![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In honor of my girlfriend discovering that Toby Stephens is the son of Dame Maggie Smith, I want James Flint, prefect of Ravenclaw. He started going by Flint because he didn’t want people to know that his mum teaches at the school; McGonagall would be more offended if it didn’t help her avoid accusations of favoritism.
As prefect, Flint is the worst. The absolute worst. No one gets away with anything. That is, until a curly-haired 11-year-old named Sol–”John!” the lad interrupts brightly, “John Silver!”–starts his first year and, in one afternoon, manages to reroute one of the moving staircases out a window, convince Peeves to be his best friend forever, and start a small fire in the Potions dungeon.
Flint would recommend him for expulsion were it not for the way the lad goes uncharacteristically silent whenever anyone mentions going home for the holidays, or the fact that Flint caught Domnhall O’Malley casting a silence spell on the Ravenclaw dormitory just before curfew. “‘E just keeps us up if we don’t,” Domnhall protests grumpily. “What wit’ the screamin’ at night and all.”
Which is how James Flint finds himself standing on Platform 9 and ¾, holding a limp John Silver in his arms. The boy had managed to hold back his tears until they were half the way to London; then his nerve had broken and he’d begged to go back to Hogwarts, sobbed and clutched and pleaded himself insensible and exhausted. Now his swollen eyes and still-wet nose are pressed against James’ neck, as if he can hide there from the world to which they’ve returned.
Flint waits until all the other families have reunited and moved off, braced against the possibility that someone might actually step forward to try and take John from him—try being the operative word, because by Merlin’s beard, he’ll land himself in Azkhaban if they want to have a go.
Eventually, Mum appears. They’ve agreed, with the formality to which their important family discussions are accustomed, to limit their familiarity in front of the students or their families. She takes the floo system separate from the train and collects him after everyone else has already departed.
Now she walks up and gives the sleeping boy in Flint’s arms a pointed, if not entirely surprised, look.
“John’s coming home with us,” James announces with all the calm certainty of a sixteen-year-old boy willing to bluff his way through this if he musts.
Mum’s mouth twitches slightly, but she betrays no other reaction. Stepping aside she says, “Well, come along, then.”
( Read more... )
As prefect, Flint is the worst. The absolute worst. No one gets away with anything. That is, until a curly-haired 11-year-old named Sol–”John!” the lad interrupts brightly, “John Silver!”–starts his first year and, in one afternoon, manages to reroute one of the moving staircases out a window, convince Peeves to be his best friend forever, and start a small fire in the Potions dungeon.
Flint would recommend him for expulsion were it not for the way the lad goes uncharacteristically silent whenever anyone mentions going home for the holidays, or the fact that Flint caught Domnhall O’Malley casting a silence spell on the Ravenclaw dormitory just before curfew. “‘E just keeps us up if we don’t,” Domnhall protests grumpily. “What wit’ the screamin’ at night and all.”
Which is how James Flint finds himself standing on Platform 9 and ¾, holding a limp John Silver in his arms. The boy had managed to hold back his tears until they were half the way to London; then his nerve had broken and he’d begged to go back to Hogwarts, sobbed and clutched and pleaded himself insensible and exhausted. Now his swollen eyes and still-wet nose are pressed against James’ neck, as if he can hide there from the world to which they’ve returned.
Flint waits until all the other families have reunited and moved off, braced against the possibility that someone might actually step forward to try and take John from him—try being the operative word, because by Merlin’s beard, he’ll land himself in Azkhaban if they want to have a go.
Eventually, Mum appears. They’ve agreed, with the formality to which their important family discussions are accustomed, to limit their familiarity in front of the students or their families. She takes the floo system separate from the train and collects him after everyone else has already departed.
Now she walks up and gives the sleeping boy in Flint’s arms a pointed, if not entirely surprised, look.
“John’s coming home with us,” James announces with all the calm certainty of a sixteen-year-old boy willing to bluff his way through this if he musts.
Mum’s mouth twitches slightly, but she betrays no other reaction. Stepping aside she says, “Well, come along, then.”
( Read more... )
