I Have Some Unfortunate News
A tall, gaunt figure clad in student's attire, Ravenclaw specifically, would make his way through the halls of the Scottish castle in the wee morning hours. It was too early for most, the halls still barren but he passed the earliest risers of a compliant population. The morning joggers, the bird watchers, the journalists that insisted on a quiet corner for their morning meditation. It was not that he was unrecognizable or that he was disguised, but rather he was less famous than a healthy ego would likely suggest.
There was something "wrong" with him, but it was not terribly obvious under the spiteful glare of day. He was pale, his cheeks and eyes slightly sunken. His blonde hair a bit too long to compliment his face, as if he was in need of a haircut or trying to "grow it out," the later not being in his best interest if he so tried to pursue. His clothes were long enough for him, but to anyone that took the time to observe, they would note that his waistband was cinched, his belt pulled tight about his waist, his waistband was folded over. The pants were two sizes too large. The same could be said of his shirt, his broad shoulders were more like a living hanger holding up a clean, white, pressed shirt.
There was a light coming from beneath the door, so someone was inside. His hand hovered over the wood as he briefly hesitated, there was that thread of fear that lingered as he mustered what courage he had and rapped thrice with his knuckles on the frame as he muttered the password that would grand him ingress. It was an obvious one, even in the Headmaster's sorry state - Greg. He was familiar enough with the tragic incident that caused Solomon Lear's absence from the school, a fact that went almost unnoticed by the student body. So much so, he was not discovered for months, having been trapped in the groundskeeper's cabin.
A sense of guilt and shame could be felt by the teen, he was but one of many cogs in a terrible machine he was only now coming to understand. He would enter the room, it was eerie to behold how little it had changed. The bare walls, the stolen portraits never recovered or replaced. He wondered if they ever even searched for them considering how far they had taken the Headmaster, the portraits could not have gone much further. The pygmypuffs that used to flood his office were ominously absent, they had at one point been a remedy for loneliness, but since the 'incident' it would appear he never re-populated the herd. The space appeared depressing, a testament to the old man's state of mind.
Well, damn.
People rarely consider the effects of their actions on others, himself included. It was always about what he needed, that the suffering or mistreatment someone else experiences was either deserved or a learning experience. It was just a contest of egos and every else was the loser. His moment of introspection would be brief, he would even preserve his ego with a wave of excuses. He was after all still here for himself.
"...I have some unfortunate news."
There was something "wrong" with him, but it was not terribly obvious under the spiteful glare of day. He was pale, his cheeks and eyes slightly sunken. His blonde hair a bit too long to compliment his face, as if he was in need of a haircut or trying to "grow it out," the later not being in his best interest if he so tried to pursue. His clothes were long enough for him, but to anyone that took the time to observe, they would note that his waistband was cinched, his belt pulled tight about his waist, his waistband was folded over. The pants were two sizes too large. The same could be said of his shirt, his broad shoulders were more like a living hanger holding up a clean, white, pressed shirt.
There was a light coming from beneath the door, so someone was inside. His hand hovered over the wood as he briefly hesitated, there was that thread of fear that lingered as he mustered what courage he had and rapped thrice with his knuckles on the frame as he muttered the password that would grand him ingress. It was an obvious one, even in the Headmaster's sorry state - Greg. He was familiar enough with the tragic incident that caused Solomon Lear's absence from the school, a fact that went almost unnoticed by the student body. So much so, he was not discovered for months, having been trapped in the groundskeeper's cabin.
A sense of guilt and shame could be felt by the teen, he was but one of many cogs in a terrible machine he was only now coming to understand. He would enter the room, it was eerie to behold how little it had changed. The bare walls, the stolen portraits never recovered or replaced. He wondered if they ever even searched for them considering how far they had taken the Headmaster, the portraits could not have gone much further. The pygmypuffs that used to flood his office were ominously absent, they had at one point been a remedy for loneliness, but since the 'incident' it would appear he never re-populated the herd. The space appeared depressing, a testament to the old man's state of mind.
