The Dresden Files / Bob the Skull / 44. Scars
Title: Home
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (TV-verse)
Character: Bob, Harry
Prompt: 44. Scars
Word Count: 1,515
Rating: G
Summary: Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Harry Dresden stood just inside the threshold, his hand still resting upon the brass knob of the heavy oaken door as if it were a lifeline. The foyer stretched out before him, its parquet flooring gleaming a warm golden brown in the afternoon sunlight. With visible effort, he stepped all the way inside and let the door swing closed behind him. Shutting out sunlight. Shutting him in.
A heavy silence settled around him like a shroud weighed down by the memories of what had transpired within these walls. Ironic, then, that the grounds, the house, and all that lay within it -- a fortune in real estate and furnishings --- were now his by right of inheritance and blood.
He wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
It was, and always would be, the Morningway Estate; Uncle Justin's house. A way station between childhood and manhood, it had provided a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, three square meals a day, and a place to learn his craft. But not once had he ever thought of it as home. There had been no warmth here; no joy or love. They were alien concepts to Justin Morningway, a man driven by ambition, machinations, and a thirst for power. The few genuinely happy memories Harry could bring away from this dark and dreary place had nothing at all to do with his Uncle.
Hindsight. Gotta love it, thought Harry darkly.
Harry's footsteps rang with eerie clarity as he walked the length of the familiar hallway toward the wide study entry. The only evidence of the fateful confrontation that had transpired between himself and his uncle was a smudge of shoeblack on the polished floor and a few splinters of wood. The sight of it drove a spear of hot anger and tortured shame through the core of Harry's being, forcing him to abruptly look away.
It was self defense, he reminded himself.
But the darker Harry that shared his brain was quick to retort, Just keep telling yourself that, kiddo.
The study was deathly still, the familiar, measured tick of the grandfather clock stilled by neglect. It had been well over a month since a servant had been present to wind it. Expensive, leather-bound books stood in orderly rank and file upon their proper shelves, quietly gathering dust. Overstuffed leather chairs waited patiently beneath dark reading lamps for a master who would never return.
Harry's gaze skimmed the room's antiques and artifacts, all gleaming wood and rich textured fabrics, without truly seeing them. He wanted nothing more to do with any of these trappings. There was only one item within this house that was of any interest to him. The rest could fall into ruin and rot for all he cared.
He crossed the study toward the ornate walnut desk at its heart, pausing only a moment for a fond glance at the blackboard on its easel in a far corner. But that I was not what he had come for.
He was not surprised to find his father's magician's case missing from its customary place upon the desk's corner. It had never belonged to Justin in the first place and had already been given into Harry's keeping. But the one object he sought -- the single bequest he intended to accept and take with him - was not in its customary place. The skull of Hrothbert of Bainbridge was missing.
"No!"
The single word was filled with anguish and disappointment and perhaps the tiniest bit of fear. Not for himself; the High Council had passed its judgment and found him innocent - just. But damn it, what had they done with Bob? Had the Council kept the artifact for themselves? Or worse, destroyed it to prevent it from ever again falling into the hands of a wizard as corrupt as Justin Morningway?
"No, no, no, no, no, I won't believe that," Harry told himself and anxiously began to tear the study apart, pillow by book by chair. If the skull was here, he would find it!
But the skull was not there, and no manner of searching, yelling, or summoning would conjure it to his hand. Still, Harry would not admit defeat and so carried his search to the rest of the house, all the while repeating the same mantra over and over and over again in his mind, "He's got to be here. He's got to be here."
Harry searched for hours. When, at long last, he finally gave up, the sun had long since set and night once more claimed dominion over the world.
"The bastards," he said, hands balled into tight, trembling fists.
They'd taken the one thing - the one person -- who'd ever cared to try and make this cold tomb of a house a home. They'd taken Bob.
~ ~ ~
As usual, the warped wood of the shop door stuck tight when Harry tried to open it. In a foul mood, he very nearly blasted it from its hinges and stalked inside. When he slammed it closed behind him, it did fall off of its hinges and crashed to the floor with a puff of dust and splintered wood.
Harry didn't care. He carelessly tossed his staff aside, ignoring its clatter of protest as it bounced off of the worn leather couch and slid to the floor.
"Really, Harry," sniffed an imperious voice from close behind him. "Was that entirely necessary?"
Harry turned on his heel so fast he very nearly tripped himself. What he saw made him whoop with unrestrained joy. "BOB!"
Apparently unphased, the old ghost merely arched an eyebrow and folded his long arms across his lean chest. "I thought I taught you better. You should treat your equipment with more respect, else it will not respect you."
"Where the hell have you been?"
Mute, Bob's eyes narrowed as he pointedly glanced at the fallen hockey stick.
"Okay, okay!" Harry scooped up the staff and set it upright in the corner with exaggerated care. "Happy?"
"As a matter of fact … yes." Bob allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. "As much as a dead and damned sorcerer has any right to be."
