Blessed by a bitch from a bastard's seed
Category: Pink Sheep RPG
There was rain on the horizon, rolling in from the sea and bringing with it crashing waves and a stiff wind. Julian could practically taste the oncoming storm, feel it tugging at his short brown hair and making his button down Oxford shirt ripple in the wind. He didn't care; it was the one day a year that his appearance and business fell to the wayside.
The green grass was cool beneath his bare feet, the lush blades cushioning his step as he trekked downwards from his perch high atop a rocky outcropping, a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey help loosely in his hand. Everything- his business dealings, his romantic entanglements, the outside world- was shut out for today.
It was March 17th. To the outside world, it was St. Patrick's Day, a day that would surely bring in triple the revenue for each of his clubs, notably Symposia, but he trusted Edmond to oversee his affairs. For him, it wasn't a day of celebrating.
It was a day to mourn.
Of course, that sounded silly. Who was he to mourn a woman he'd never even met, a woman who had been dead for twenty-eight years today? If those outside his inner sanctum knew about this yearly ritual, he had no doubts that they would ponder the meaning of it, try to assimilate what it meant.
More the fools, them.
He passed Wolborough House without even a glance. His beloved home, the only place that he was ever truly himself, was quiet. He'd sent the elves to his London flat for the day, and his closest friends knew not to disturb him today. He needed the solitude and peacefulness.
Julian took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, sighing in satisfaction as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. Ten years he'd been alone in the world, yet not a day went by when he didn't miss having someone to call family.
He moved through the estate like a ghost, silent but for his footsteps. The terrain changed from smooth, sprawling grass to rocks and trees as he moved deeper and deeper into in the grounds. He made this trek three times a year; March 17th, May 3rd, and Christmas Day. Every other day, this part of the grounds was left undisturbed.
As he came to a stop, he shivered slightly as his feet moved from the packed dirt of the earth to the cold marble in front of the tomb. It was, as tombs went, relatively new; only his grandparents and their only child lay within. The rest of his ancestors were laid to rest in a much older mausoleum even further away in the forest.
There were three names, engraved on small bronze plaques affixed to the wall in front of him. Three names for the only three people to ever love him unconditionally, or at all, really.
The House of Vaisey, it read above them, Ever Ready and Pure.
Never forget who you are, his grandfather had once told him, long ago when he'd been naught but a first year, fresh off the train for the Christmas holiday.
*~*~*~*~*
Julian had learned long ago that big boys didn't cry. Men didn't show emotions, lest of all in public, but at the moment, the young boy wanted nothing more than to run to his grandparents and cry. It wasn't fair, but most of all, it wasn't true.
He raised a hand and knocked on the imposing door to the library, entering the room when he heard a muffled, "Enter."
Priam Vaisey was sitting in a high wing-back chair, reading one of the many leather-bound tomes that were found in abundance in the room. Glancing up from his reading, he smiled and set the book aside. "Hello, son. What's on your mind?"
Stopping in front of his grandfather, Julian raised his chin to look his grandfather square in the eye- like a man. "Grandfather," he said softly, "I want to make someone hurt."
The old man raised an eyebrow at his young grandson. "And why would you want to cause someone pain, Julian? Violence is not always the answer."
"Because."
"Because why?"
Julian glanced down at the tips of his shoes. "Because of what they said."
Patiently, his grandfather asked, "And what did they say?"
A long pause passed between them before the young boy summoned his courage and looked back up at the only man he'd never known as a father. "They said that I was a bastard, and Mother a whore."
A shocked silence filled the room before Priam sighed. He'd known the day would come when Julian would be exposed to the gossip of society. Even though there was the possibility that his grandson might not be of pure blood, he was blood nonetheless, and the only living link he had left with his beloved Cassandra.
Silently, he Summoned a book from the far reaches of the library. "Have you ever heard of an Illusion Spell, Julian?"
The boy shook his head. "No, Grandfather. What is it?"
"Well, it's a spell that creates the illusion of whatever you want it to," Priam said as he flipped through the tome, finally coming to rest on the desired pages. "It's fairly simple to cast," though it was still advanced for a first year, "leaves no marks, yet it can cause extreme pain."
"How do I cast it?" Julian asked, intrigued by the idea.