Well, damn.
People rarely consider the effects of their actions on others, himself included. It was always about what he needed, that the suffering or mistreatment someone else experiences was either deserved or a learning experience. It was just a contest of egos and every else was the loser. His moment of introspection would be brief, he would even preserve his ego with a wave of excuses. He was after all still here for himself.
"...I have some unfortunate news."
Aamon
I Have Some Unfortunate News
Solomon was doing as he had for the past handful of years, spent his days toiling over various manuscripts, documents, forms, dissertations. A literate man's folly as the only thing tested these days was his eyes under the flickering flame of his oil lamp as the evenings would draw on and night would fall. The night was the time that bothered him the most these days, the unnerving sense that he was being observed from the shadows, that he was being followed and that there was something unseen, untouched and unheard that meant him harm. So he did not sleep very well, if at all these days. Rather he ambled the familiar halls with the experience of being pursued, he wrote in his familiar chair knowing that from an empty sill something was observing him.
He was used to feeling worn out, dragged down and a bit paranoid. So when the dead traversed the threshold of his office, the hairs on his arms would stand on end. A sharp inhale, as if air as made of icy steel, he would feel a pain in his chest and a sense that for a moment his own heart stopped, that his blood had run cold. Impossible was a blatant lie that almost escaped his lips when he saw the gaunt, yet unmistakable visage of the cursed boy.
He did not know all of the troubles that Vladimir had been a part of, nor did he know the depths of his connection with the hags. Only that the hags were nowhere to be seen and that Vladimir died during his fifth year at St. Mungos Hospital. He knew because he was told that the boy had died. He did not see it. He did not attend a funerary service. Back then he never pondered the -why- and gave quiet excuses, such as the terrible state the curse likely left the teen's remains in. That his remains might be dangerous. That his father, a known face and name in media, wanted privacy during this tragedy. As unlike him as it might have been, Solomon knew well the pains of loss after his daughter had died at the hands of a hunter those years ago. How his manager encouraged him to make public statements, speak with reporters and use her death as an opportunity. It spat in the face of his anguish. He had doors, plenty of them. He had opportunities. He did not want favors or fame, he wanted what he lost even if it cost him all of the opportunities and doors in the world.
"You look well," for a dead man he announced as he tried to collect himself. An act even on his best of days. "Am I going to ask what this means," he grimaces as his knees popped and he took his full height. The boy had gotten taller, he did not like that. "Or is this going to be another one of those incidents?" He was referring to the attack on Halloween years ago where he was taken from this very room by a man that resembled his estranged son. He was so taken aback on that day, it was like seeing the best and worst possible image he could see as his sins came back to haunt him.
He never recovered.
His grip tightened around his wand. He was not going to be taken again. He would flourish his wand, it was simply aspen wood, many of the adornments faded from years of use and handling. "Crucio," the headmaster incanted and a terrible flash of light would be released from his wand.
He was used to feeling worn out, dragged down and a bit paranoid. So when the dead traversed the threshold of his office, the hairs on his arms would stand on end. A sharp inhale, as if air as made of icy steel, he would feel a pain in his chest and a sense that for a moment his own heart stopped, that his blood had run cold. Impossible was a blatant lie that almost escaped his lips when he saw the gaunt, yet unmistakable visage of the cursed boy.
He did not know all of the troubles that Vladimir had been a part of, nor did he know the depths of his connection with the hags. Only that the hags were nowhere to be seen and that Vladimir died during his fifth year at St. Mungos Hospital. He knew because he was told that the boy had died. He did not see it. He did not attend a funerary service. Back then he never pondered the -why- and gave quiet excuses, such as the terrible state the curse likely left the teen's remains in. That his remains might be dangerous. That his father, a known face and name in media, wanted privacy during this tragedy. As unlike him as it might have been, Solomon knew well the pains of loss after his daughter had died at the hands of a hunter those years ago. How his manager encouraged him to make public statements, speak with reporters and use her death as an opportunity. It spat in the face of his anguish. He had doors, plenty of them. He had opportunities. He did not want favors or fame, he wanted what he lost even if it cost him all of the opportunities and doors in the world.