"Right. Good. Great. Now -- where the hell have you been?!"
The ghost turned and pointed toward Harry's battered old salvage yard desk. Beside the small chest proclaiming itself the property of the Astounding Dresden was a yellowed human skull inscribed with runes and sigils.
"You weren't there when I left this morning," Harry accused.
"No, I was not," Bob admitted. "I was the 'guest' of the High Council until approximately eleven thirty-six this morning, when it was finally decided that my skull rightfully belonged to the estate of Justin Morningway. After much arguing and name calling, I might add."
"So … it belongs to me now?"
"Yes."
"Your skull."
"Correct."
"And you with it?"
"It is a 'package deal'."
"No strings?"
"None of which I am aware."
"Really?"
"Really." Bob stood just the slightest bit more stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. "You are legally and officially the master of the skull." He inclined his head and lowered his gaze submissively. "I am your humble servant."
Harry snorted. "Since when?"
"Since eleven thirty six this morning," Bob reminded him. "Now … what may I do for you?"
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"So I can, like, order you around now?"
With an exasperated sigh, Bob rolled his eyes, anticipating another round of twenty questions. "As the skull's master, that is your right."
"Okay. Okay, great. I can do this."
"Yes. I am sure that you can," Bob replied with just the slightest hint of regret. Harry seemed pleased, almost eager, to assume his role as master to slave.
Had he been so wrong about this child … no, this young man? Was he, indeed, a Morningway?
"My first order…"
Bob waited, head bowed.
"…no, my first request," Harry immediately corrected himself, "Is to ask for a promise."
Bob lifted his gaze, his expression puzzled. "A promise?"
"That you'll never lie to me. Anything you have to say, I want to hear it. If I ask you a question, I want the absolute truth."
"Even if it angers you?"
"Even if it pisses me off," he confirmed. "The only thing Uncle Justin knew how to do was lie. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm pretty sure he ordered you to lie to me a couple of times-"
"Harry…"
"-and I know it's not your fault, okay? But I've had enough of that shit. From now on, clean slate, right? No lies between us." Harry could not touch the ghost but he could touch the skull that bound him. Resting his hand on the familiar, dry cranium, he concluded, "That's not an order, Bob. That's a pact between colleagues. Between friends. Agreed?"
The ghost regarded the younger wizard through vision suddenly, inexplicably blurred. "Agreed," he said with quiet sincerity.
No, not a Morningway, concluded Bob with relief and a touch of pride. A Dresden.
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (TV-verse)
Character: Bob, Harry
Prompt: 44. Scars
Word Count: 1,515
Rating: G
Summary: Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Harry Dresden stood just inside the threshold, his hand still resting upon the brass knob of the heavy oaken door as if it were a lifeline. The foyer stretched out before him, its parquet flooring gleaming a warm golden brown in the afternoon sunlight. With visible effort, he stepped all the way inside and let the door swing closed behind him. Shutting out sunlight. Shutting him in.
A heavy silence settled around him like a shroud weighed down by the memories of what had transpired within these walls. Ironic, then, that the grounds, the house, and all that lay within it -- a fortune in real estate and furnishings --- were now his by right of inheritance and blood.
He wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
It was, and always would be, the Morningway Estate; Uncle Justin's house. A way station between childhood and manhood, it had provided a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, three square meals a day, and a place to learn his craft. But not once had he ever thought of it as home. There had been no warmth here; no joy or love. They were alien concepts to Justin Morningway, a man driven by ambition, machinations, and a thirst for power. The few genuinely happy memories Harry could bring away from this dark and dreary place had nothing at all to do with his Uncle.
Hindsight. Gotta love it, thought Harry darkly.
Harry's footsteps rang with eerie clarity as he walked the length of the familiar hallway toward the wide study entry. The only evidence of the fateful confrontation that had transpired between himself and his uncle was a smudge of shoeblack on the polished floor and a few splinters of wood. The sight of it drove a spear of hot anger and tortured shame through the core of Harry's being, forcing him to abruptly look away.
It was self defense, he reminded himself.
But the darker Harry that shared his brain was quick to retort, Just keep telling yourself that, kiddo.
The study was deathly still, the familiar, measured tick of the grandfather clock stilled by neglect. It had been well over a month since a servant had been present to wind it. Expensive, leather-bound books stood in orderly rank and file upon their proper shelves, quietly gathering dust. Overstuffed leather chairs waited patiently beneath dark reading lamps for a master who would never return.
Harry's gaze skimmed the room's antiques and artifacts, all gleaming wood and rich textured fabrics, without truly seeing them. He wanted nothing more to do with any of these trappings. There was only one item within this house that was of any interest to him. The rest could fall into ruin and rot for all he cared.
He crossed the study toward the ornate walnut desk at its heart, pausing only a moment for a fond glance at the blackboard on its easel in a far corner. But that I was not what he had come for.
