(a drabble written as a gift for @i-want-my-iwtv on their birthday. Takes place at the end of TVL)
“That costume is nothing short of ridiculous.”
Thank u so much @devilsfool! I LOVE IT SO MUCH!
❤❤❤
…Now, to see what this costume looks like, I’m placing a #FANART REQUEST out there…
“So what if we had to sleep on lumpy pallets, and the neighbors woke us up with fighting.” -Lestat, The Vampire Lestat
Was it the first night? The second? Third? It had all been a whirlwind to me, the excitement of arriving in Paris, the world suddenly such a different place from where I’d spent the last 21 years. People everywhere, the stench of shit and piss in the streets, the sounds of horses and church bells and music everywhere. How I loved it.
We’d rented a tiny room at the top floor of a building–one bed, two windows, a shelf and a basin in which to wash. Such a small space! Such heaven to me, such cramped and glorious beauty.
The first night we’d made wild, happy love, tumbling into the lumpy, uncomfortable bed twisted and entwined and endlessly delighted in each other. The bells of a church chimed the hour in the distance, the moonlight spilling into the little window and onto the floor of the flat. I remember this image as I drifted off to sleep, a strange thought coming to me that I hoped my mother was okay, that she was becoming well again, perhaps.
It was maybe an hour later that I was roused, abruptly, by shouts. The wall above our head thudded as something hit it–something heavy.
“Nicolas–” I shook him, then, his eyes snapping open.
“What is it? What the hell–?” He sat up, nearly conking heads with me, both of us turned to face the wall behind the headboard.
The screaming continued, followed by the shattering of glass. I know my eyes widened, then–I’d experienced plenty of abuse and yelling in my years, yes, but never had I been privy to the violent fighting of complete strangers, not in such an intimate way. I’d grown up in a damn castle, for God’s sake–the walls were thick and the place devoured sound.
Then Nicolas began to laugh.
I snapped my eyes to his, “How can you laugh? It’s terrible!”
He fell back against the bedclothes, snatching my pillow as he laughed and throwing it at me.
“Welcome to Paris, Lestat.”
When he woke up, it was with a smile. Already unsettling enough, but he found that the smile didn’t leave so easily either. His head was always full of too many thoughts, but today was different. It was his heart that was full and his head seemed unable to hold on to anything.
Back in Paris, Nicolas had friends who seemingly fell deeply in love with someone new every week and he’d always felt removed from it all, looking on with a sarcastic sneer and that roll of his eyes that was almost as feared as the sharpness of his tongue.
What would they say if they could see him now? This wasn’t him. He couldn’t be the one to keep thinking about eyes that seemed to change their shade when passion overtook them, kisses from an all too generous mouth and feeling as if he was still set aflame just from the memory. It was ridiculous.
And who was the cause? A noble pauper, who’d already fucked more than half the girls in the village and then some. No idea of the world, but a laugh that brightened it nonetheless and a head filled with naive nonsense that somehow still showed more intelligence than all his learned friends back in the city. No wonder he was captivated. But did his heart have to beat like this whenever he thought of him?
Everything else faded into the background, the whole day and whoever he had to talk to, he barely paid any attention to it. He couldn’t focus on eating, couldn’t focus on a single thing, even the violin only distracted him for moments at the time, because his fingers hadn’t yet learned how to dance to the music that played within him now.
By the time it was dark, he still had no idea what to think and was getting a bit too much of an idea about what he felt. He sat in his chair, one knee drawn up to his chest, kicking his other foot against the chair’s legs. He was ridiculous.
Yet when he heard the sound of pebbles being thrown against his window, it only took him a moment to get up and open it up. He wasn’t surprised to see Lestat standing downstairs, as if he’d expected to see him there. As if they had arranged for it.
“Do you want to come down and go on with our Conversation?”
Nicolas didn’t hesitate. He gave no reply and simply closed the window, but only to throw on his coat, grab his violin and literally run down the stairs as he hadn’t done since he was a young boy. There had been no reply needed. The smile was back and it said it all.
The door fell shut behind him and he was already by Lestat’s side, hoping that his eyes didn’t give it all away, yet putting a hand on his hip at the same time. Oh, to hell with it all.
“Let’s talk more.”
concept: willy wonka and harry potter take place in the same universe
the ministry of magic haaaates Willy Wonka“Mr. Wonka,” Dumbledore smiled warmly, looking down into the Pit from his podium. The members of the Wizengamot muttered disapprovingly, shifting in their seats. Willy Wonka, clad today in a bright magenta suit and tophat, beamed cheekily up at them from his chair, his silver-gloved hands cradling his chin.
“Mr. Dumbledore,” He replied brightly, with the barest hint of a lisp.
“I trust you know why you are here?” Dumbledores question was crisp and businesslike, but the twinkle in his eye gave away his amusement at the situation.
“Not at all! I’ve nary a clue,” Wonka wiggled his eyebrows. Dumbledore audibly stifled a laugh.
“You are accused of improper use of magic, improper use of muggle artifacts, and several counts of using magic in front of a muggle,” Dumbledore reminded him. He conjured a projection with his wand. Displayed in grainy sepia was Willy Wonka, arm around a boy of around 10. Behind his back, he twitched an ash wand, and machines in the background around them whirred to life, producing all manner of sweets.
The projection ran its course and collapsed, and Dumbledore stowed his wand back inside his robes.
Wonka smiled and fiddled with his hat.
“How do you plead?” Dumbledore asked, leaning forward eagerly for what would surely be an amusing trial.
“Not guilty on all counts,” Wonka said, perhaps a tad smugly.
The members of the Wizengamot muttered amongst themselves. Not Guilty? Impossible!
Dumbledore hushed them quickly. “Explain, if you would. We have, after all, quite a mountain of evidence.”