"You look well," for a dead man he announced as he tried to collect himself. An act even on his best of days. "Am I going to ask what this means," he grimaces as his knees popped and he took his full height. The boy had gotten taller, he did not like that. "Or is this going to be another one of those incidents?" He was referring to the attack on Halloween years ago where he was taken from this very room by a man that resembled his estranged son. He was so taken aback on that day, it was like seeing the best and worst possible image he could see as his sins came back to haunt him.
He never recovered.
His grip tightened around his wand. He was not going to be taken again. He would flourish his wand, it was simply aspen wood, many of the adornments faded from years of use and handling. "Crucio," the headmaster incanted and a terrible flash of light would be released from his wand.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
I Have Some Unfortunate News
As he traversed the threshold he would behold a paranoid, exhausted man. The sort of man that has seen and experienced things. A man who was reduced by his fear to an echo of his former self. He could feel it and see it all, his presence brought back the memories of that day in a terrible, crushing wave. The image of his son forcing his way through this very door. His son, taking up more of the door, his broad shoulders filling the space, nay breaking the frame as he barged in. He looked up, you would not know that the door was ever broken. The fracture sealed and covered over with a thick coat of varnish.
He could feel what Solomon felt on that day, the joy was muddied by an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame. He had bore him with a giantess prior to his marriage to Morgantha. This was his eldest known son, but he was treated more as a past choice that should not be brought up unless absolutely necessary. When the half-giant failed to demonstrate any arcane potential, he fell completely from his father's favor. A useless squib, not words he ever said but words he thought often and at the time he ashamedly regretted. He was the sort of child he paraded around for the media as part of his 'show' as an adventurer who has tasted more than the adventure of various regions but also various women. But the boy was little more than a prop to Solomon, and while he was never quite cruel he never gave the boy the love he needed to give to make him into a true man.
Back then it did not matter. He did not care. But now he regretted the selfish choices of a past self. Especially when the boy walked out of their estate and said that he would find his own way. It was written in a note that Solomon did not even start to look for until two weeks had passed. He said he went looking for him, but in truth it was little more than a longer walk about the neighborhood during his evening strolls. He took his nightcaps on the porch and looked out into the neighborhood and he never saw him. At the time he was far too enamored with himself, with his name and his fame. In another two weeks he was off on another safari, seeking another elusive creature and would not return home for months.
His son had shown up a few times. At Christmas once. For Father's Day another year. Solomon never said the words he wanted to say back then but always thought he had more time. That perhaps the platitude of 'good to see you son' was enough. He was not expressive enough to say he missed him, that he wanted Edwick to come home. He should have said something, but he had too much pride, too much love for himself and too much fear that his words would somehow become twisted and misconstrued. He had a new life, one that hardly involved a squib part giant from a woman he barely knew. But after Anya died, his priorities had changed. He tried to find Edwick with vigor, he had gotten involved with a group of squibs. A rough sort of crowd, down and outs that had an axe to grind with wizarding folk. By the time he had found him, Edwick rejected him outright. Called him a terrible father and an even lesser man for what he had allowed to happen to his sister. A glory hound. The problem was, Edwick was right. But when people hear truths that they do not want to hear, they lash out and they say terrible things. Things that should never be said. Things that were only partly true but conveyed in the cruelest possible way. A part of Solomon shrived up inside whenever his thoughts went back to that day and they did often.
They left on worse terms than they had come together on. Solomon would embark on a truly dark act, one to try and bring his daughter back. An by Merlin, he did it. He brought something back, but it was wrong. It was monstrous in its own way and the cost was great as his youthful features faded into an aged, tired visage, that of an old, greying man.
