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.

“There are guns, knives of all sorts, spears, bows and arrows, and of course, your wand,” Rodolphus says, slowly getting to his feet and making his way to the bar. “But I want to remind you that anything, anything! can be used as a weapon, either for offense or defense. Even rocks, though their range and accuracy is limited. This for example.” He picks up a chopstick from the bar and holds it up, examining it. “Even this can be used as a weapon.” He saunters back to his table, where two people are seated, immobile, staring at nothing. “Don’t believe me?” he grins around. “Watch!” And he places the chopstick at the eye of the bushy-haired girl and pushes slowly, with steady pressure. There isn’t an audible sound, but the end of the chopstick disappears. The girl doesn’t react at all; she just continues sitting and staring, a half-centimeter of chopstick embedded in her eye. “You have to be careful not to go too far, too fast,” Rodolphus explains, a professor delivering a lecture. “Or you’ll penetrate the brain case before you’re ready.” He withdraws the chopstick, its end now glistening with eyeball jelly. “There aren’t many things worse than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Rodolphus chuckles. “But there are things just as bad.” And he takes the chopstick and jams it into the ear of the gangly red-headed boy at the table. The chopstick goes in a bit farther this time. Again, there is no reaction to the assault. Rodolphus pulls out the now-sticky chopstick. “Have to see if the Bertie Bott’s people might want this,” he says, appraising the goo. “So you see,” he goes on, propping his elbow on the head of the girl, who now has a shiny trail running down her face. “Just about anything you can put your hands on can be used as a weapon.” He tosses the chopstick on the table. “As for my favourite,” he shrugs, “whatever does the most damage.”

Rodolphus normally paid about as much attention to the weather as he did to the state of his fingernails. But now, finished with the young man snatched because of his resemblance to Harry Potter (he had dark hair and green eyes. Close enough), he realised it was stifling in the little shack on the beach he’d appropriated for his own. There weren’t any windows and the only door was shut and sealed so he wouldn’t be interrupted. Of course, there was a silencing charm on the place. It wouldn’t do for the screams of his victims to be heard. He surveyed the blood-soaked room, extremely pleased with himself. But Merlin it was hot! Normally, dismembering didn’t work up nearly this much of a sweat. He ran his arm across his forehead, leaving a red smear behind. He decided to go for a swim, just as soon as he put the crowning touch on the afternoon. Rodolphus picked up the skull at set it almost reverently on the shelf he’d prepared. It was the first of many he planned to decorate the shack with, and his only regret was that it wasn't the real thing. Rodolphus smiled into the green eyes he’d preserved in the skull, settling a pair of glasses procured for the occasion precariously on the face. It was hard to balance them properly as there wasn't any nose. “Don’t worry Harry,” he crooned, patting the bony, bloody cheek. “You won’t be alone for long.” Bugger all but this heat was murder! Rodolphus opened the door, squinting into the blazing sun. It was lower than he’d expected. He’d spent more time with Harry than he’d realised. He also realised that it was far hotter than it ought to be for January. Not his problem. He’d earned a respite and the water would cool him off as well as wash away all the blood. Amazing how far the stuff sprayed. Rodolphus stripped down and headed for the surf. He'd tidy up later. Maybe.

Rodolphus had worked up quite an appetite, playing with one of his toys, so after disposing of the evidence, he ambled over to the pub. Order given, with instructions to bring the food as quickly as possible, Rodolphus reached for the first of his beers. His hand brushed the fork of the place setting as he did and...




There was no 'poof', no sparkle or flash of light. Just a half-meter long skull sitting on his plate. Rodolphus' eyes widened in surprised delight. "Where did you come from?" he murmured, caressing one of the tusks.

Tricks Gone Bad!

From The Kent Chronicle

Margate residents got some extra frights last night when several executive members of the Thanet District Council were seen in situations that can only be described as shocking. William Severs, eight and his older sister Mary, eleven, were accosted on their way home from a Halloween party by a man they identified as Norman Francis. Francis grabbed young William and tried to force him into a car. The boy’s struggles and his sister’s screams attracted a passer-by who wrestled briefly with the man before Francis ran off. The Good Samaritan, Roger Miller, as well as Mary Severs, recognised Francis, a ten-year member of the council. “I voted for the b*****d,” Miller told this reporter in disgust. Miss Severs said she recognised Miller from a talk he gave at her school. “He tried to grab my brother,” the young lady said indignantly. “He’s a bad man.” Little William Severs was distraught, both by the attempted abduction and the fact that all of his Halloween candy ended up in the gutter. Vicky Severs, mother of the two children, says she plans to pursue criminal charges against Francis. “He should rot in jail! Who knows what else he’s done?”
( Read more... )

From the Kent Chronicle

In a not entirely unexpected development, the Thanet District Council today announced the resignation of the three member rubbish removal committee in the wake of the disastrous ‘rain of fish’ that has plagued the city since summer. Herschel Daulton, Mary Worth, and Charles Warren all cited exhaustion as the main reason for their leaving. “It was a bloody nightmare,” Daulton told this reporter. “Not just the fish you know, but the cats and rats and bugs that came along in the aftermath. And the squabbling over the money didn’t help. My Gran was on the Council during the war and I’d be hard pressed to say who had the worst of it. I don’t think any of us will be able to eat fish and chips again.” No special election is planned to fill the vacancies; the executive committee will assume the duties of the rubbish removal committee, pending naming other council members to the seats. Final tallies are not yet available, but it is estimated that the total cost of the clean-up will run in excess of £ 20,000.

