Trevor The Toad Goes to London
Happy Belated Brithday, dogstar101! Even though this doesn't match the description of your actual birthday yesterday, it could match a birthday at some point in your life! LOL. That's my way of saying many more! Thanks to anyaxstrindberg for "Jo-picking" this:
It was the last day of September. Trevor the Toad didn’t actually know that it was the last day of September. All he knew was that the days were getting shorter and the arthritis in his left hip was acting up on this cold, damp morning. What he wanted was warm dampness. He looked longing at the door of the entryway.
A pair of green Wellingtons crossed in front of his eyes. He perked up. Those were Neville’s Wellingtons. Hopefully he was going to the greenhouse and Trevor could tag along and bask in the humidity amongst the green growing things.
He croaked.
“Oh, there you are,” Neville said, scooping him up. Trevor was glad. He wasn’t up to hopping through the vast greenhouses that were now part of Neville’s business. “I ‘spect you’re feeling a little stiff this morning. Gran’s in a mood, too.”
Trevor was not in a mood. He was in pain - pain that his noble, stalwart demeanor concealed each and every day. He croaked his indignation.
Neville laughed fondly and tucked him in the pocket of his waterproof.
“Neville?” Hannah called. “You’ve just got a request from that squib florist in London. Seems she can’t find Chrysanthemums anywhere.”
“What color did she want?” he called back.
“Yellow.”
“Please be in the same room if you’re going to have a conversation,” snapped Gran from the kitchen. “I can’t abide the sound of your screeching voices.”
Trevor thought it somewhat ironic that Gran was not in the same room as either Neville or Hannah and she too was screeching.
Trevor heard Hannah’s light footsteps approaching. “What should I tell the florist? She was most anxious since it’s Saturday and she has three weddings to contend with.”
“We have yellow Chrysanthemums.”
“Good. She said to send it through the Floo. The Quill Florists.”
“Right.”
“I wrote it down for you.”
“Thanks.” What followed was that soft, wet sound that Trevor often heard whenever Neville and Hannah were in the same room. ‘Kissing,’ Gran called it. Trevor snuggled next to the packet of flower food that was in Neville’s pocket. The kissing sounds were preferable to screeching, he thought as he dozed off.
*
Trevor woke up feeling uncomfortably hot. The pocket was no longer cozy, but stifling in the humid heat of the greenhouse. Trevor poked his head through the pocket flap and saw that Neville had absently draped his waterproof with his toad inside on one of the high potting tables. Most dangerous.
Luckily Trevor had a head for heights - and luckily there was a lovely pot of damp dirt on the wooden table. A large plant was growing in it, but that didn’t concern Trevor. The loose, comfortable soil would feel heavenly against his sensitive skin. And the plant was a veritable canopy of sunshine yellow.
Once settled, he looked up at the thick screen of closely growing stems ending in hundreds of yellow blooms. It was like lying in the forest on a sunny day, he thought, enjoying his poetic flight of fancy. Then he dozed again.
*
“Look what I got for my birthday from The Quill!”
Trevor awoke to the sound of a soft, unfamiliar voice. The voice was feminine and happy. A lovely combination.
“Very nice.” This was a man’s voice.
Trevor peered out from under the dense foliage and saw a man and woman. Since they looked harmless enough, he examined the rest of the room. The walls were an attractive algae green, there were a lot of books on shelves, and there was a curious lit-up box with moving pictures. Closer to Trevor was a smaller folding box that was also lit up. There were words on it and . . . He croaked in amazement. On the lit-up fold of the box was a drawing of him, Trevor the Toad. The artist had done a masterful job of capturing the muscled beauty of his chest - and his favorite striped beach towel.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“It sounded like a . . . toad.”
The man laughed. “It’s Trevor, I reckon.”
Trevor’s heart seized. There was picture of himself on that box fold! That man knew his name! Surely, he was in the lair of a toad-kidnapping ring!
The stems rustled. Trevor cowered near the base of the plant. The foliage parted and he found himself looking into a pair of kind brown eyes. “’lo Trevor,” said that feminine voice again. She still sounded happy - like she was glad to see him.
The man laughed again. “How are you going to tell Neville you have his frog?”
