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated her.

“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night, and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came,–oh, my beautiful love!–and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness, of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To- night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You have made me understand what love really is. My love! my love! I am sick [40] of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What should they know of love? Take me away, Dorian– take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it all means? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that.”

He flung himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face. “You have killed my love,” he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder, and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and stroked his hair with her little fingers. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up, and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were wonderful, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to me, once. Why, once . . . . Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! What are you without your art? Nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have belonged to me. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face.”

The girl grew white, and trembled. She clinched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?” she murmured. “You are acting.”

“Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered, bitterly.

She rose from her knees, and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.

A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she whispered. “I am so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try,–indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me,–if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Can’t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard, and try to [41] improve. Don’t be cruel to me because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me; and yet I couldn’t help it. Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.

“I am going,” he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me.”

She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre.

Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.

When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade- green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its gray sun- bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. After some time he hailed a hansom and drove home. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. As he was passing through the library towards the door of his bedroom, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back in surprise, and then went over to it and examined it. In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face seemed to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly curious.

He turned round, and, walking to the window, drew the blinds up. The bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows [42] into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

He winced, and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids, that Lord Henry had given him, he glanced hurriedly into it. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean?

He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly apparent.

He threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his prayer had not been answered? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now.

But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that [43] makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would alter more. Its gold would wither into gray. Its red and white roses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more,–would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he stepped out on the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of Sibyl Vane. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

#DorianGray

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