History of the World Volume XXX Chapter 96 The Rule of Turpin – Arts
Much like basic religious freedom, artistic freedom is cultivated by the empire. Young witches and wizards showing talent in painting, music, or dance, are given the option of specialized training in lieu of advanced spell casting education.
Literature and poetry are less actively cultivated. Over the years, a predilection for malcontents and reactionaries in these disciplines eventually resulted in their strict regulation and removal from all approved Empire Curriculums.
"One, two, three, four, perfect," Isobel whispered. She used the small camel haired paintbrush to place a final fifth petal on the pink daisy she was creating. All Daisies were required to have odd numbers of petals so that if a girl came along and needed to determine if someone liked her, she would get a happy answer. Leaning onto her right foot she peeked at the picture the other painter, her grandfather, was creating.
Blue and green speckled fingers used a larger version of the paintbrush she clutched in her own hand to add texture to a landscape of realistic, white and yellow daisies blanketing a field. Her grandfather. Isobel let the title rattle around her head. She watched him brushing at his canvas, quietly memorizing the graceful movements of his hands and the way his stubbled cheek twitched with a transient smile every now and then.
"Are you finished then?" Bartholomew asked. He walked over to Isobel's canvas and nodded to the simple whimsical flower. "Surreal, quite good I'd say."
She had no idea what surreal meant, but she blushed anyway. "It doesn't look real like yours."
"Realism isn't everything. Is pink your favourite colour?" Bart strolled over to his closet and extracted a carefully draped canvas.
"Pink is okay, but yellow is nicer." She thought of Professor Umbridge and shuddered. "Yellow is actually much better." Isobel tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, obliviously giving herself a pink streak of hair. "Do you have a favourite colour?"
"I've always been partial to purple." Bart patted his stained plum coloured vest. "Would you like to see something your dad painted? He never was much for it, but he tried his hand at my trade a couple of times when he was around your age."
Isobel shrugged. She hadn't got used to the idea of family that extended beyond her brother. A painting by a father she couldn't remember could be interesting, proof that he existed anyway. Bartholomew undraped the canvas he had extracted, and presented it proudly. Isobel took the picture and ran her fingers over its unevenly painted surface. The artist had glopped the paint on without finesse or care, creating a colourful example of what Isobel guessed was supposed to be a hippogriff. A sloppy signature at the bottom read simply J.P.
"J. Potter," Isobel said. "John? Jackson? Jeffrey?"
"James," Bart supplied.
"James," Isobel repeated. "Did they name Harry and me, well, our names? Am I Beth or Susan? Is Harry actually James Jr.? I'd just call him Junior if he is." She grinned at that thought.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but you're stuck with your name. The people who took you only saw fit to change your last name." Bart's expression flickered from the genial expression toward something darker and unrecognizable to Isobel, but he smiled again before she could really ponder if it was pain or anger or frustration he had to swallow. He gently took back James's painting before it became too heavy for her small arms.
Not changing our names was silly. Seems it would have made us easier to find, Isobel thought bitterly. She didn't want to accuse her Grandfather of being negligent or thoughtless. Really, her parents were the people who ought to have been keeping up with their children. If she wanted to be annoyed with someone, she should probably be annoyed with them.
"You know, you can have any paintings in this studio to decorate your room, well, except that portrait on the far wall. It's a commission. Besides, don't know why you would want such a stern woman glaring at you on the wall." He pulled back the drape covering it for Isobel's critical review.
"She isn't very pretty," Isobel agreed. She walked around the room, looking at the pictures. Her grandfather was very talented. When he wasn't painting un-pretty people, he created landscapes and florals. Occasionally there was a canvas with just colours swirled together in repeating patterns. Isobel stared at those the longest, and finally had to ask, "Is that what magic looks like?" She wanted to touch the lovely repeating swirls of red and orange and yellow.
Bart grinned proudly. "Those are my special paintings. Math is a pattern that repeats in life. It's geometric. Believe it or not, Arithamantcy was one of my best classes in school. Just planning one of those paintings takes me months and then executing it...there is a reason I've only painted a handful of them. If you like it, please take it."
"Really?" Isobel stroked the frame, enraptured with her treasure."For my room, it's so alive."