He deserved his son's wrath when he came. Solomon could not even raise a wand to his own son as he ripped him from his seat and slammed him into the stone wall so hard that the world almost instantly went black. His pygmy puffs rustled about. Sound goes last they say, so when he heard a muffled voice say Hogsmeade, he knew he was gone. There were little shrill squeaks and screams, something terrible that even the older man refused to fully contemplate had happened to his menagerie of pygmy puffs. They had tried to follow him, but they did not find passage and only fire.
He would spend months in torment, he never quite understood what those women wanted from him or what happened to his son. A part of him knew why, at least on the part of his son. His son died hating him. Wanting nothing more than to make his father suffer terribly. But nobody gives resources to a man with Daddy issues. It was what else was in the room that mattered. It was the reason Dolores Umbridge had come there in the first place those years ago. And Vladimir's eyes widened when he saw the terrible truth.
Indeed, Solomon was not a great man. No, he was at times a good man, but that was the best he would muster. His obsession with bringing back what he had lost was at the expense of everything and everyone, even himself. Dolores had shared something with him. What did she share! Why didn't his memory go back to her! They took him, they took it. She was killed by them? No, she was already dead. Years dead.
The wave would come to an end and the fog that lasted but a moment would lift from his eyes. Solomon had his wand raised, pointed at him. His mind said the word before his mouth ever uttered it.
He could feel what Solomon felt on that day, the joy was muddied by an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame. He had bore him with a giantess prior to his marriage to Morgantha. This was his eldest known son, but he was treated more as a past choice that should not be brought up unless absolutely necessary. When the half-giant failed to demonstrate any arcane potential, he fell completely from his father's favor. A useless squib, not words he ever said but words he thought often and at the time he ashamedly regretted. He was the sort of child he paraded around for the media as part of his 'show' as an adventurer who has tasted more than the adventure of various regions but also various women. But the boy was little more than a prop to Solomon, and while he was never quite cruel he never gave the boy the love he needed to give to make him into a true man.
Back then it did not matter. He did not care. But now he regretted the selfish choices of a past self. Especially when the boy walked out of their estate and said that he would find his own way. It was written in a note that Solomon did not even start to look for until two weeks had passed. He said he went looking for him, but in truth it was little more than a longer walk about the neighborhood during his evening strolls. He took his nightcaps on the porch and looked out into the neighborhood and he never saw him. At the time he was far too enamored with himself, with his name and his fame. In another two weeks he was off on another safari, seeking another elusive creature and would not return home for months.
His son had shown up a few times. At Christmas once. For Father's Day another year. Solomon never said the words he wanted to say back then but always thought he had more time. That perhaps the platitude of 'good to see you son' was enough. He was not expressive enough to say he missed him, that he wanted Edwick to come home. He should have said something, but he had too much pride, too much love for himself and too much fear that his words would somehow become twisted and misconstrued. He had a new life, one that hardly involved a squib part giant from a woman he barely knew. But after Anya died, his priorities had changed. He tried to find Edwick with vigor, he had gotten involved with a group of squibs. A rough sort of crowd, down and outs that had an axe to grind with wizarding folk. By the time he had found him, Edwick rejected him outright. Called him a terrible father and an even lesser man for what he had allowed to happen to his sister. A glory hound. The problem was, Edwick was right. But when people hear truths that they do not want to hear, they lash out and they say terrible things. Things that should never be said. Things that were only partly true but conveyed in the cruelest possible way. A part of Solomon shrived up inside whenever his thoughts went back to that day and they did often.
They left on worse terms than they had come together on. Solomon would embark on a truly dark act, one to try and bring his daughter back. An by Merlin, he did it. He brought something back, but it was wrong. It was monstrous in its own way and the cost was great as his youthful features faded into an aged, tired visage, that of an old, greying man.
