[Chapter 2, Part 1] Specialis Revelio
anonymous
April 3 2010, 06:46:16 UTC
Chapter 2 Slug & Jiggers Apothecary
Arthur's POV
"This is your fault, you know."
Arthur scowls and taps some ash out from the end of his pipe. "My fault? Whatever are you on about now?"
Alfred glares at him over the top of his glasses and jabs an unmanicured finger into Arthur chest, earning an indignant squawk and a smack over the head with the lit pipe. Yelling, Alfred batted the ash out of his hair before shoving Arthur against the wall between Madam Malkin's shop and a broomstick stand.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Alfred yells, adolescent voice near cracking. "My father is the Minister of Magic!"
If anything, this proclamation just makes Arthur scowl more. "The Minister isn't married, and his name is Williams."
Interestingly, this just makes Alfred color and become even angrier. "Well, my mom's different from Matthew's -"
Arthur's eyebrows shot up, and he couldn't help but ask: "You're the Minister's bastards?"
Of course, even though Arthur rarely read the papers, he'd heard all about the transfer last year of the Minister of Magic's American sons--some such scandelous rot--from America to England after the end of a long, international legal battle. If anything, he'd heard enough about the situation from Francis to know that the boys had begun attending Hogwarts the year before, but Arthur had been too caught up in trying to improve his poor marks to pay much attention to a loud Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff he didn't even know existed until today.
Alfred scowls deeper, every muscle in his body ready to fight. "Yeah, you got a problem with that?"
Arthur grunts, shrugging the younger (but taller!) boy's hands off and soothing the ruffled lines of his robes and dress shirt. There is nothing he can do for his shoes; they had already been rather scuffed up from his usual morning rounds in the hippogriff stables as they were. Reaching down, he picked up his pipe, scowling deeply at the crushed pot at the end of it; this Alfred Jones had a hard head, no surprise there.
"No, no, of course not," Arthur grumbles, fingering the pipe forelornly. "I don't give a flying flubberworm about politics and bullocks like that."
The younger boy kicks a stray stone, watching it bounce into the street to be quickly stepped on by a witch with her two daughter strolling past. Arthur senses that he might have said something wrong, but he's not sure what it is, especially since Alfred doesn't seem like the sort of person to drop a fight so easily. Or maybe he was just that thick; Arthur wouldn't put it past a loud Gryffindor like him, especially now that he knew Alfred was the son of Montag "Monty" Williams.
The pro-American, muggle-loving skirtchaser, his father would call the Minister in private. Arthur smiled; that one always earned some good laughs, and the Kirklands weren't very known for their humor.
"Whatever is so funny, Arthur? You look like a cat that has just eaten a fat mouse."
Francis is just exiting Madam Malkin's shop, his very large shopping bag shrunk to fit very neatly into his shoulder bag. Matthew is just behind him, obviously trying not to be part of Arthur's line of attack. Alfred, who had been obviously sulking for the past few minutes, jerked back to life, reaching roughly around Francis to grab his brother by the shoulder -
"Come on, Matt; time to go -"
- and hauling the poor boy very quickly down Diagon Alley to get lost in the pre-school term crowd. Arthur immediately gravitated to Francis side, noticing the way that the taller (Merlin, was everyone going to be taller than him?) boy grimaced and nursed the shoulder that had been shoved aside.
Francis slapped his hand away, a cross look flitting momentarily across his face. "I'm fine. I have no idea why Matthew lets him do that. The boy assures me Alfred has redeeming qualities but sometimes..."
[Chapter 2, Part 2] Specialis Revelio
anonymous
April 3 2010, 06:47:56 UTC
Arthur shoves his broken pipe into an inner pocket of his robes and then his own hands into the robe sleeves. "How come you're friends with Matthew anyways? Don't you know who his father is?"
A quiet shrug and Francis digs out his neatly folded copy of fifth year mandatory supplies from his bag. "Of course I know."
"His father won the election on the platform to register all half-bloods -"
"And," Francis murmurs gently, a sad smile on his face, "I've been tutoring Matthew in Defense Against the Dark Arts since the beginning of last year. The poor thing's a wreak in the class, you know. Awfully talented at Herbology and Ancient Runes, though."
There are many reasons why Arthur wonders what made the Sorting Hat put Francis in Ravenclaw and not Slytherin. Sure, Francis is extremely smart and values intelligence perhaps above all else, but he is all the things that Arthur is definitely not: politically-minded, careful and smooth, always building himself a way in but an even more secure passage out if things blew up. Francis, unlike Arthur, is the perfect Slytherin, through and through.