Priam handed him the book. "Teach yourself. Let this be your homework for the holidays. You may use one of the house elves for practice, though do not harm the creatures. Make whoever said these things fear you, and you will take the power from them. Do you understand?"
He didn't understand entirely what his grandfather was talking about, but he wanted to make Flint and Higgs hurt for what they'd said. This sounded like what he should do. "Yes, Grandfather, I understand."
"Good." Reaching out, Priam gave the boy a quick hug and pulled back to look into his eyes, so much like his mother's. "Julian, never forget who you are."
"Who am I?" he asked with all the precociousness of a child.
"You're a Vaisey, and a member of one of the oldest and noblest wizarding families," the old man said, lips twitching. "And no one will ever be able to take that away from you."
And they hadn't. Julian had mastered the spell over the holidays, lips twitching in a satisfied smile every time he properly cast it. As soon as the break was over and he'd returned from Hogwarts, he'd wasted no time.
Marcus and Terence had screamed like little girls when he'd cast the spell upon their beds. They clawed at their arms, shed their pajamas and cried that they were burning, that the fire would consume them. They'd woken the entire house with their screams of terror.
When Flint's eyes had snapped open long enough to focus on Julian's, the younger boy had merely given him a cold smirk and moved out of the room before Professor Snape swept in, cursing the stupidity of the two boys. The knowledge of his attacker, the fear that lurked in those deep brown orbs, gave Julian the deepest thrill.
That was the last time anyone in Slytherin House spoke to Julian about his paternity.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Pulling his wand out of his pocket, Julian cast a quick spell, conjuring three white roses out of mid-air. He laid one down in front of the nameplate reading Priam Vaisey, then in front of its counterpart which read Lucretia Vaisey.
Grandfather and Grandmother. The two people who loved him, despite the fact that he'd been born a killer. Two days old, and Julian's hands had already been stained with blood. It was for that reason that his final rose was subject to one more spell, one that tinged the tips of its waxy petals blood red.
Laying it down reverently in front of the final nameplate, Julian straightened and gave the tomb one final look. Cassandra Vaisey.
"Goodbye, Mother," he murmured before turning and walking back to the house.
Summary: Julian takes a day to mourn.
There was rain on the horizon, rolling in from the sea and bringing with it crashing waves and a stiff wind. Julian could practically taste the oncoming storm, feel it tugging at his short brown hair and making his button down Oxford shirt ripple in the wind. He didn't care; it was the one day a year that his appearance and business fell to the wayside.
The green grass was cool beneath his bare feet, the lush blades cushioning his step as he trekked downwards from his perch high atop a rocky outcropping, a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey help loosely in his hand. Everything- his business dealings, his romantic entanglements, the outside world- was shut out for today.
It was March 17th. To the outside world, it was St. Patrick's Day, a day that would surely bring in triple the revenue for each of his clubs, notably Symposia, but he trusted Edmond to oversee his affairs. For him, it wasn't a day of celebrating.
It was a day to mourn.
Of course, that sounded silly. Who was he to mourn a woman he'd never even met, a woman who had been dead for twenty-eight years today? If those outside his inner sanctum knew about this yearly ritual, he had no doubts that they would ponder the meaning of it, try to assimilate what it meant.
More the fools, them.
He passed Wolborough House without even a glance. His beloved home, the only place that he was ever truly himself, was quiet. He'd sent the elves to his London flat for the day, and his closest friends knew not to disturb him today. He needed the solitude and peacefulness.
Julian took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, sighing in satisfaction as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. Ten years he'd been alone in the world, yet not a day went by when he didn't miss having someone to call family.
He moved through the estate like a ghost, silent but for his footsteps. The terrain changed from smooth, sprawling grass to rocks and trees as he moved deeper and deeper into in the grounds. He made this trek three times a year; March 17th, May 3rd, and Christmas Day. Every other day, this part of the grounds was left undisturbed.
As he came to a stop, he shivered slightly as his feet moved from the packed dirt of the earth to the cold marble in front of the tomb. It was, as tombs went, relatively new; only his grandparents and their only child lay within. The rest of his ancestors were laid to rest in a much older mausoleum even further away in the forest.
There were three names, engraved on small bronze plaques affixed to the wall in front of him. Three names for the only three people to ever love him unconditionally, or at all, really.