He deserved his son's wrath when he came. Solomon could not even raise a wand to his own son as he ripped him from his seat and slammed him into the stone wall so hard that the world almost instantly went black. His pygmy puffs rustled about. Sound goes last they say, so when he heard a muffled voice say Hogsmeade, he knew he was gone. There were little shrill squeaks and screams, something terrible that even the older man refused to fully contemplate had happened to his menagerie of pygmy puffs. They had tried to follow him, but they did not find passage and only fire.
He would spend months in torment, he never quite understood what those women wanted from him or what happened to his son. A part of him knew why, at least on the part of his son. His son died hating him. Wanting nothing more than to make his father suffer terribly. But nobody gives resources to a man with Daddy issues. It was what else was in the room that mattered. It was the reason Dolores Umbridge had come there in the first place those years ago. And Vladimir's eyes widened when he saw the terrible truth.
Indeed, Solomon was not a great man. No, he was at times a good man, but that was the best he would muster. His obsession with bringing back what he had lost was at the expense of everything and everyone, even himself. Dolores had shared something with him. What did she share! Why didn't his memory go back to her! They took him, they took it. She was killed by them? No, she was already dead. Years dead.
The wave would come to an end and the fog that lasted but a moment would lift from his eyes. Solomon had his wand raised, pointed at him. His mind said the word before his mouth ever uttered it.
"Wouldn't you much rather know why I am not dead?"
There is one major issue with Crucio, it required a very specific intention. A want to hurt. A cruel pleasure from inflicting this pain. And all he saw in Solomon was regret and fear.
There is one major issue with Crucio, it required a very specific intention. A want to hurt. A cruel pleasure from inflicting this pain. And all he saw in Solomon was regret and fear.
Aamon
I Have Some Unfortunate News
It was true. He was defined by his fear and his regret, not his rage. There was no spark of joy in him, it had been sapped long ago. He merely existed, toiling each and every day. He simply could not connect with people any longer. He could not move on from the past, even if everyone was buried. Edwin died the same night Solomon was taken. He learned about it months later, long after he was released from the crying closet and rehabilitated through the patience and care of his fellow Headmasters. Yet the nightmares and the crying never stopped, something had broken inside of him back there and was lost.
It was fear that compelled him to raise his wand. It was fear that compelled him to utter the unforgivable. And because it was just that, fear... the wand would erupt in a blast of light, a gust of wind would muss the boys hair but by all appearances he would be unharmed.
A voice would ring out in his head. This creeping, insidious presence that as alien. "Wouldn't you much rather know why I am not dead?"
Yes. Yes, very much so.
Solomon would feel a numbness growing from his jaw and traveling down both of his arms. The dire trepidation that was all-consuming, drowning him in more than simple regret. "I changed my mind," he grumbled as he gestured towards a seat. His wand placed on the desk in front of him, he preferred to remain standing. "But first, let me tell you about your father and what he owes me."
He felt a weight on his shoulders. Indeed, there a change but it was not of the mind but rather of the heart. The unforgivable would not suffer the same difficulties had he tried his hand again. However, anger was a motivator of more than inflicting suffering.
"Spin me a tale," he pulled a piece of parchment to the desk's edge and drew his quill. It moved on its own and it started to scrawl something alongside him. "Because it is as they say, dead men tell no tales."
A conversation would draw on, and morning would draw on into evening. The door locked, no meals accepted. When the stories would find their natural end, Solomon would conclude simply, "welcome back to the land of the living then. I hope you enjoy your journey."
It was fear that compelled him to raise his wand. It was fear that compelled him to utter the unforgivable. And because it was just that, fear... the wand would erupt in a blast of light, a gust of wind would muss the boys hair but by all appearances he would be unharmed.
A voice would ring out in his head. This creeping, insidious presence that as alien. "Wouldn't you much rather know why I am not dead?"
Yes. Yes, very much so.