"Now come on, I expect you to choose more than one. These canvases aren't doing anyone any good covered with drapes and mouldering."
In the end, Isobel chose three more paintings, her pink daisy, her grandpas real daisies, and her dad's hippogriff. "You don't mind if I take J.P.'s hippogriff, do you?"
Bart laughed and shook his head. "Not at all, but I always thought it was one of the geese from the pond. I can see hippogriff though."
A knock at the door ended the midmorning painting session with abrupt finality. Isobel waited nervously for Melinda to bustle in. She left that morning to buy some clothes and other necessities. According to her, it was too dangerous for Isobel to come out for supply purchasing as she was supposed to be hiding. As unlikely as she was to run into an acquaintance, it just couldn't be risked. Isobel had been quietly pleased for the chance to just pal around with her grandfather, to follow him into the secret world of his studio with its strange smells and colourful treasures.
Bart had one of her new treasures stretched over his knees, making sure it was ready for hanging on her bedroom wall. He nodded toward to studio door. "Let your grandmother in. That door only opens from the inside when there are brushes out of the jar."
She had forgotten the pink stained brush in her hand. Isobel considered replacing the brush and shouting, come in, but that wouldn't be very polite. Instead she took her time crossing the room and twisted the cool brass handle of the door. It swung inside soundlessly. Her mouth dropped open, and she took two quick steps backward. A man was at the door, a man with unruly black hair, round glasses, and disturbingly familiar features. Isobel lifted her paintbrush like a weapon, like a wand, silently ordering the new arrival to keep his distance.
Frowning at the tense silence, Bart looked up and smiled. "James, my boy, you should have come home for Solstice. Your parents are getting old and we like seeing you from time to time. Isobel, this is your father, James. James, the young lady holding you at bay with the pink acrylics is Isobel." Grunting, Bart set aside Isobel's daisy. He moved past her hastily brandished paintbrush and enveloped his son in a tight hug.
Isobel let her paintbrush drop, feeling foolish and overwhelmed. J.P., James Potter, her very own dad, had arrived on the scene. In less than twenty four hours, her family acquaintances had more than doubled. What next? Would there be cousins, aunts, uncles?
"We rang the bell, though I know you don't hear it with your studio closed. Of course, the front door still recognizes me and opened. Lily is waiting downstairs," James explained.
"Of course. I'll go fetch her." Bart ushered James into the studio and stood aside so that daughter and father might get a good look at one another.
"Isobel, I wouldn't expect that you remember me," James said ineffectually. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, leaving it more dramatically akimbo. He looked so like Harry in that instant, that Isobel couldn't help herself, she started to cry. She wanted Harry. Her big brother would make this all easier. He would stand in front of her and make sure these people were safe and honest and not playing some elaborate game. "Gods, you're crying." James went to a knee and reached out a hand, not sure what to do. "Please don't do that. Please don't cry."
"You're really my dad?" Isobel asked. When he nodded she wiped the tears off her cheeks, leaving more pink streaks behind. She crossed her arms over her chest, too scared and awkward to cross the distance between them. This was her dad. How could he be anyone else looking like Harry the way he did? Isobel frowned, her heart racing in her chest. "So, where have you been? Why didn't you come for us sooner?" Why shouldn't I hate you?
Though he had anticipated the question, he hadn't expected the vehemence. "Your mother and I are soldiers, revolutionaries, not legionaries. And we came as soon as we knew you were alive."
"Revolutionaries...Rebels? Criminals then," Isobel said. The lessons in the group home had taught her a few things. "Is that why the empire took us, because you're criminals?"
Lily tried sitting in the entry hall where James left her, but the nervous energy inside her would have none of it, so she paced instead, from settee to chair to door and around and around again. What was taking so long, unless no one was home? James had had to move from room to room, finding nothing and no one. Wild theories ran through her mind. Somehow Oscasia had detected their subterfuge and had reclaimed her property, tossing James's parents into a deep dark cell for good measure. "No," Lily hissed. Oscasia wasn't omniscient. She had needed traitors like Peter to steal children. Isobel and Harry would be safe with their grandparents. So where was everyone? Why hadn't anyone answered the bell?