Trevor started to bristle, but the woman read his mind. “Toad - not frog.” Sweet relief coursed through him. Here was someone who understood. He wasn’t being kidnapped. He had just gone on another inadvertent adventure and this woman knew to whom he belonged.
He heard more rustling of the leaves above him. “It says on the card to call this number if there are any problems with your order. Look.”
“You’re just to dial 87 into the phone?” The man sounded skeptical, but Trevor thought it was a reasonable course of action - even though he didn’t know what a phone was.
“Could it be any other number?” The woman laughed. Such a pleasant laugh, Trevor thought, wondering if he was falling in love again. He was a romantic soul who fell in and out of love so easily. “I’ll phone whilst you offer Trevor something to eat.”
That did it. Trevor was in love.
*
After two hours, a nap, and several fat spiders the man had captured for him, Trevor heard a knock at the door.
“Um. Hello. I’m -“
“You’re Neville!” The woman sounded happier still.
“Oh! Yes. I suppose you heard my name from The Quill.”
“That and other places,” was the cryptic reply. “Come in. Trevor’s still in the Chrysanthemum.”
There was another rustle and Trevor was looking into Neville’s eyes. “Trevor.” Neville might not realize it, but sometimes he sounded just like his gran.
“Well . . .” Neville said awkwardly as he plucked Trevor (with unnecessary roughness Trevor thought) out of the plant and into his pocket.
“How’s Hannah, these days?” the woman asked. “And your Gran?”
“Oh!” Neville sounded surprised that this woman knew all about him, but Trevor wasn’t. She was obviously a powerful witch with her lit-up boxes and her “phone” that operated with a number command. “I’m sorry - do I know you? Er - I mean. My memory isn’t the best . . .”
“I probably know you better than you know me,” said the witch soothingly. It was another cryptic reply, but said so nicely that Trevor was sure this witch knew all the good things about Neville - not just the mistakes he made in public.
“Well.” There was long pause. “It was nice to meet you - er - again.”
“Good-bye, Neville. And thank you for the birthday flowers.”
Trevor settled into Neville’s pocket for the journey home. He hoped it was a nice warm trip through the Floo and not on the Knight Bus. Both jolted him horribly, but the Floo was quieter.
*
They must have traveled through the Floo because Trevor woke to the sound of Hannah’s voice. “What you describe sounds like a computer.”
“I didn’t mean to look around, but that drawing of Trevor and the beach towel caught my eye."
“It’s probably a coincidence.”
“I don’t know.” Trevor could tell Neville was uneasy. After all of these years together, a toad just knew. “Do you think she’s a witch?” Neville asked.
“Not if she has a computer.”
“But how did she know me?” Neville brought Trevor out of his pocket and set him on the bedroom floor.
Hannah shrugged and went to sit next to Neville on the bed. “Maybe the florist told her your name.”
“But . . .”
“What?” Hannah asked.
“It wasn’t just that she knew my name. It was like she knew me.” Neville shrugged off his coat.
“I don’t . . .”
“She looked at me like you look at me.”
“Oh?” Hannah’s voice was sharp. “If she looked like that, I’d better have a talk with her.”
Neville laughed. “Not like that. I mean - she looked like she liked me.”
Trevor croaked out an affirmation. The witch did like Neville - anyone could see that. And the reason, of course, was that Neville took such good care of his toad. After all, the witch had a picture of him, Trevor the Toad, and not Neville on her computer.
“Of course she likes you - if she knows you at all, how could she not?” Hannah said softly.
That soft slurping noise again. Trevor looked up just to be sure. Yes, they were kissing and falling back together on the bed. Soon, they would be rubbing against each other like Neville’s friend, Harry, and that woman with the red hair. Trevor shuddered as he remembered the trip he had taken in the box of Chocolate Frogs to the land of Zeas.
He croaked a farewell that he was certain Neville did not hear. At least he was home. Gran might be in a mood, but she’d never let a toad starve.