The only reason that Arthur can come up with for why he is a Slytherin and Francis is not is that Arthur Kirkland is completely and utterly pureblood. Francis Bonnefoy is, for all his talents, still just a half-blood, a male Veela, and, therefore, nothing more than a monster.
--
They head off together a few shops down to Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. Arthur lingers for a few minutes outside next to the display of dragon hide in the window, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as he watches the way the noonday sun glints off the lush green of the scales.
rises up, snout to the air as it enhales the scents carried on the wind. There is rain in the East, enough to bathe the fields deep, flushing out rabbits from their holes
Francis draws Arthur away from the hide and into the shop, and Arthur has to duck his chin against his chest to hide the sadness and anger on his face from anyone who might be looking. He suspects this is why his father keeps Francis around, so the world won't find out that the heir to the Kirklands, reknowned crusaders against dangerous magical creatures, cannot bear to hurt even the smallest kneazle.
They head over to the plant ingredients on the left side of the shop, Francis once more consulting his list of items they need for the school term. Arthur picks up the roots and bulbs that Francis points to put in the shopping basket provided by the entrance, jesting slightly by waving a particularly dirty wormroot in Francis's direction. Francis squeaks and jumps away, batting at the air the wormroot had passed through with the list paper distastefully.
"Euck!" Francis moans, pale cheeks flushing as Arthur laughs at him. "Arthur Kirkland, you're horrible."
Arthur would have responded if he hadn't noticed right at that moment the brightly-coloured display on the wall behind Francis. The bold gold lettering danced over the locked glass case, proudly proclaiming:
Very RARE! Potions Ingredients FOR SALE! Teeth of Transformed Werewolf and Veela's Hair VERY LIMITED SUPPLY!
Unfortunately, this abnormal lack of response makes Francis follow Arthur's line of sight to the sign and then down to the glass display case holding a goblet filled with sharp, ivory-colored teeth and a thick coiled mass of pale, sparkling hair. Arthur watches the color drain out of Francis's suddenly carefully expressionless face. It's Arthur's turn to reach out and clutch Francis's elbow, dragging them both towards the cashier counter.
"C-come on. We've got what we need, we can go now, okay -"
He shoves a handful of money (obviously too much but whatever) onto the counter and hurries out onto the street, stuffing the dirty ingredients into his bag without much caring about damaging them; he'll mail-order what they need once they get to school. Still holding on tight to Francis's elbow, Arthur takes off in the very quick trot back down Diagon Alley, towards the Leaky Cauldron so they can just go home.
"Arthur. Arthur, stop."
Francis's voice is very small and Arthur starts to pick up speed instead.
[Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio
anonymous
April 3 2010, 06:48:33 UTC
Arthur tugs them into the alley between Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and a little knick-knack shop that sells fragrances and skin creams before he stops and turns to face Francis. It's very dim here, but Arthur can hear the little hitches in Francis's breathing, and he recognizes the way that his best friend is hiding his face with his robe sleeves.
The way that Francis cries is something that Arthur is intimately familiar with because only he is allowed to see Francis cry. When they were young and the Bonnefoy Mansion had just burned down, Francis had been praised endlessly for never crying and always being composed despite the tragedy of his situation. Only Arthur had known that Francis would get up in the middle of the night to crawl into and cry inside of the closet of the large bedroom that Arthur been allowed to share with Francis--only in the very beginning before Arthur's parents had insisted that the Kirkland heir sleep in his own bedroom like a proper boy of five years.
Back then, even after Arthur had been forced to return to his own room, Arthur had gotten out of bed and gone inside the closet to hold Francis in the pitch darkness, letting Francis whimper into his pajama's shoulder and wail againt his chest. It was the least he could do, for those terrible things he had said about Francis's poor mother, and, ever since then, Francis had come to Arthur when he could no longer hold himself together, often clinging to Arthur like he was the only lifeline that existed between Francis and this world.
And, so, Arthur whispers an illusion spell to the entrance to the dead-end alleyway, hiding them from any curious eyes, before taking Francis in his arms. When they were small, Arthur would often start crying with Francis, sensitive to the pain rolling off of his best friend. Now, Arthur bites his lip and controls himself, holding Francis around his shoulders and rocking them both back and forth gently as Francis stuffs his left fist into his mouth, sharp Veela teeth sinking deep into his own skin, to stiffle his horrified screams.