Solomon would feel a numbness growing from his jaw and traveling down both of his arms. The dire trepidation that was all-consuming, drowning him in more than simple regret. "I changed my mind," he grumbled as he gestured towards a seat. His wand placed on the desk in front of him, he preferred to remain standing. "But first, let me tell you about your father and what he owes me."
He felt a weight on his shoulders. Indeed, there a change but it was not of the mind but rather of the heart. The unforgivable would not suffer the same difficulties had he tried his hand again. However, anger was a motivator of more than inflicting suffering.
"Spin me a tale," he pulled a piece of parchment to the desk's edge and drew his quill. It moved on its own and it started to scrawl something alongside him. "Because it is as they say, dead men tell no tales."
A conversation would draw on, and morning would draw on into evening. The door locked, no meals accepted. When the stories would find their natural end, Solomon would conclude simply, "welcome back to the land of the living then. I hope you enjoy your journey."
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
I Have Some Unfortunate News
Vladimir would let out a sigh. He was unsettled by how calm the Headmaster was. Indifferent in fact. Vladimir went on to tell him a harrowing tale of his family, the dynamics, the politics and the ambitions of an already powerful family that was never satisfied. With what could be defined by some as incredible wealth that they could not hope to spend within their grandchildren's lifetimes and the ear of some of the most powerful men and women in the magical world, some would have to ask what more was there?
The Headmaster had a rebuttal of his own. He was astonished to know how close his father was to the Headmaster and to know exactly who his stepmother was, even if she now went by another name. That the union was far from a love match. The rest sounded more like paranoia, a touch of madness that had permeated from him likely secondary to the hag's corrupting influence. All he muttered during that time was "I'm sorry Mr. Lear." He was not entirely sure he meant it, it came out more as a reluctant reflex.
"I'm not sure--" he exhaled. There was no plot, no vendetta. whatever happened between the headmaster and his father, it happened over twenty years ago. There were some drugs he supposed, the 'darkest night' had become something else. He had spent years collecting samples of his own blood in the idle hope of a cure for the blood curse that had felled him, but that blood found another purpose. They named it after him - 'Immortal Midnight', it was not particularly endearing. He submitted a single bottle to the Headmaster's care, but it seemed to set off a ramble that made even less sense than the cloak and shadow nonsense.
"Sir, it was the hags. They're dead," Vladimir assured him. But it fell on deaf ears. An insistence that seemed to give the old man no respite from whatever terrors that still plagued him. "No, they are really dead. I saw the last of them die." He was accused of lying, of 'not understanding' the situation. The only moment of passion expressed by the headmaster during the course of their entire conversation.
"They were buried."
"No, I was different. You weren't listening."
"OK, well I just thought you should know."
The Headmaster had a rebuttal of his own. He was astonished to know how close his father was to the Headmaster and to know exactly who his stepmother was, even if she now went by another name. That the union was far from a love match. The rest sounded more like paranoia, a touch of madness that had permeated from him likely secondary to the hag's corrupting influence. All he muttered during that time was "I'm sorry Mr. Lear." He was not entirely sure he meant it, it came out more as a reluctant reflex.
"I'm not sure--" he exhaled. There was no plot, no vendetta. whatever happened between the headmaster and his father, it happened over twenty years ago. There were some drugs he supposed, the 'darkest night' had become something else. He had spent years collecting samples of his own blood in the idle hope of a cure for the blood curse that had felled him, but that blood found another purpose. They named it after him - 'Immortal Midnight', it was not particularly endearing. He submitted a single bottle to the Headmaster's care, but it seemed to set off a ramble that made even less sense than the cloak and shadow nonsense.
"Sir, it was the hags. They're dead," Vladimir assured him. But it fell on deaf ears. An insistence that seemed to give the old man no respite from whatever terrors that still plagued him. "No, they are really dead. I saw the last of them die." He was accused of lying, of 'not understanding' the situation. The only moment of passion expressed by the headmaster during the course of their entire conversation.
"They were buried."
"No, I was different. You weren't listening."
"OK, well I just thought you should know."
Aamon