"Please let the children be here," Lily prayed under her breath. On her way back to the settee in her pacing route, the door creaked open, admitting the imperious form of Melinda Potter, her arms loaded with packages. Lily's hand went to her heart as she half expected a pair of children to follow her mother in law into the house. But no children entered, and the door creaked shut again. Melinda nodded to her, and Lily returned the gesture, feeling as awkward as she had at their first meeting, before they ever disagreed, before she and James joined the rebellion.
"Let me help you with those," Lily offered quickly, moving to take some of the neatly wrapped boxes before Melinda could acquiesce. "Big shopping day?"
"Your daughter arrived with nothing but rags on her back. She needed clothes and shoes and a slicker," Melinda said as she headed for the stairs.
Lily heard the hint of accusation in Melinda's voice, the hint of long-held-in opinions and blame. But Lily didn't bristle back or pull away, though she nearly dropped her half of the packages. Isobel was here, and that was the only bit that mattered. Melinda passed Bart on her way upstairs, and they leaned in for a quick whispered exchange. Bart continued downstairs. He relieved Lily of her packages and gave his daughter in law an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. "You've stayed away too long. Family has to make time for each other. Melinda and I are going to Isobel's room to unpack these things. You join James and your daughter in the studio. We'll give you a bit of time to say hello."
Lily smiled, her heart hammering. "Thank you," she murmured. Racing up the stairs, and around the corner, Lily stopped short, just behind James where he knelt in the doorway. Her daughter was smeared, head to foot in pink paint, but everything else was as she imagined, exactly the little girl she had dreamt of. Brown hair framed a pale, thin face set with huge brown eyes. Why wasn't she smiling?
"I want Harry," Isobel said firmly. She looked over James shoulder to Lily and met her eyes. "Our parents are criminals, and Harry will know what we should do."
"Criminals? We aren't criminals," Lily said, her smile faltering. "I'm Lily, your mum, and this is your dad, and we are not criminals." Had Melinda done this, filled Isobel's head with this poison? "Who told you we were criminals?"
"You're rebels and rebels are criminals. Everyone knows that," Isobel said, her eyes wide. "I go to class like everyone else. I'm not an idiot."
Group home propaganda, Lily thought wincing. Of course Melinda wouldn't try to turn Isobel against her parents. Even thinking it had been mad. "I guess by their standards we aren't always behaving in a perfectly legal manner."
"Technically," James agreed grudgingly. "And I think getting Harry is a marvellous idea, don't you love?"
"Absolutely," Lily agreed.
Watching them, Isobel felt the head of steam she had built up dissipate. The two of them were picture postcard examples of what parents should look like, handsome James and pretty, green-eyed Lily. Isobel felt a pang of remorse for the way she had acted, attacking them and their moral fibre. Why did she always do that? She would find a flaw in something otherwise ideal and attack it like it really mattered, even if it didn't matter at all. Harry wouldn't have done it. At least she didn't think he would have. Watching them, Isobel decided that she didn't care if they were criminals. She could see her brother in them, in both of them, but she couldn't see one trace of herself. She studied them, suddenly too shy to speak. Why didn't she have red hair or green eyes or unruly hair? Tears pricked her eyes again. It was too much to process, too much scary wonderful truth.
Lily slipped past James. Using her sleeve, she wiped Isobel's paint and tear streaked cheeks. Without exchanging another word or asking permission, she hugged her daughter. After a moment, James joined in. It was the longest hug of her life, two layers of parents, a mum and a dad had hold of her. Isobel surrendered to the moment, breathing them, feeling safe and wanted and loved.
When the embrace ended, Isobel stepped back, and smiled. "You're both covered in paint."
James looked at the pink streaks on his shirt sleeves and grinned. "Easily remedied."
"Would you like to see what I painted?" Isobel asked hesitantly. Harry usually told her to sod off when she wanted to show him her scribbling. He was always so busy.
"Please show us," Lily said with enthusiasm.
The earlier confrontation forgotten, Isobel stood beside her pink daisy, emboldened by her grandfather's earlier praise. "It's a pink daisy," Isobel clarified, "with five petals so it always ends on love if the question were ever posed."
James looked confused but Lily nodded quickly. "He loves me, he love me not."
"Oh, brilliant," James agreed.