After a thirty-three hour debate, the Wizengamot reached the verdict that the sale of registered half-blood body byproducts in their non-human forms does not violate the Bill of Wizard Rights as the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act included a sub-clause consenting to search and seizure of dangerous implements on registered persons...
[Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 06:58:34 UTC
And, so, Arthur whispers an illusion spell to the entrance to the dead-end alleyway, hiding them from any curious eyes, before taking Francis in his arms. When they were small, Arthur would often start crying with Francis, sensitive to the pain rolling off of his best friend. Now, Arthur bites his lip and controls himself, holding Francis around his shoulders and rocking them both back and forth gently as Francis stuffs his left fist into his mouth, sharp Veela teeth sinking deep into his own skin, to stiffle his horrified screams.
After a thirty-three hour debate, the Wizengamot reached the verdict that the sale of registered half-blood body byproducts in their non-human forms does not violate the Bill of Wizard Rights as the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act included a sub-clause consenting to search and seizure of dangerous implements on registered persons...
Re: [Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 08:07:07 UTC
oh god my heart goes out to Francis, and thank you for writing Arthur as such a dear. It's a refreshing change to see them as close friends rather than bitter rivals.
Re: [Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 08:33:56 UTC
lol, flying flubberworm, oh I don't even. ILU.
I love the way you portrait Arthur and Francis, the fact that they both have their own flaws yet simply support each other in the hardest time. It makes them very believable and human. Good Job writer!anon! Love your characterization.
That's really some attitude, Alfred Jones.
Can't wait for the next part! Keep up the great work, dear author!anon.<333
Re: [Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 16:47:15 UTC
Amazing, writer!anon! I love the FrUK interaction and their childhood closeness - and I can't help feeling awful for Francis and his really messed up family background situation. Will we get more backstory? :D
I'm still desperately curious how Arthur got sorted in Slytherin instead of into any other school - is it just owing to a traditional family thing? His soft spot for magical animals (amazing detail ♥) and lack of smooth politicking make him seem a lot more gryffindor-y to me. (I hope Arthur gets to befriend a dragon - he'd be best friends with Hagrid, with their shared love of odd, possibly dangerous animals, wouldn't he!)
Re: [Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 16:54:27 UTC
ack! On re-reading, did Arthur (or Francis, because it was his fireball) end up killing Francis' parents in the fireball? Especially if his mother was in a cage and couldn't escape the fire - I can't imagine how their friendship survived that!
Re: [Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 18:03:15 UTC
ANOOON YOU UPDATED ♥ I'm going to go early here and offer my body/heart/hand in marriage before the requests start coming in. MAYBE I CAN BE YOUR FAVORITE HAREM MEMBER?
Ahaha, seriously though. This fill is amazing. Francis and Arthur being such close and loyal friends is really refreshing, and Alfred is such a little braaat, hahha. Awwww ♥ Francis is tutoring Matthew ♥♥♥
Re: [Chapter 2, Part 3] Specialis Revelio **EDIT W/PROPER CODING****
anonymous
April 3 2010, 21:51:49 UTC
I'm hooked but only two chapters are out. *wails
I'm also really enjoying the fact that Francis and Arthur are such cutesy childhood friends. And how they both deal with their family problems through eachother.
Question: At what point in the Harry Potter timeline does this take place? Anon's secretly hoping for a tiny cameo of herbology professor Neville...
Author!Anon Here
anonymous
April 4 2010, 00:40:07 UTC
I kinda copped out on the main HP timeline and made this around-ish the period where the second generation would be graduated from Hogwarts but not far after. My great failure is in time >>;;
Re: Author!Anon Here
anonymous
April 4 2010, 01:46:12 UTC
No worries this is quite clear, I was already aware it was after the main HP storyline because of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes combined with the new Minister of Magic.
Time isn't really important in such a timeless epic such as this fic. 8D shot
[Chapter 3, Part 1] Specialis Revelio
anonymous
April 5 2010, 07:11:31 UTC
Chapter 3 The Boy Who Lied
Francis's POV
The cage was the size of a master bedroom, and it always smelled of lilies and rose water. A bath lay attached through a pale silk curtain, light sparkling off of the hundreds of beautiful and tiny orbs that floated between the bed, the tub, the vanity, and the cieling. It was a lavish and white place, all smooth and marble and onyx.