The House of Vaisey, it read above them, Ever Ready and Pure.
Never forget who you are, his grandfather had once told him, long ago when he'd been naught but a first year, fresh off the train for the Christmas holiday.
*~*~*~*~*
Julian had learned long ago that big boys didn't cry. Men didn't show emotions, lest of all in public, but at the moment, the young boy wanted nothing more than to run to his grandparents and cry. It wasn't fair, but most of all, it wasn't true.
He raised a hand and knocked on the imposing door to the library, entering the room when he heard a muffled, "Enter."
Priam Vaisey was sitting in a high wing-back chair, reading one of the many leather-bound tomes that were found in abundance in the room. Glancing up from his reading, he smiled and set the book aside. "Hello, son. What's on your mind?"
Stopping in front of his grandfather, Julian raised his chin to look his grandfather square in the eye- like a man. "Grandfather," he said softly, "I want to make someone hurt."
The old man raised an eyebrow at his young grandson. "And why would you want to cause someone pain, Julian? Violence is not always the answer."
"Because."
"Because why?"
Julian glanced down at the tips of his shoes. "Because of what they said."
Patiently, his grandfather asked, "And what did they say?"
A long pause passed between them before the young boy summoned his courage and looked back up at the only man he'd never known as a father. "They said that I was a bastard, and Mother a whore."
A shocked silence filled the room before Priam sighed. He'd known the day would come when Julian would be exposed to the gossip of society. Even though there was the possibility that his grandson might not be of pure blood, he was blood nonetheless, and the only living link he had left with his beloved Cassandra.
Silently, he Summoned a book from the far reaches of the library. "Have you ever heard of an Illusion Spell, Julian?"
The boy shook his head. "No, Grandfather. What is it?"
"Well, it's a spell that creates the illusion of whatever you want it to," Priam said as he flipped through the tome, finally coming to rest on the desired pages. "It's fairly simple to cast," though it was still advanced for a first year, "leaves no marks, yet it can cause extreme pain."
"How do I cast it?" Julian asked, intrigued by the idea.
Priam handed him the book. "Teach yourself. Let this be your homework for the holidays. You may use one of the house elves for practice, though do not harm the creatures. Make whoever said these things fear you, and you will take the power from them. Do you understand?"
He didn't understand entirely what his grandfather was talking about, but he wanted to make Flint and Higgs hurt for what they'd said. This sounded like what he should do. "Yes, Grandfather, I understand."
"Good." Reaching out, Priam gave the boy a quick hug and pulled back to look into his eyes, so much like his mother's. "Julian, never forget who you are."
"Who am I?" he asked with all the precociousness of a child.
"You're a Vaisey, and a member of one of the oldest and noblest wizarding families," the old man said, lips twitching. "And no one will ever be able to take that away from you."
And they hadn't. Julian had mastered the spell over the holidays, lips twitching in a satisfied smile every time he properly cast it. As soon as the break was over and he'd returned from Hogwarts, he'd wasted no time.
Marcus and Terence had screamed like little girls when he'd cast the spell upon their beds. They clawed at their arms, shed their pajamas and cried that they were burning, that the fire would consume them. They'd woken the entire house with their screams of terror.
When Flint's eyes had snapped open long enough to focus on Julian's, the younger boy had merely given him a cold smirk and moved out of the room before Professor Snape swept in, cursing the stupidity of the two boys. The knowledge of his attacker, the fear that lurked in those deep brown orbs, gave Julian the deepest thrill.
That was the last time anyone in Slytherin House spoke to Julian about his paternity.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Pulling his wand out of his pocket, Julian cast a quick spell, conjuring three white roses out of mid-air. He laid one down in front of the nameplate reading Priam Vaisey, then in front of its counterpart which read Lucretia Vaisey.
Grandfather and Grandmother. The two people who loved him, despite the fact that he'd been born a killer. Two days old, and Julian's hands had already been stained with blood. It was for that reason that his final rose was subject to one more spell, one that tinged the tips of its waxy petals blood red.
Laying it down reverently in front of the final nameplate, Julian straightened and gave the tomb one final look. Cassandra Vaisey.
"Goodbye, Mother," he murmured before turning and walking back to the house.
Summary: Julian takes a day to mourn.