Dresden Files: Evaluation: 38 - Honesty
Title: Evaluation
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, young Harry, Morningway
Prompt: 19. Honesty
Word Count: 1,745
Rating: PG
Summary: A simple truth becomes a catalyst for fate.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
Harry Dresden hated exams. Fortunately, this one was turning out better than most.
The teenager peered into the small copper cauldron, his expression hopeful as the contents boiled. Small, lazy bubbles rose to the surface of the thick liquid, popping with little blurps of sound. Leaning closer, he hazarded a sniff. The potion smelled like a combination of freshly mown grass and sun tan lotion. The color was just as promising. Warm and pleasingly golden, it brought to mind summer sweet corn and amber waves of grain.
A bead of sweat rolled down the slope of Harry’s nose. He suddenly pulled back and swiped a sleeve across his face. A single drop of sweat could change the properties of the entire potion. Bob was always warning him that even the tiniest, seemingly insignificant change in a formula could result in a volatile disaster. The old ghost was constantly regaling him with dark tales of exploding labs and hapless wizards turned into slimy puddles of goo because of a moment’s inattention.
Disaster safely blotted, Harry blew out a tiny sigh of relief that he hoped would not be heard by the sole member of his audience, Justin Morningway. His Uncle sat just a few feet away, observing the proceedings with an impassive expression.
I can do this, Harry reminded himself. He’d struggled to perfect the potion’s formula and its execution for the better part of a month. More than once he’d been ready to throw in the proverbial town and to hell with being a wizard, but Bob always brought him back to the task at hand with a snarky insult or a well-chosen word of encouragement. Bob could be a harsh and exacting teacher but he knew when to give encouragement and praise when it was deserved.
And right now, I deserve it, thought Harry as he reached for the final ingredient. The past week’s practice sessions to prepare for this test had been grueling but the end result had boosted Harry’s confidence. After much trial and error - mostly error - he’d actually succeeded in creating a potion that would -
“STOP!” thundered Justin Morningway, his voice interrupting Harry’s thoughts like a mental slap.
Startled, Harry looked up and very nearly knocked the small cauldron from its tripod. “What?” he stammered, stunned to find his Uncle out of his chair and striding toward him.
“That!” Morningway used his cane to jab at the object in Harry’s hand. “What is THAT?”
Bewildered, the boy looked down and opened his palm. “It’s a wand.”
“A wand?” His uncle’s dark eyes flashed with anger as he removed a gold pen from his breast pocket. With a deft movement, he pointed the mundane-looking implement at the classic black and white rod in Harry’s hand and incanted a single word in Latin.
Harry cried out in alarm as the stage magician’s wand flared with sickly green light and turned into black ash in his hand.
“This is a wand,” snapped Morningway with open contempt as he pocketed the pen. “That thing is a mockery. Explain yourself!”
“I wasn’t going to use it for magic.” Harry looked down at the fine black grit dusting the polished hardwood floor. “Not as a wand wand. Not a real one, I mean.” Inside, he cringed. Why couldn’t he ever seem to find the right words to explain what he really wanted to say? “It’s just an ingredient. You know, for the final part of the potion?” he said hopefully. “The one for the spirit.”
“I was my understanding that you were preparing a potion to create sunlight.
“That’s right. The days are longer in the summer time, so I thought-“
“What does a charlatan’s wand have to do with sunlight or summer?”
Charlatan? Harry was no English major but he knew the meaning of the word. He’d heard it often enough behind the scenes of a hundred little theatres and road shows. “It reminds me of my Dad,” he said defensively. “His best shows were in the summer, at county fairs and things.” Harry closed his fist over the last bits of black ash. Happy memories of his father, few though they were, had seemed like the perfect ‘spiritual’ component to the potion.
Morningway’s fingers tightened on the silver knob of his cane, willing the staff to absorb the brunt of his anger lest the energy manifest itself in an ugly - and regrettably permanent - way. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight but even and controlled.
“I understand your reasoning, but the ingredient is unacceptable.” With a curt sweep of his hand, the contents of the cauldron also turned to black ash, shredding the sweet aromas of summer with an acidic stench very like sulfur. “You have two days to revise it or present another potion.” His dark eyes narrowed. “See that you pass the next examination, nephew. You may go.”
“But what about--?”