This was the place his mother had resided, chained with curses and spells that kept her forever within the windowless walls. If Francis closes his eyes and breathes in deep, he can imagine her hands, long fingered and painted with the reddest of reds, helping him dress for a party in the ballroom she had never seen. If it's a particularly good day, he can remember more: his mother, so fair and pale but with dark, beautiful eyes, taking him in her arms and kissing his brow. Her hair had smelt of lily and talc; her tears had tasted of salt; and she had whispered:
Je t'aime, mon cher, mon fils, maintenant et toujours
And he doesn't know if he has just made this memory up, if it is just something he crafted to help him deal with his losses, but, even if it is a lie, no one can take it away, not even a dementor, because it is so bitter and beautiful that Francis loathes it and loves it equally at the same time.
--
Francis Bonnefoy always wakes up at exactly ten past ten on non-school days when he is allowed to sleep in. He has a habit of sleeping on his stomach, crushed up against the headboard and all of his blankets and pillows squashed around him, and he clutches childishly at a battered stuft dragon situated under his chin and against his chest. When he wakes up, he tends to lie in for at least twenty more minutes, just breathing and thinking.
The rooms that the Kirklands gave him in their home are much larger than the small quarters he lived in attached to his mother's room back in the Bonnefoy Mansion. Francis doesn't think much about that place or the sounds he used to hear coming from his mother's cage. He only thinks about those things in his past when there is nothing else he can think about and, in those moments, he knows there was no gift that he survived, just luck, dumb and simple.
His bedroom, which looks out onto the hippogriff grazing fields and beyond that to Muggle London, is his sanctuary. The Kirklands allowed him to paint it a soft, gentle blue and had given him extra bookshelves from the library downstairs to fill with the books and babbles Francis accumulated over the years. He was wealthy in his own right, and they really had no reason to take care of him as they gained nothing financially or politically from it. Francis could have gone to distant relatives in France, could have been sequestered away into a coven for his type, or even just thrown away where the Kirklands would never have to fear he would one day embarrass them. But they hadn't, and they had kept him and provided for him and, even to a certain extent, shown him love, and that was what really mattered.
Today, Francis does not join Arthur for lunch, remaining in his rooms. Arthur won't come to bother him, at least not for a while yet, knowing well that there are periods of time that Francis needs to be alone. He doesn't like to call what he does brooding, but even Francis can't come up with a much better word for his mercurial moods as he sits on his bed with a copy of the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act laid out before him, not really seeing it except to glower at the words that laugh up into his face.
[Chapter 3, Part 2] Specialis Revelio
anonymous
April 5 2010, 07:15:41 UTC
One part him, the human part, rages: I'm Ravenclaw. I'm Slytherin. I'm a Bonnefoy. This Ministry is built on my family's blood and sacrifice. I'm not stupid. I'm not weak. How dare they forget who I am?
The other part, the Veela in his flesh, whispers: But I saw the hair. I've heard so many stories, and so many of us have already immigrated to the Continent. It would only take a few days settle my affairs here. I don't have to stay in danger's way. I'm not stupid.
Francis breathes in, breathes out, breathes in. He keeps his breathing even, closes his eyes, and fights the ongoing battle not to go insane.
--
Fear is a curious thing.
Hippogriffs can sense it, like most other creatures. Francis stands with his hands in the soft feathers of a pregnant female of the large Kirkland flock, massaging her tired joints. He can't get near the bulls since the summer before fourth year, when the first storms of the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act started. Francis doesn't miss them; he knows they could also smell what he was and hated him for it.
"Is she's going to make it through the birthing process?"
Francis looks over his shoulder to the door at the voice, watching as Ambrose Kirkland enters the stable carrying a bag of medical tools and supplies. The Master Kirkland smiles sadly at the bloated, tired creature lying on her side in the soft hay, sitting down on the crate near to the hippogriff's head to stroke its beak gently. Curling his fingertips gently over the thin, sensitive skin of the creature's foreleg, Francis smiles back sadly.
"No."
Ambrose nods, accepting the answer for what it is. Francis turns his attention back to the poor creature under his hands, letting his hair fall into and curtain his face.
"Why didn't you stay in France?"
Creatures can sense a lot of things that humans cannot. They can sense fear, love, uncertainty; happiness, thankfulness, wanting, needing. Francis bites the inside of his cheek, focusing on the evenness of his strokes to the hippogriff's feathers and skin.
"The boy then."
Francis doesn't respond, biting harder to keep the words from coming out. A soft sigh answers his silence, Ambrose's voice dropping so low no human could have heard it.
"Young Master Williams has no better protection than what his father has given him," Ambrose murmurs.