If this story has you interested in Neville and Hannah's (and Gran's) story. Check out Asking For Roses by Dogstar at the Quill: http://www.sugarquill.net/index.php?action=profile&id=1140
If you missed Trevor visiting Harry and Ginny in New Zealand (No spoilers, though - details have changed from my original thoughts) it's here: http://stmargarets.livejournal.com/11390.html#cutid1
It was the last day of September. Trevor the Toad didn’t actually know that it was the last day of September. All he knew was that the days were getting shorter and the arthritis in his left hip was acting up on this cold, damp morning. What he wanted was warm dampness. He looked longing at the door of the entryway.
A pair of green Wellingtons crossed in front of his eyes. He perked up. Those were Neville’s Wellingtons. Hopefully he was going to the greenhouse and Trevor could tag along and bask in the humidity amongst the green growing things.
He croaked.
“Oh, there you are,” Neville said, scooping him up. Trevor was glad. He wasn’t up to hopping through the vast greenhouses that were now part of Neville’s business. “I ‘spect you’re feeling a little stiff this morning. Gran’s in a mood, too.”
Trevor was not in a mood. He was in pain - pain that his noble, stalwart demeanor concealed each and every day. He croaked his indignation.
Neville laughed fondly and tucked him in the pocket of his waterproof.
“Neville?” Hannah called. “You’ve just got a request from that squib florist in London. Seems she can’t find Chrysanthemums anywhere.”
“What color did she want?” he called back.
“Yellow.”
“Please be in the same room if you’re going to have a conversation,” snapped Gran from the kitchen. “I can’t abide the sound of your screeching voices.”
Trevor thought it somewhat ironic that Gran was not in the same room as either Neville or Hannah and she too was screeching.
Trevor heard Hannah’s light footsteps approaching. “What should I tell the florist? She was most anxious since it’s Saturday and she has three weddings to contend with.”
“We have yellow Chrysanthemums.”
“Good. She said to send it through the Floo. The Quill Florists.”
“Right.”
“I wrote it down for you.”
“Thanks.” What followed was that soft, wet sound that Trevor often heard whenever Neville and Hannah were in the same room. ‘Kissing,’ Gran called it. Trevor snuggled next to the packet of flower food that was in Neville’s pocket. The kissing sounds were preferable to screeching, he thought as he dozed off.
*
Trevor woke up feeling uncomfortably hot. The pocket was no longer cozy, but stifling in the humid heat of the greenhouse. Trevor poked his head through the pocket flap and saw that Neville had absently draped his waterproof with his toad inside on one of the high potting tables. Most dangerous.
Luckily Trevor had a head for heights - and luckily there was a lovely pot of damp dirt on the wooden table. A large plant was growing in it, but that didn’t concern Trevor. The loose, comfortable soil would feel heavenly against his sensitive skin. And the plant was a veritable canopy of sunshine yellow.
Once settled, he looked up at the thick screen of closely growing stems ending in hundreds of yellow blooms. It was like lying in the forest on a sunny day, he thought, enjoying his poetic flight of fancy. Then he dozed again.
*
“Look what I got for my birthday from The Quill!”
Trevor awoke to the sound of a soft, unfamiliar voice. The voice was feminine and happy. A lovely combination.
“Very nice.” This was a man’s voice.
Trevor peered out from under the dense foliage and saw a man and woman. Since they looked harmless enough, he examined the rest of the room. The walls were an attractive algae green, there were a lot of books on shelves, and there was a curious lit-up box with moving pictures. Closer to Trevor was a smaller folding box that was also lit up. There were words on it and . . . He croaked in amazement. On the lit-up fold of the box was a drawing of him, Trevor the Toad. The artist had done a masterful job of capturing the muscled beauty of his chest - and his favorite striped beach towel.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“It sounded like a . . . toad.”
The man laughed. “It’s Trevor, I reckon.”
Trevor’s heart seized. There was picture of himself on that box fold! That man knew his name! Surely, he was in the lair of a toad-kidnapping ring!
The stems rustled. Trevor cowered near the base of the plant. The foliage parted and he found himself looking into a pair of kind brown eyes. “’lo Trevor,” said that feminine voice again. She still sounded happy - like she was glad to see him.
The man laughed again. “How are you going to tell Neville you have his frog?”
Trevor started to bristle, but the woman read his mind. “Toad - not frog.” Sweet relief coursed through him. Here was someone who understood. He wasn’t being kidnapped. He had just gone on another inadvertent adventure and this woman knew to whom he belonged.