Morningway raised and then slammed the foot of his cane on the floor with a loud THUD! A shuddering wave of power, like hot static, buffeted through the room, lifting Harry’s dark brown hair and raising goose bumps on the flesh of his arms.
“Never question a direct order. Never. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry stammered.
“You are dismissed.”
Confused and dejected by his uncle’s stinging contempt, Harry scooped up his notebook and fled the study.
When Justin Morningway felt the wards on his nephew’s bedroom door fall into place, he turned to glare at the rune-inscribed skull perched on a corner of the ornate desk.
“Show yourself, Ghost!” he ordered.
A spark of orange-red flame fled the confines of the gruesome artifact like an angry hornet and swirled into a smoking column that resolved itself into the visage of a man.
“Your servant,” replied Hrothbert of Bainbridge in an acidic intonation that was far from subservient. He glanced at the charred remains of Harry’s failed potion attempt before bringing his gaze to meet that of his master. “Given your hatred of the vampire courts, I confess that I am surprised at your aversion to sunlight.”
“Don’t try my patience,” Morningway snarled. “I expected a demonstration fitting a promising young wizard.” He angrily swept the black-encrusted cauldron and its tripod from the desk with his cane. “Instead I get this drivel!”
“You cannot teach a fledgling to fly much less soar before it has grown into its feathers.” Then, more succinctly, “The child is lacking the most rudimentary skills in practical magic. I am a dead and damned sorcerer, not a miracle worker."
“Then become one.” Morningway’s dark eyes gleamed with the avarice and ambition that were his true nature. Hidden from most by a well-crafted veneer of civilization, he had no need of shields or lies in the company of this spectral slave. “The wheels are finally turning. Pieces are beginning to fall into place. Into favor. In order to bring them to fruition, I need an ally - a powerful ally. Not a sniveling boy pining over the loss of a father that was unworthy of him!” He glowered at the ghost. “I want that memory purged completely.”
“You cannot make the boy forget his past.”
“No?” Morningway’s pudgy fingers traced the intricate swirls and patterns engraved in the silver head of his cane. “Try me.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that you’re capable of such a feat. But what I spoke was not a challenge. It was a truth,” said Hrothbert curtly. “You cannot - or rather, should not - endeavor to force the child to forget his father and the feelings he has for him.”
“Malcolm Dresden was a disgrace to-“
“Yes, yes, I know. So you have said on any number of occasions,” replied the ghost, impatient and impertinent. “Your prejudice against your sister’s choice in companions aside, I suggest that you look at the problem from a more practical point of view.”
“Meaning?”
“Emotion is a vital element to any wizard’s power, as well you know. Too much anger and despair will produce dire consequences. Whether you approve or not, it is clear that Harry loved - and will no doubt always love - his father. Purging that love from his memory will not remove it from his heart. If you insist on doing so, the boy will never find the center of balance and power he will need to realize his potential and become a truly great wizard.” Bob shrugged. “Still, do as you wish. It is none of my concern whether you wipe his memories clean or no.”
“I can control a thrall.”
“True. And by doing so, all of your plans and machinations are doomed to fail.”
“We will not fail!”
“You will,” insisted Hrothbert, “If you cannot ally yourself with a wizard powerful enough and spontaneous enough to stand up to the Council and its Wardens.”
“Spontaneity.” Morningway’s expression became thoughtful as he mulled the word over. “As much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point.”
The ghost inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“If I don’t purge all memory of Malcolm Dresden, I will need to replace it in some way.”
“You cannot replace a boy’s love for his father.”
“No, but you can transfer that affection to another subject.” Morningway offered the ghost a very unpleasant smile. “Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”
“You are hardly the nurturing type.”
“Nor do I intend to be. I’ve already been too lenient on my dear nephew. In point of fact, I was referring to you.”
The ghost jerked slightly, as if he had been physically slapped. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious,” his master assured him. “You said it yourself; strong emotion is the foundation of a wizard’s power. Hatred is too volatile and uncontrollable, but love! Now there’s an emotion that can be shaped and twisted.”
“I am no father figure!”
“No, but you can be the next best thing to one. A teacher. A mentor. A friend,” said Morningway with satisfaction. “My nephew needs someone to confide in and transfer all of those lost, lonely affections to. I’m going to make it easier for him because you, my dear Ghost, are about to start spending considerably more time with him, beginning with tomorrow’s lessons...”