Francis can only bow his head lower before he can muster his retort. "There is no such thing as a perfect defense. One day--even he knows--, his nature will out him, and there will be no hiding what he is. And the defense disguised as an offense will destroy him."
He can feel, instinctively, the way the body shudders, the way the life is steadily leaking out of the body in his hands. At the same time, he can feel the tiny spark, the pulsing light inside when he brushes the palms of his hands over the swollen belly. There is always light, beautiful and delicate, even if it is just a tiny orb floating in a windowless cage.
Francis hears Ambrose stand, listens to the hay giving underneath the weight of the Master Kirkland's footsteps until Ambrose is standing next to Francis.
"We should return before one of the elves are forced to come fetch us, Master Bonnefoy. My wife very much looks forward to dining with you tonight."
A half-smile flits across Francis's face at Ambrose's words. He, too, rises, face clear as he sweeps his hair from his eyes, and stares into the bottle green of the man before him, the man who had raised him as best as he could, the man who had just acknowledged him.
"Master Kirkland."
They walk side by side from the stable, Ambrose carrying his medical supplies and Francis with his head once more held high.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill Of things unknown but longed for still And his tune is heard on the distant hill for The caged bird sings of freedom
Re: [Chapter 3, Part 2] Specialis Revelio
anonymous
April 5 2010, 07:25:43 UTC
:D :D :DDD
YOU UPDATED ANON right before I was going to go to bed! I must figure out what timezone you are in to better stalk this fill!
This is awesome and I love what you've done with the characters. I want to hug Francis, and it's nice to see a non-pervy Francis. And his friendship with Arthur is <3, and awwww Matthew!
I am stalking this fill, seriously. It's a pleasure to read and just overall amazing.
Slug & Jiggers Apothecary
Arthur's POV
"This is your fault, you know."
Arthur scowls and taps some ash out from the end of his pipe. "My fault? Whatever are you on about now?"
Alfred glares at him over the top of his glasses and jabs an unmanicured finger into Arthur chest, earning an indignant squawk and a smack over the head with the lit pipe. Yelling, Alfred batted the ash out of his hair before shoving Arthur against the wall between Madam Malkin's shop and a broomstick stand.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Alfred yells, adolescent voice near cracking. "My father is the Minister of Magic!"
If anything, this proclamation just makes Arthur scowl more. "The Minister isn't married, and his name is Williams."
Interestingly, this just makes Alfred color and become even angrier. "Well, my mom's different from Matthew's -"
Arthur's eyebrows shot up, and he couldn't help but ask: "You're the Minister's bastards?"
Of course, even though Arthur rarely read the papers, he'd heard all about the transfer last year of the Minister of Magic's American sons--some such scandelous rot--from America to England after the end of a long, international legal battle. If anything, he'd heard enough about the situation from Francis to know that the boys had begun attending Hogwarts the year before, but Arthur had been too caught up in trying to improve his poor marks to pay much attention to a loud Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff he didn't even know existed until today.
Alfred scowls deeper, every muscle in his body ready to fight. "Yeah, you got a problem with that?"
Arthur grunts, shrugging the younger (but taller!) boy's hands off and soothing the ruffled lines of his robes and dress shirt. There is nothing he can do for his shoes; they had already been rather scuffed up from his usual morning rounds in the hippogriff stables as they were. Reaching down, he picked up his pipe, scowling deeply at the crushed pot at the end of it; this Alfred Jones had a hard head, no surprise there.
"No, no, of course not," Arthur grumbles, fingering the pipe forelornly. "I don't give a flying flubberworm about politics and bullocks like that."
The younger boy kicks a stray stone, watching it bounce into the street to be quickly stepped on by a witch with her two daughter strolling past. Arthur senses that he might have said something wrong, but he's not sure what it is, especially since Alfred doesn't seem like the sort of person to drop a fight so easily. Or maybe he was just that thick; Arthur wouldn't put it past a loud Gryffindor like him, especially now that he knew Alfred was the son of Montag "Monty" Williams.
The pro-American, muggle-loving skirtchaser, his father would call the Minister in private. Arthur smiled; that one always earned some good laughs, and the Kirklands weren't very known for their humor.
"Whatever is so funny, Arthur? You look like a cat that has just eaten a fat mouse."