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.

Rodolphus was in the bathroom, shaving. He was using an old-fashioned straight razor because he liked the way the cool metal felt on his skin. He tilted his head and pulled the skin taut over his jawbone. This part was always the trickiest and he took it slowly, just gliding the blade along. DING DONG! The doorbell sounded and Rodolphus started, slicing himself neatly. He cursed and dabbed at the cut, which was running blood down his neck. Before he could do a healing charm, the bell sounded once more. He swore again, and sulfurously, when he recalled that Lucius kept no house elf. Rodolphus pounded down the stairs, bare-chested, shaving foam on his face and bloody, the razor still clutched in his hand. He yanked the door open. “WHAT?!” he roared.

"I don't think I can handle this."

"I don't think you have much choice, darling."

Lucius was on his second cup of tea, and about to reach for something stronger. When he'd woken up this morning, there she'd been, standing at the edge of the bed, watching him with a soft smile. He reached for her hungrily, desperately, only to have his hands go through her. She walked toward the window, and in the morning sunlight she was translucent, almost transparent.

"You don't look like a normal ghost. Please don't be dead." he had said, pleadingly, as if begging could change anything.

"I don't think I am...I think I'm more like a memory."

She looked like Narcissa, talked like Narcissa. It was sweet torture, to be able to be sitting in the kitchen, conversing with his own dear wife, but not touch her, know she wasn't really there. She went from loving and kind to hurt and reminding him of his failures and her pain. The emotions running through Lucius were threatening to break him apart.

It was hell, but he would take it.

from the Kent Messenger

Margate- Residents and tourists in the seaside resort town got a bit of unexpected weather yesterday when a rain of fish suddenly dropped on a quiet block near the beach. The rain began at approximately 8:05AM GMT and ended some ten minutes later. Professor Fred Windbright of the Royal Meteorological Society theorised that the fish (which were mostly deep-sea dwellers) might have been the result of a water spout in the Atlantic. “They’re like Hoovers you know, waterspouts,” he commented. “Suck up anything in their path and then when the wind goes, it just drops. Not an unheard of phenomenon. Rare though, certainly. There was a rain of frogs in Essex a couple of years ago.” Naturally, this has caused some consternation for the town council, who will be meeting in emergency session to try to decide what to do about the mess. Local homeless advocates are chivying for saving the fish to feed the needy. The local animal shelter has been overwhelmed with calls to come and remove various cats, dogs, birds and other animals that are helping themselves to the bounty. The waste removal force is already complaining about the extra work this means for them, busy as they are with the increased rubbish of the season. “My lads will be clocking up the overtime,” said R P Taylor, supervisor of the local union. “I just want to know who’s going to pay for it all.” Residents of the house where the majority of the fish landed refused to speak to reporters.

He’d been on the run for so long it seemed he could scarcely recall a time when he wasn’t. After being left for dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d escaped and managed to stay hidden until his wounds had healed. Then, he’d just wandered. Anywhere and everywhere it seemed. He’d fallen in with smugglers soon after he’d healed. Working just outside of Perth, he’d been an enforcer for a gang, a task he was eminently suited for. That had ended when a dispute over territory left key members of two gangs the victims of a group entrail-expelling curse. The dock warehouse had gotten rather messily redecorated and he’d gotten two suitcases full of money. So all in all, it hadn’t been too bad, even if he did have to work with muggles. Muggles! Merlin how he hated them! It was ironic that he was safer with them then with his own kind. And so he just…drifted. Glasgow, Edinburgh, Cardiff, Liverpool, Swansea. All the bigger cities where a stranger wouldn’t get a second glance. He avoided London though. No sense begging for trouble. He’d let his hair grow out and grown a beard and mustache as a disguise of sorts. But he had no purpose any more. All he’d held dear was gone. Revenge, of course he wanted revenge. That could wait though. Wait until they didn’t expect it. And it would be all the sweeter for the waiting. But there was something, some niggling something that seemed to be calling to him. Not all the time. Sometimes months would pass and he’d feel nothing. Then, out of the blue, there it would be and he’d be off again. He had no idea what it might be. He didn’t dare hope, he just went. Finally, finally, he came to Margate. Here, whatever it was that had been calling him seemed to tell him. It’s here. He walked down the streets, noticing the shops and inns that were being readied for the summer tourists. He saw nothing and no one familiar. He ended up on a lonely stretch of beach, with only the distant cry of seagulls for company. “Show me,” he murmured to the air. “SHOW ME!” he bellowed, his face reddening. The only answer was the pounding of the waves. He picked up a rock and heaved it angrily out into the ocean. Then, Rodolphus Lestrange turned and stalked off toward the town.