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, young Harry, Morningway
Prompt: 19. Honesty
Word Count: 1,745
Rating: PG
Summary: A simple truth becomes a catalyst for fate.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
Harry Dresden hated exams. Fortunately, this one was turning out better than most.
The teenager peered into the small copper cauldron, his expression hopeful as the contents boiled. Small, lazy bubbles rose to the surface of the thick liquid, popping with little blurps of sound. Leaning closer, he hazarded a sniff. The potion smelled like a combination of freshly mown grass and sun tan lotion. The color was just as promising. Warm and pleasingly golden, it brought to mind summer sweet corn and amber waves of grain.
A bead of sweat rolled down the slope of Harry’s nose. He suddenly pulled back and swiped a sleeve across his face. A single drop of sweat could change the properties of the entire potion. Bob was always warning him that even the tiniest, seemingly insignificant change in a formula could result in a volatile disaster. The old ghost was constantly regaling him with dark tales of exploding labs and hapless wizards turned into slimy puddles of goo because of a moment’s inattention.
Disaster safely blotted, Harry blew out a tiny sigh of relief that he hoped would not be heard by the sole member of his audience, Justin Morningway. His Uncle sat just a few feet away, observing the proceedings with an impassive expression.
I can do this, Harry reminded himself. He’d struggled to perfect the potion’s formula and its execution for the better part of a month. More than once he’d been ready to throw in the proverbial town and to hell with being a wizard, but Bob always brought him back to the task at hand with a snarky insult or a well-chosen word of encouragement. Bob could be a harsh and exacting teacher but he knew when to give encouragement and praise when it was deserved.
And right now, I deserve it, thought Harry as he reached for the final ingredient. The past week’s practice sessions to prepare for this test had been grueling but the end result had boosted Harry’s confidence. After much trial and error - mostly error - he’d actually succeeded in creating a potion that would -
“STOP!” thundered Justin Morningway, his voice interrupting Harry’s thoughts like a mental slap.
Startled, Harry looked up and very nearly knocked the small cauldron from its tripod. “What?” he stammered, stunned to find his Uncle out of his chair and striding toward him.
“That!” Morningway used his cane to jab at the object in Harry’s hand. “What is THAT?”
Bewildered, the boy looked down and opened his palm. “It’s a wand.”
“A wand?” His uncle’s dark eyes flashed with anger as he removed a gold pen from his breast pocket. With a deft movement, he pointed the mundane-looking implement at the classic black and white rod in Harry’s hand and incanted a single word in Latin.
Harry cried out in alarm as the stage magician’s wand flared with sickly green light and turned into black ash in his hand.
“This is a wand,” snapped Morningway with open contempt as he pocketed the pen. “That thing is a mockery. Explain yourself!”
“I wasn’t going to use it for magic.” Harry looked down at the fine black grit dusting the polished hardwood floor. “Not as a wand wand. Not a real one, I mean.” Inside, he cringed. Why couldn’t he ever seem to find the right words to explain what he really wanted to say? “It’s just an ingredient. You know, for the final part of the potion?” he said hopefully. “The one for the spirit.”
“I was my understanding that you were preparing a potion to create sunlight.
“That’s right. The days are longer in the summer time, so I thought-“
“What does a charlatan’s wand have to do with sunlight or summer?”
Charlatan? Harry was no English major but he knew the meaning of the word. He’d heard it often enough behind the scenes of a hundred little theatres and road shows. “It reminds me of my Dad,” he said defensively. “His best shows were in the summer, at county fairs and things.” Harry closed his fist over the last bits of black ash. Happy memories of his father, few though they were, had seemed like the perfect ‘spiritual’ component to the potion.
Morningway’s fingers tightened on the silver knob of his cane, willing the staff to absorb the brunt of his anger lest the energy manifest itself in an ugly - and regrettably permanent - way. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight but even and controlled.
“I understand your reasoning, but the ingredient is unacceptable.” With a curt sweep of his hand, the contents of the cauldron also turned to black ash, shredding the sweet aromas of summer with an acidic stench very like sulfur. “You have two days to revise it or present another potion.” His dark eyes narrowed. “See that you pass the next examination, nephew. You may go.”
“But what about--?”