He was not surprised to find his father's magician's case missing from its customary place upon the desk's corner. It had never belonged to Justin in the first place and had already been given into Harry's keeping. But the one object he sought -- the single bequest he intended to accept and take with him - was not in its customary place. The skull of Hrothbert of Bainbridge was missing.
"No!"
The single word was filled with anguish and disappointment and perhaps the tiniest bit of fear. Not for himself; the High Council had passed its judgment and found him innocent - just. But damn it, what had they done with Bob? Had the Council kept the artifact for themselves? Or worse, destroyed it to prevent it from ever again falling into the hands of a wizard as corrupt as Justin Morningway?
"No, no, no, no, no, I won't believe that," Harry told himself and anxiously began to tear the study apart, pillow by book by chair. If the skull was here, he would find it!
But the skull was not there, and no manner of searching, yelling, or summoning would conjure it to his hand. Still, Harry would not admit defeat and so carried his search to the rest of the house, all the while repeating the same mantra over and over and over again in his mind, "He's got to be here. He's got to be here."
Harry searched for hours. When, at long last, he finally gave up, the sun had long since set and night once more claimed dominion over the world.
"The bastards," he said, hands balled into tight, trembling fists.
They'd taken the one thing - the one person -- who'd ever cared to try and make this cold tomb of a house a home. They'd taken Bob.
~ ~ ~
As usual, the warped wood of the shop door stuck tight when Harry tried to open it. In a foul mood, he very nearly blasted it from its hinges and stalked inside. When he slammed it closed behind him, it did fall off of its hinges and crashed to the floor with a puff of dust and splintered wood.
Harry didn't care. He carelessly tossed his staff aside, ignoring its clatter of protest as it bounced off of the worn leather couch and slid to the floor.
"Really, Harry," sniffed an imperious voice from close behind him. "Was that entirely necessary?"
Harry turned on his heel so fast he very nearly tripped himself. What he saw made him whoop with unrestrained joy. "BOB!"
Apparently unphased, the old ghost merely arched an eyebrow and folded his long arms across his lean chest. "I thought I taught you better. You should treat your equipment with more respect, else it will not respect you."
"Where the hell have you been?"
Mute, Bob's eyes narrowed as he pointedly glanced at the fallen hockey stick.
"Okay, okay!" Harry scooped up the staff and set it upright in the corner with exaggerated care. "Happy?"
"As a matter of fact … yes." Bob allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. "As much as a dead and damned sorcerer has any right to be."
"Right. Good. Great. Now -- where the hell have you been?!"
The ghost turned and pointed toward Harry's battered old salvage yard desk. Beside the small chest proclaiming itself the property of the Astounding Dresden was a yellowed human skull inscribed with runes and sigils.
"You weren't there when I left this morning," Harry accused.
"No, I was not," Bob admitted. "I was the 'guest' of the High Council until approximately eleven thirty-six this morning, when it was finally decided that my skull rightfully belonged to the estate of Justin Morningway. After much arguing and name calling, I might add."
"So … it belongs to me now?"
"Yes."
"Your skull."
"Correct."
"And you with it?"
"It is a 'package deal'."
"No strings?"
"None of which I am aware."
"Really?"
"Really." Bob stood just the slightest bit more stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. "You are legally and officially the master of the skull." He inclined his head and lowered his gaze submissively. "I am your humble servant."
Harry snorted. "Since when?"
"Since eleven thirty six this morning," Bob reminded him. "Now … what may I do for you?"
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"So I can, like, order you around now?"
With an exasperated sigh, Bob rolled his eyes, anticipating another round of twenty questions. "As the skull's master, that is your right."
"Okay. Okay, great. I can do this."
"Yes. I am sure that you can," Bob replied with just the slightest hint of regret. Harry seemed pleased, almost eager, to assume his role as master to slave.
Had he been so wrong about this child … no, this young man? Was he, indeed, a Morningway?
"My first order…"
Bob waited, head bowed.
"…no, my first request," Harry immediately corrected himself, "Is to ask for a promise."
Bob lifted his gaze, his expression puzzled. "A promise?"
"That you'll never lie to me. Anything you have to say, I want to hear it. If I ask you a question, I want the absolute truth."
"Even if it angers you?"
"Even if it pisses me off," he confirmed. "The only thing Uncle Justin knew how to do was lie. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm pretty sure he ordered you to lie to me a couple of times-"
"Harry…"
"-and I know it's not your fault, okay? But I've had enough of that shit. From now on, clean slate, right? No lies between us." Harry could not touch the ghost but he could touch the skull that bound him. Resting his hand on the familiar, dry cranium, he concluded, "That's not an order, Bob. That's a pact between colleagues. Between friends. Agreed?"
The ghost regarded the younger wizard through vision suddenly, inexplicably blurred. "Agreed," he said with quiet sincerity.
No, not a Morningway, concluded Bob with relief and a touch of pride. A Dresden.