Basking in the glow of their affection, Isobel had a sudden, selfish thought. Wouldn't it be nice if Harry just stayed away at school and let them all alone for a few months? He liked school anyway. She loved her brother and she missed him, but how long would it take her parents to realize what the empire had already determined? Harry was the better wizard, the star, the popular Quidditch player. And he was the better son, with his father's looks and his mother's eyes. One look at their first born and any mention of Isobel's brilliance would vanish. For the first time in her life, she had gotten something first, something to herself, and she wanted to keep it for a short while.
"You know, Harry may be hard to locate," Isobel said suddenly. "He is always busy with school and Quidditch and birthday parties. He really likes school and Quidditch."
"He sounds a bit like his father to hear you talk," Lily said. "Please don't worry about your brother. We'll find him very soon and bring him home."
"I know." Isobel looked away, pleased and ashamed and conflicted. "I miss him."
The leaves had browned and begun to fall by the time George finally took the first step on the long walk off Moody's mountain. Tracing his hands over his thick overcoat, he ran through a mental inventory: wand, rabbit jerky, fresh water, letter for his new commander. He should survive the walk without too much discomfort.
Moody stood awkwardly on his doorstep, watching his student. "The trolls are pretty thick until you get below the river, but if you stick to the main trail, it's warded against them."
"I know." George turned back and surveyed the tiny house that had been his home for nearly a year. Most of his minutes inside those walls were spent begrudgingly, but he had learned a few things, enough to maybe survive according to Moody. "Thanks."
Moody nodded, then pivoted on his artificial leg and strode back inside, slamming the door behind him.
"Farewell, good luck, been nice knowing you," George whispered to himself, filling in the more affectionate farewell that he imagined Moody meant by cautioning him against the trolls. Taking his first step down the trail, George felt a wave of doubt hit him. After railing for months that he had to get off the mountain and save his brother, he had been dismissed. What would the rebel commander he was off to meet think of his personal quest?
Well, there was no law holding him in the rebellion. If the situation didn't suit, George could always go his own way and save Fred all on his own. As simple and logical as it sounded in his head, the thought brought him no comfort. With or without the assistance of the Rebellion, he had no idea how to help his brother.
Slouching low in his seat, barely listening to Professor Dover lecture about verb tenses and spell crafting, Harry just spotted a slip of parchment slipped under his text. Another few minutes and he might actually have been asleep. Surreptitiously he read the note scribbled in Draco's slanted handwriting.
Halloween is coming up. We need to make plans. The school party is such a bore. Ideas? -D
Harry twiddled his quill and pondered his response. Truth be told, he wasn't anxious to attend another stuffy Halloween party, especially after he and Draco took a dunking last year, but what else could they do?
We could fly somewhere. We have brooms. But where would we find something interesting? -H
Professor Dover continued to drone from the front of the room, spitting out conjugations and making some point about transformation spells. Harry waited until he was fairly certain that her attention was across the room before returning the note.
Under the table Hermione struck, kicking him in the shin. "Pay attention, slacker," she hissed almost inaudibly. She pointed to her notes and gestured to indicate that they were off limits.
Harry focused his attention on the professor, his complexion turning red. It was as bad as having your Mum along in class sitting next to Hermione some days. When Draco returned the note again, Harry had to pick a moment when Hermione was scribbling and Professor Dover wasn't looking to slip it out.
A new set of handwriting had appeared below his response, neat loopy script, Lisa.
Isn't Halloween a full moon this year? -L
It is! My dad is sheriff. He organizes the werewolf hunts. We could watch. I've always wanted to see one. -D
Perfection. Sign below unless you're too scared to come. -L
Lisa Turpin
Draco Malfoy
Harry read through the interchange, excitement building. According to the educational material, werewolves were unfortunate wizards who had been bitten and driven mad by an incurable curse. The hunts were about controlling a public health hazard, but they weren't clinical affairs. Death and biting sometimes befell the hunters.
Harry grinned and added his name to the bottom of the list. Seeing a real werewolf sounded like a proper adventure for Halloween.
Author's Note:
We are rapidly approaching the "werewolf" section. Remus is going to see his pack and Tonks is going to meet his parents. Harry and company are going to see a werewolf hunt, but don't count on them being entertained or staying out of trouble.