The Bear and Barnacle

Faramir was given his first sword so long ago he doesn't remember not owning one and while he was at first much more interested in his books than in weaponry it was not long before the influence of his adored brother began to set in. Boromir is ten years his senior and Faramir has spent the entirety of his sixteen years thinking his brother a god.

In some ways the two could not seem more different even though they look so much alike. Even as children it was so. As Boromir sat beside their father Denethor in court and eagerly learned from the citadel guard all he could discover and some things he shouldn't have repeated, Faramir spent his time following the keeper of Gondor's ancient library and doing odd jobs for the Wardens of the Houses of Healing. He was at his father's knee only to ask for answers and stories rather than to absorb and adopt the ways of the ruler. By the time the brothers were eight and eighteen Boromir had picked up many mannerisms of their father and commanded his first expeditions with a tone and mind very familiar to the men in his service. Faramir was said to resemble his mother or neither parent in his shy nature and his willingness to listen to any snippet of lore or history that someone would tell him.

So it startled a few of his tutors and the servants of the house when at thirteen quiet, bookish Faramir began challenging Boromir to practice swordsmanship with him. Boromir indulged him and Faramir always lost.

But he persevered and refused when Boromir kept offering to go easy on him. He learned more from the losing than he would have from a swordsman of his own ability and soon that ability was greatly expanded. Their illmatched practice never seemed to draw more than half curious glances from Denethor, but Boromir's laughter and the rough hand ruffling Faramir's hair – those gave the boy a warm, steady glow that no other's praise and no other's touch could equal.

Now that he is uprooted from home and far from the warmth of his brother's love and the long-held hope of his father's approval, Faramir carries his sword close by him even though he's already noticed that very few in this place go armed. Its weight at his side is comforting as he pushes into the Pub having come on Mina's recommendation. Here in this strange and frightening place it is a touch of home and a memory of his brother that he cannot imagine doing without.

When he sees the paper that morning, Severus snarls wordlessly to himself, state of mind throwing itself back several years in an instant, and leaves a note for Q asking him to take care of the day's brewing (except for the copper cauldron, which he should just throw a stasis spell on). Twice is coincidence? Sod that. He's still not going to write the 'all afire to be on campaign' note that he's been dying to for weeks, or call in the cavalry, but it is time to do something else. Just because no one's been actually killed yet means... enough to matter, but not to reassure; it's early days of a very familiar pattern.

( Some of the spells, he'd learned from Moody, once they'd resolved their differences.* )

At four o'clock, utterly drained from so many nearly permanent spells, letting the small presence-concealers and deceptions melting away slowly as he's nearly too tired to banish them, he presses Holmes's doorbell. Here's hoping that Albus isn't off having tea in a shop somewhere and can remind him of protections he's missed, that Holmes isn't and can tell him where people who need more protection than he's been able to lay on today live. Not having said a word to anyone all day, when the door is opened, he's not quite too weary to be startled by what comes out of his mouth.

* This had involved a two-hour duel, evenings on end of grading and reading through the Albus And Alastor Knitting And Comedy hour, an ambush on an attempted ambush (wherein Alastor got petrified and his wand stolen and sent up to Albus but not hurt, which Moody found persuasive, although not convincing), and a really dreadful pun involving cocaine and hallucinatory alligators, which had gone on for nearly ten minutes before someone failed to keep an entirely straight face. The final blow had been when Moody, during his recovery period from Crouch's box, had been cajoled by one of Severus's all-time favorite pupils into flying a kite outside, and then taught her a few charms to stop other students stealing her books and shoes. Severus had sent him an obviously-hexed card which, when the hex was disabled, manifested a bottle of really good lubrication for Moody's false leg, and Moody had smacked him so hard upside the back of the head on the way to the Great Hall the next day that he'd thought it was Hagrid. And that was that.

From the Kent Chronicle

Margate- Fire roared through a block of shops on Churchfield Place, causing an as-yet undetermined amount of damage. Declared a total loss however, was Stearns’ Antiques and Collectibles, an upscale establishment that caters to the tourist trade. “It’s a shame really,” proprietor Thomas Stearns said. “Everything’s insured yeah, but some of these pieces were one of a kind.” Fire Chief Peter Brown said the cause of the fire was under investigation and that arson could not been ruled out at this point. “We’re checking everything,” Chief Brown told reporters. He also urged people to stay away from the scene, saying it was dangerous and he didn’t want the investigating team pestered by onlookers.

Firefighter Brian Davis was injured when a chimney collapsed on him. He was taken to Margate Hospital, where he is listed in guarded condition with a concussion.

Stearns, a strong front-runner for a seat on the Thanet District Council, had no comment on how this situation might affect his campaign.

He pulled himself out of what felt like the best, most restful nap he’d ever had. In fact, he was a bit reluctant to wake, but something told his brain his work was done, and that the dream he was in could conclude itself. The boy…no, the man, had already succeeded. The world would be righted at last.

He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaking through the clouds overhead, and looked around. A beach. Well, there were certainly worse places to find oneself than the shore of England.

He knew very well he ought to be dead. Remembered dying quite clearly – a face, a flash of green light. And yet here he was, and quite sure he was living despite it all. He felt better than he had in years, in fact, as if a great burden had been lifted. Well, it had, he reasoned with himself. And his nose itched. He idly reached up with his right hand and then paused, eyes crinkling in amusement as a perfectly whole, un-cursed hand presented itself.

On a beach, seemingly whole and healthy, and with not a care in the world for once. He looked around again, and seeing buildings in the distance, began walking toward them. Being not-dead and waking from a long nap left one exceedingly thirsty. He looked at the signs above windows as he walked, finally seeing what was unmistakably a pub. Adjusting his hat and lifting the hem of his robes slightly, he stepped up and in the door.