He heard more rustling of the leaves above him. “It says on the card to call this number if there are any problems with your order. Look.”
“You’re just to dial 87 into the phone?” The man sounded skeptical, but Trevor thought it was a reasonable course of action - even though he didn’t know what a phone was.
“Could it be any other number?” The woman laughed. Such a pleasant laugh, Trevor thought, wondering if he was falling in love again. He was a romantic soul who fell in and out of love so easily. “I’ll phone whilst you offer Trevor something to eat.”
That did it. Trevor was in love.
*
After two hours, a nap, and several fat spiders the man had captured for him, Trevor heard a knock at the door.
“Um. Hello. I’m -“
“You’re Neville!” The woman sounded happier still.
“Oh! Yes. I suppose you heard my name from The Quill.”
“That and other places,” was the cryptic reply. “Come in. Trevor’s still in the Chrysanthemum.”
There was another rustle and Trevor was looking into Neville’s eyes. “Trevor.” Neville might not realize it, but sometimes he sounded just like his gran.
“Well . . .” Neville said awkwardly as he plucked Trevor (with unnecessary roughness Trevor thought) out of the plant and into his pocket.
“How’s Hannah, these days?” the woman asked. “And your Gran?”
“Oh!” Neville sounded surprised that this woman knew all about him, but Trevor wasn’t. She was obviously a powerful witch with her lit-up boxes and her “phone” that operated with a number command. “I’m sorry - do I know you? Er - I mean. My memory isn’t the best . . .”
“I probably know you better than you know me,” said the witch soothingly. It was another cryptic reply, but said so nicely that Trevor was sure this witch knew all the good things about Neville - not just the mistakes he made in public.
“Well.” There was long pause. “It was nice to meet you - er - again.”
“Good-bye, Neville. And thank you for the birthday flowers.”
Trevor settled into Neville’s pocket for the journey home. He hoped it was a nice warm trip through the Floo and not on the Knight Bus. Both jolted him horribly, but the Floo was quieter.
*
They must have traveled through the Floo because Trevor woke to the sound of Hannah’s voice. “What you describe sounds like a computer.”
“I didn’t mean to look around, but that drawing of Trevor and the beach towel caught my eye."
“It’s probably a coincidence.”
“I don’t know.” Trevor could tell Neville was uneasy. After all of these years together, a toad just knew. “Do you think she’s a witch?” Neville asked.
“Not if she has a computer.”
“But how did she know me?” Neville brought Trevor out of his pocket and set him on the bedroom floor.
Hannah shrugged and went to sit next to Neville on the bed. “Maybe the florist told her your name.”
“But . . .”
“What?” Hannah asked.
“It wasn’t just that she knew my name. It was like she knew me.” Neville shrugged off his coat.
“I don’t . . .”
“She looked at me like you look at me.”
“Oh?” Hannah’s voice was sharp. “If she looked like that, I’d better have a talk with her.”
Neville laughed. “Not like that. I mean - she looked like she liked me.”
Trevor croaked out an affirmation. The witch did like Neville - anyone could see that. And the reason, of course, was that Neville took such good care of his toad. After all, the witch had a picture of him, Trevor the Toad, and not Neville on her computer.
“Of course she likes you - if she knows you at all, how could she not?” Hannah said softly.
That soft slurping noise again. Trevor looked up just to be sure. Yes, they were kissing and falling back together on the bed. Soon, they would be rubbing against each other like Neville’s friend, Harry, and that woman with the red hair. Trevor shuddered as he remembered the trip he had taken in the box of Chocolate Frogs to the land of Zeas.
He croaked a farewell that he was certain Neville did not hear. At least he was home. Gran might be in a mood, but she’d never let a toad starve.
If this story has you interested in Neville and Hannah's (and Gran's) story. Check out Asking For Roses by Dogstar at the Quill: http://www.sugarquill.net/index.php?action=profile&id=1140
If you missed Trevor visiting Harry and Ginny in New Zealand (No spoilers, though - details have changed from my original thoughts) it's here: http://stmargarets.livejournal.com/11390.html#cutid1