Francis is just exiting Madam Malkin's shop, his very large shopping bag shrunk to fit very neatly into his shoulder bag. Matthew is just behind him, obviously trying not to be part of Arthur's line of attack. Alfred, who had been obviously sulking for the past few minutes, jerked back to life, reaching roughly around Francis to grab his brother by the shoulder -
"Come on, Matt; time to go -"
- and hauling the poor boy very quickly down Diagon Alley to get lost in the pre-school term crowd. Arthur immediately gravitated to Francis side, noticing the way that the taller (Merlin, was everyone going to be taller than him?) boy grimaced and nursed the shoulder that had been shoved aside.
Francis slapped his hand away, a cross look flitting momentarily across his face. "I'm fine. I have no idea why Matthew lets him do that. The boy assures me Alfred has redeeming qualities but sometimes..."
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A quiet shrug and Francis digs out his neatly folded copy of fifth year mandatory supplies from his bag. "Of course I know."
"His father won the election on the platform to register all half-bloods -"
"And," Francis murmurs gently, a sad smile on his face, "I've been tutoring Matthew in Defense Against the Dark Arts since the beginning of last year. The poor thing's a wreak in the class, you know. Awfully talented at Herbology and Ancient Runes, though."
There are many reasons why Arthur wonders what made the Sorting Hat put Francis in Ravenclaw and not Slytherin. Sure, Francis is extremely smart and values intelligence perhaps above all else, but he is all the things that Arthur is definitely not: politically-minded, careful and smooth, always building himself a way in but an even more secure passage out if things blew up. Francis, unlike Arthur, is the perfect Slytherin, through and through.
The only reason that Arthur can come up with for why he is a Slytherin and Francis is not is that Arthur Kirkland is completely and utterly pureblood. Francis Bonnefoy is, for all his talents, still just a half-blood, a male Veela, and, therefore, nothing more than a monster.
--
They head off together a few shops down to Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. Arthur lingers for a few minutes outside next to the display of dragon hide in the window, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as he watches the way the noonday sun glints off the lush green of the scales.
rises up, snout to the air as it enhales the scents carried on the wind. There is rain in the East, enough to bathe the fields deep, flushing out rabbits from their holes
Francis draws Arthur away from the hide and into the shop, and Arthur has to duck his chin against his chest to hide the sadness and anger on his face from anyone who might be looking. He suspects this is why his father keeps Francis around, so the world won't find out that the heir to the Kirklands, reknowned crusaders against dangerous magical creatures, cannot bear to hurt even the smallest kneazle.
They head over to the plant ingredients on the left side of the shop, Francis once more consulting his list of items they need for the school term. Arthur picks up the roots and bulbs that Francis points to put in the shopping basket provided by the entrance, jesting slightly by waving a particularly dirty wormroot in Francis's direction. Francis squeaks and jumps away, batting at the air the wormroot had passed through with the list paper distastefully.
"Euck!" Francis moans, pale cheeks flushing as Arthur laughs at him. "Arthur Kirkland, you're horrible."
Arthur would have responded if he hadn't noticed right at that moment the brightly-coloured display on the wall behind Francis. The bold gold lettering danced over the locked glass case, proudly proclaiming:
Very RARE! Potions Ingredients FOR SALE!
Teeth of Transformed Werewolf and Veela's Hair
VERY LIMITED SUPPLY!
Unfortunately, this abnormal lack of response makes Francis follow Arthur's line of sight to the sign and then down to the glass display case holding a goblet filled with sharp, ivory-colored teeth and a thick coiled mass of pale, sparkling hair. Arthur watches the color drain out of Francis's suddenly carefully expressionless face. It's Arthur's turn to reach out and clutch Francis's elbow, dragging them both towards the cashier counter.
"C-come on. We've got what we need, we can go now, okay -"
He shoves a handful of money (obviously too much but whatever) onto the counter and hurries out onto the street, stuffing the dirty ingredients into his bag without much caring about damaging them; he'll mail-order what they need once they get to school. Still holding on tight to Francis's elbow, Arthur takes off in the very quick trot back down Diagon Alley, towards the Leaky Cauldron so they can just go home.
"Arthur. Arthur, stop."
Francis's voice is very small and Arthur starts to pick up speed instead.
"No, Arthur, stop, I can't see."
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The way that Francis cries is something that Arthur is intimately familiar with because only he is allowed to see Francis cry. When they were young and the Bonnefoy Mansion had just burned down, Francis had been praised endlessly for never crying and always being composed despite the tragedy of his situation. Only Arthur had known that Francis would get up in the middle of the night to crawl into and cry inside of the closet of the large bedroom that Arthur been allowed to share with Francis--only in the very beginning before Arthur's parents had insisted that the Kirkland heir sleep in his own bedroom like a proper boy of five years.