Wonka stood and brushed a bit of dust off his suit. He tipped his hat mischievously. “Of course,” he grinned.
“Firstly, use of magic shall only be considered improper whereby it is applied to cause harm or applied recklessly. All magic used in my sweets is rigorously tested for both safety and taste. It is not used to cause harm, but to bring joy.” Wonka paused to adjust his jacket.
“But surely,” Dumbledore said, leafing through his notes, “you cannot deny that you illegally charmed several thousand muggle artifacts?”
“Ah, but I can,” Wonka said, now twirling his cap in his hands. “Muggle artifact refers, of course, to any muggle made object. But, you see, I built those machines, each and every one. They are not muggle machines at all, but wizarding machines, built by a wizard. The factory itself, as well. You could argue that, as machines are a muggle invention, I still broke the rules, but then I could argue that every wizard dwelling with any charms applied to its walls is in violation of the law, as muggles were the first to make bricks.”
The Wizengamot glared silently. He was right, of course. Violating the spirit of the law was not illegal if one followed the letter.
“And the last charge? These are definitely Muggle children, are they not? No magical talent, raised in muggle society?” Dumbledore straightened his glasses and peered down at Wonka, his eyes still bright with intrigue.
“Not at all,” Wonka grinned, placing his hat back on his head. “You see, the ticket system was not nearly so random as I pretended. The tickets were charmed, they would only becomes visible to children with magical heritage. All the children chosen were second generation Squibs.” Wonka bowed low, as if he were finishing a particularly well executed play.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems no laws were violated after all.” Dumbledore stifled a grin at the groans of angry disapproval from the Wizengamot.
“But he very clearly violated the intent of the rules!” Spluttered a large, rather red faced wizard in the second row. “He’s just…cheating! He’s cheating!”
“Ah, this is true, but he did not, technically speaking, break any of the rules. He did not expose muggles to magic, nor enchant muggle made objects, nor improperly apply magic anymore so than any magical confectioner. I’m afraid we have to let him go.” Dumbledore smiled gently and put away the rather thick file with Wonka’s name embossed on the cover. For the brief second it was open, a list of hundreds of charges with “Not Guilty” inked beside them was visible. It was carried off by a house elf, and the Wizengamot began to file out until only Dumbledore was left.
“You’re a very clever man,” He called down to Wonka. “We could use you at Hogwarts, you know.”
“No thank you,” Wonka called back, grinning. “Skirting the law is far more fun!”
Misery. The only word that came close to describing the current life of the young plantation owner known as Louis de Pointe du Lac. Wandering aimlessly and drinking were all he could manage to do with his time as of late. Drinking, and drinking, and more drinking, but no amount of alcohol could kill this misery and it certainly wasn’t going to kill him, at least not fast enough. That was the only option in his mind at this point. To die.. to rot away to nothing in the cold ground like his brother. What peace it seemed awaited him whenever he would breathe his last.. That illusion of peace so tempting that he had been seeking it out, provoking brutish men into violence night after night. Just last evening he thought he had found his precious death, that the blade of a common street criminal might strike a vein and leave him to bleed out on the dirty cobblestone. But a powerful punch delivered to his jaw had left him penniless and unconscious, to awake simply furious an hour later on the ground. Such a sting of failure that he could not even reach the mercy of death and that his own hands could not carry out the deed no matter how he thought and thought on it. He might have hung himself from one of the ancient trees on his own property, had he the courage to slip the noose around his neck. These thoughts were madness.. absolute madness, but not like Paul’s madness. That had been full of irrepresible passion, confidence, unwavering dedication, maybe even something to admire. His own suffering had no passion. No passion for anything anymore. Only the inescapable and horrifying desire for his heart to cease its beating. This evening, he sat in a run down saloon, drinking raspberry brandy straight from the bottle and intoxicated enough that his stride was unsteady, regal clothing unkempt, and raven hair a mess of tangles. Louis threw back another swig of the sickeningly sweet liquor, tired eyes scanning the noisy bar with a challenging glimmer as he searched for the man who might, with any luck, end his life tonight.
12. Wet Kiss
It was raining when it happened.
Lestat is awake again, but this time she hasn’t left. And Armand means to criticize her, demean her of her motherly rights because she has never been there out of all the beings on this planet and above that Lestat could ever cry for. No, it’s always been her. She ignores him when he brings it up, spits acidic words back at him when he comes forward out of the safety of the Rue Royale and joins her soaked form beneath the stormy skies.
“You are a liar and a bitch, for lack of a better word, if you think you can use the veil as an excuse for not hearing him after all these years. Once in the chapel and not again since!”
She is opening her mouth to spit back, or avoid answering to her crime when Armand adds, “It’s hard to believe he still loves you…when no one else has the heart to.”
Thunder cracks in the distance, and Gabrielle, always unnervingly honest in her expressions, is stunned. And yet..so is he. As if they had both opened a plane of understanding in just that moment—yes, you were once unloved by all but him too.
He forgets what happened after the next thunder crack, but his hands are caressing her back and cupping her cheek, her head tilted gently into him when Armand realizes he’s kissing Lestat’s mother. The woman who turned him away after her son redeemed him, their mouths open and wet against each other and devolving into smaller, almost apologetic kisses. He For a brief moment, he forgets he hates this woman down to the very marrow of her bones.
That’s where the memory stops. They’ve never spoken of it, but somehow it pops into Armand’s head whenever she turns her cold, icy glare on him.
Beneath the harsh and boiling Kemet sun the fire haired twins were dragged from their cell by the guards to stand before the cold eyes of the Queen and King. Surely, they would die this day. We will go home to Ommah, was the soft mantra the twins murmured into one another ‘s ears the night…
I-want-my-IWTV 