Morningway raised and then slammed the foot of his cane on the floor with a loud THUD! A shuddering wave of power, like hot static, buffeted through the room, lifting Harry’s dark brown hair and raising goose bumps on the flesh of his arms.
“Never question a direct order. Never. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry stammered.
“You are dismissed.”
Confused and dejected by his uncle’s stinging contempt, Harry scooped up his notebook and fled the study.
When Justin Morningway felt the wards on his nephew’s bedroom door fall into place, he turned to glare at the rune-inscribed skull perched on a corner of the ornate desk.
“Show yourself, Ghost!” he ordered.
A spark of orange-red flame fled the confines of the gruesome artifact like an angry hornet and swirled into a smoking column that resolved itself into the visage of a man.
“Your servant,” replied Hrothbert of Bainbridge in an acidic intonation that was far from subservient. He glanced at the charred remains of Harry’s failed potion attempt before bringing his gaze to meet that of his master. “Given your hatred of the vampire courts, I confess that I am surprised at your aversion to sunlight.”
“Don’t try my patience,” Morningway snarled. “I expected a demonstration fitting a promising young wizard.” He angrily swept the black-encrusted cauldron and its tripod from the desk with his cane. “Instead I get this drivel!”
“You cannot teach a fledgling to fly much less soar before it has grown into its feathers.” Then, more succinctly, “The child is lacking the most rudimentary skills in practical magic. I am a dead and damned sorcerer, not a miracle worker."
“Then become one.” Morningway’s dark eyes gleamed with the avarice and ambition that were his true nature. Hidden from most by a well-crafted veneer of civilization, he had no need of shields or lies in the company of this spectral slave. “The wheels are finally turning. Pieces are beginning to fall into place. Into favor. In order to bring them to fruition, I need an ally - a powerful ally. Not a sniveling boy pining over the loss of a father that was unworthy of him!” He glowered at the ghost. “I want that memory purged completely.”
“You cannot make the boy forget his past.”
“No?” Morningway’s pudgy fingers traced the intricate swirls and patterns engraved in the silver head of his cane. “Try me.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that you’re capable of such a feat. But what I spoke was not a challenge. It was a truth,” said Hrothbert curtly. “You cannot - or rather, should not - endeavor to force the child to forget his father and the feelings he has for him.”
“Malcolm Dresden was a disgrace to-“
“Yes, yes, I know. So you have said on any number of occasions,” replied the ghost, impatient and impertinent. “Your prejudice against your sister’s choice in companions aside, I suggest that you look at the problem from a more practical point of view.”
“Meaning?”
“Emotion is a vital element to any wizard’s power, as well you know. Too much anger and despair will produce dire consequences. Whether you approve or not, it is clear that Harry loved - and will no doubt always love - his father. Purging that love from his memory will not remove it from his heart. If you insist on doing so, the boy will never find the center of balance and power he will need to realize his potential and become a truly great wizard.” Bob shrugged. “Still, do as you wish. It is none of my concern whether you wipe his memories clean or no.”
“I can control a thrall.”
“True. And by doing so, all of your plans and machinations are doomed to fail.”
“We will not fail!”
“You will,” insisted Hrothbert, “If you cannot ally yourself with a wizard powerful enough and spontaneous enough to stand up to the Council and its Wardens.”
“Spontaneity.” Morningway’s expression became thoughtful as he mulled the word over. “As much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point.”
The ghost inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“If I don’t purge all memory of Malcolm Dresden, I will need to replace it in some way.”
“You cannot replace a boy’s love for his father.”
“No, but you can transfer that affection to another subject.” Morningway offered the ghost a very unpleasant smile. “Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”
“You are hardly the nurturing type.”
“Nor do I intend to be. I’ve already been too lenient on my dear nephew. In point of fact, I was referring to you.”
The ghost jerked slightly, as if he had been physically slapped. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious,” his master assured him. “You said it yourself; strong emotion is the foundation of a wizard’s power. Hatred is too volatile and uncontrollable, but love! Now there’s an emotion that can be shaped and twisted.”
“I am no father figure!”
“No, but you can be the next best thing to one. A teacher. A mentor. A friend,” said Morningway with satisfaction. “My nephew needs someone to confide in and transfer all of those lost, lonely affections to. I’m going to make it easier for him because you, my dear Ghost, are about to start spending considerably more time with him, beginning with tomorrow’s lessons...”