Back then, even after Arthur had been forced to return to his own room, Arthur had gotten out of bed and gone inside the closet to hold Francis in the pitch darkness, letting Francis whimper into his pajama's shoulder and wail againt his chest. It was the least he could do, for those terrible things he had said about Francis's poor mother, and, ever since then, Francis had come to Arthur when he could no longer hold himself together, often clinging to Arthur like he was the only lifeline that existed between Francis and this world.
And, so, Arthur whispers an illusion spell to the entrance to the dead-end alleyway, hiding them from any curious eyes, before taking Francis in his arms. When they were small, Arthur would often start crying with Francis, sensitive to the pain rolling off of his best friend. Now, Arthur bites his lip and controls himself, holding Francis around his shoulders and rocking them both back and forth gently as Francis stuffs his left fist into his mouth, sharp Veela teeth sinking deep into his own skin, to stiffle his horrified screams.
After a thirty-three hour debate, the Wizengamot reached the verdict that the sale of registered half-blood body byproducts in their non-human forms does not violate the Bill of Wizard Rights as the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act included a sub-clause consenting to search and seizure of dangerous implements on registered persons...
The Daily Prophet on the 23 August 20--
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After a thirty-three hour debate, the Wizengamot reached the verdict that the sale of registered half-blood body byproducts in their non-human forms does not violate the Bill of Wizard Rights as the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act included a sub-clause consenting to search and seizure of dangerous implements on registered persons...
The Daily Prophet on the 23 August 20--
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And what attitude you have, Young Master Jones.
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I love the way you portrait Arthur and Francis, the fact that they both have their own flaws yet simply support each other in the hardest time. It makes them very believable and human. Good Job writer!anon! Love your characterization.
That's really some attitude, Alfred Jones.
Can't wait for the next part! Keep up the great work, dear author!anon.<333
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I'm still desperately curious how Arthur got sorted in Slytherin instead of into any other school - is it just owing to a traditional family thing? His soft spot for magical animals (amazing detail ♥) and lack of smooth politicking make him seem a lot more gryffindor-y to me.
(I hope Arthur gets to befriend a dragon - he'd be best friends with Hagrid, with their shared love of odd, possibly dangerous animals, wouldn't he!)
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Ahaha, seriously though. This fill is amazing. Francis and Arthur being such close and loyal friends is really refreshing, and Alfred is such a little braaat, hahha. Awwww ♥ Francis is tutoring Matthew ♥♥♥
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I'm also really enjoying the fact that Francis and Arthur are such cutesy childhood friends. And how they both deal with their family problems through eachother.
Question: At what point in the Harry Potter timeline does this take place? Anon's secretly hoping for a tiny cameo of herbology professor Neville...
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Time isn't really important in such a timeless epic such as this fic. 8D shot
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The Boy Who Lied
Francis's POV
The cage was the size of a master bedroom, and it always smelled of lilies and rose water. A bath lay attached through a pale silk curtain, light sparkling off of the hundreds of beautiful and tiny orbs that floated between the bed, the tub, the vanity, and the cieling. It was a lavish and white place, all smooth and marble and onyx.
This was the place his mother had resided, chained with curses and spells that kept her forever within the windowless walls. If Francis closes his eyes and breathes in deep, he can imagine her hands, long fingered and painted with the reddest of reds, helping him dress for a party in the ballroom she had never seen. If it's a particularly good day, he can remember more: his mother, so fair and pale but with dark, beautiful eyes, taking him in her arms and kissing his brow. Her hair had smelt of lily and talc; her tears had tasted of salt; and she had whispered:
Je t'aime, mon cher, mon fils, maintenant et toujours
And he doesn't know if he has just made this memory up, if it is just something he crafted to help him deal with his losses, but, even if it is a lie, no one can take it away, not even a dementor, because it is so bitter and beautiful that Francis loathes it and loves it equally at the same time.
--
Francis Bonnefoy always wakes up at exactly ten past ten on non-school days when he is allowed to sleep in. He has a habit of sleeping on his stomach, crushed up against the headboard and all of his blankets and pillows squashed around him, and he clutches childishly at a battered stuft dragon situated under his chin and against his chest. When he wakes up, he tends to lie in for at least twenty more minutes, just breathing and thinking.
The rooms that the Kirklands gave him in their home are much larger than the small quarters he lived in attached to his mother's room back in the Bonnefoy Mansion. Francis doesn't think much about that place or the sounds he used to hear coming from his mother's cage. He only thinks about those things in his past when there is nothing else he can think about and, in those moments, he knows there was no gift that he survived, just luck, dumb and simple.
His bedroom, which looks out onto the hippogriff grazing fields and beyond that to Muggle London, is his sanctuary. The Kirklands allowed him to paint it a soft, gentle blue and had given him extra bookshelves from the library downstairs to fill with the books and babbles Francis accumulated over the years. He was wealthy in his own right, and they really had no reason to take care of him as they gained nothing financially or politically from it. Francis could have gone to distant relatives in France, could have been sequestered away into a coven for his type, or even just thrown away where the Kirklands would never have to fear he would one day embarrass them. But they hadn't, and they had kept him and provided for him and, even to a certain extent, shown him love, and that was what really mattered.
Today, Francis does not join Arthur for lunch, remaining in his rooms. Arthur won't come to bother him, at least not for a while yet, knowing well that there are periods of time that Francis needs to be alone. He doesn't like to call what he does brooding, but even Francis can't come up with a much better word for his mercurial moods as he sits on his bed with a copy of the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act laid out before him, not really seeing it except to glower at the words that laugh up into his face.
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The other part, the Veela in his flesh, whispers: But I saw the hair. I've heard so many stories, and so many of us have already immigrated to the Continent. It would only take a few days settle my affairs here. I don't have to stay in danger's way. I'm not stupid.
Francis breathes in, breathes out, breathes in. He keeps his breathing even, closes his eyes, and fights the ongoing battle not to go insane.
--
Fear is a curious thing.
Hippogriffs can sense it, like most other creatures. Francis stands with his hands in the soft feathers of a pregnant female of the large Kirkland flock, massaging her tired joints. He can't get near the bulls since the summer before fourth year, when the first storms of the Half-Blood and Intelligent Magical Creature Registration Act started. Francis doesn't miss them; he knows they could also smell what he was and hated him for it.
"Is she's going to make it through the birthing process?"
Francis looks over his shoulder to the door at the voice, watching as Ambrose Kirkland enters the stable carrying a bag of medical tools and supplies. The Master Kirkland smiles sadly at the bloated, tired creature lying on her side in the soft hay, sitting down on the crate near to the hippogriff's head to stroke its beak gently. Curling his fingertips gently over the thin, sensitive skin of the creature's foreleg, Francis smiles back sadly.
"No."
Ambrose nods, accepting the answer for what it is. Francis turns his attention back to the poor creature under his hands, letting his hair fall into and curtain his face.
"Why didn't you stay in France?"
Creatures can sense a lot of things that humans cannot. They can sense fear, love, uncertainty; happiness, thankfulness, wanting, needing. Francis bites the inside of his cheek, focusing on the evenness of his strokes to the hippogriff's feathers and skin.
"The boy then."
Francis doesn't respond, biting harder to keep the words from coming out. A soft sigh answers his silence, Ambrose's voice dropping so low no human could have heard it.
"Young Master Williams has no better protection than what his father has given him," Ambrose murmurs.
Francis can only bow his head lower before he can muster his retort. "There is no such thing as a perfect defense. One day--even he knows--, his nature will out him, and there will be no hiding what he is. And the defense disguised as an offense will destroy him."
He can feel, instinctively, the way the body shudders, the way the life is steadily leaking out of the body in his hands. At the same time, he can feel the tiny spark, the pulsing light inside when he brushes the palms of his hands over the swollen belly. There is always light, beautiful and delicate, even if it is just a tiny orb floating in a windowless cage.
Francis hears Ambrose stand, listens to the hay giving underneath the weight of the Master Kirkland's footsteps until Ambrose is standing next to Francis.
"We should return before one of the elves are forced to come fetch us, Master Bonnefoy. My wife very much looks forward to dining with you tonight."
A half-smile flits across Francis's face at Ambrose's words. He, too, rises, face clear as he sweeps his hair from his eyes, and stares into the bottle green of the man before him, the man who had raised him as best as he could, the man who had just acknowledged him.
"Master Kirkland."
They walk side by side from the stable, Ambrose carrying his medical supplies and Francis with his head once more held high.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom
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YOU UPDATED ANON right before I was going to go to bed! I must figure out what timezone you are in to better stalk this fill!
This is awesome and I love what you've done with the characters. I want to hug Francis, and it's nice to see a non-pervy Francis. And his friendship with Arthur is <3, and awwww Matthew!
I am stalking this fill, seriously. It's a pleasure to read and just overall amazing.
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