Lily Evans (
lilium_evansiae) wrote2011-04-13 10:16 pm
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Evans Home, August 1976
It's a solidly good production -- simple sets, straightforward production, nothing terribly innovative (but also nothing innovative for the sake of being innovative), an amazing Oberon balancing a slightly weak Bottom.
Adrian, as is his habit, keeps up something that is part review, part commentary, and part classroom lecture on the way home. Lily and Geraldine have both heard most of what he has to say about A Midsummer Night's Dream before, but it's new for Albus. And maybe it's the new audience, but Adrian seems even more animated than Lily thinks he usually is, and by the time they're back home, Albus and Adrian are deep in conversation and promptly vanish into the back room that essentially serves as Adrian's study.
Lily looks in on them three times, over the next couple hours. An increasing number of books seems to have been pulled from the shelves all around the room each time. Lily's not completely certain either of them even noticed her in the doorway.
"I do hope your father isn't boring that young man," Geraldine says, as Lily helps her get dinner together. It hasn't quite been discussed, but it seems to have been assumed that Albus will stay for dinner. (And at this rate, Albus may wind up having to sleep on the disreputable-looking but very comfortable couch in Adrian's study, because it's going to get way too late to pretend he's off to catch a train.)
"I don't think he's bored at all, really," Lily says. "And Dad's enjoying himself, so we'll let them talk. At least until dinner's ready."
"And possibly all through dinner, too," says her mother, with a slightly wry twist to her tone that would sound not unfamiliar to almost anyone who has talked to her younger daughter.
Geraldine is, of course, right. The conversation stays quite literary all through dinner and pudding, and Albus will have to pretend to contact relatives to tell them that he'll be staying with the Evanses tonight, because there's no way he'd start a train trip at this hour. Adrian might have gone right on talking, too, except that Geraldine insists that he help with the washing up. "That young man did not come to visit you, darling," Geraldine tells him, as Lily and Albus leave the kitchen. (Even though Albus kind of did.)
"I'm going to get us some tea," Lily says, "but if you go back in there, we'll never get away. Up the stairs, last door on the right, and I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
Lily vanishes back into the kitchen, leaving Albus on his own in his great-grandparents' house.
Adrian, as is his habit, keeps up something that is part review, part commentary, and part classroom lecture on the way home. Lily and Geraldine have both heard most of what he has to say about A Midsummer Night's Dream before, but it's new for Albus. And maybe it's the new audience, but Adrian seems even more animated than Lily thinks he usually is, and by the time they're back home, Albus and Adrian are deep in conversation and promptly vanish into the back room that essentially serves as Adrian's study.
Lily looks in on them three times, over the next couple hours. An increasing number of books seems to have been pulled from the shelves all around the room each time. Lily's not completely certain either of them even noticed her in the doorway.
"I do hope your father isn't boring that young man," Geraldine says, as Lily helps her get dinner together. It hasn't quite been discussed, but it seems to have been assumed that Albus will stay for dinner. (And at this rate, Albus may wind up having to sleep on the disreputable-looking but very comfortable couch in Adrian's study, because it's going to get way too late to pretend he's off to catch a train.)
"I don't think he's bored at all, really," Lily says. "And Dad's enjoying himself, so we'll let them talk. At least until dinner's ready."
"And possibly all through dinner, too," says her mother, with a slightly wry twist to her tone that would sound not unfamiliar to almost anyone who has talked to her younger daughter.
Geraldine is, of course, right. The conversation stays quite literary all through dinner and pudding, and Albus will have to pretend to contact relatives to tell them that he'll be staying with the Evanses tonight, because there's no way he'd start a train trip at this hour. Adrian might have gone right on talking, too, except that Geraldine insists that he help with the washing up. "That young man did not come to visit you, darling," Geraldine tells him, as Lily and Albus leave the kitchen. (Even though Albus kind of did.)
"I'm going to get us some tea," Lily says, "but if you go back in there, we'll never get away. Up the stairs, last door on the right, and I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
Lily vanishes back into the kitchen, leaving Albus on his own in his great-grandparents' house.
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Lily looks around.
It's a small room with slightly faded wallpaper, shelves wherever there's wallspace for them, all the furniture three inches too close to all the other furniture, a wardrobe she and her mum have been meaning to repaint for three summers now, and a vaguely general air of not being occupied most of the year.
Lily loves it.
"Thanks."
She settles down on the bed, leaving the desk chair for Albus.
"When I was little, Petunia and I shared the room next door, and this was Dad's room for his books and his desk and all. But it was getting hard to walk in here, with all his books, and Petunia and I kind of, er, outgrew sharing a room, so ... I got this one, and Dad took over the room downstairs."
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Not simultaneously, as that would have been a bit complicated, and potentially cause messes.
"My dad knew the possibility of my brother and I sharing a room at any point would've been a bad one," Albus says, smiling a little over the rim of his mug, "so we'd always had separate ones."
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"What was going to happen if you did?"
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Albus laughs.
"James and I don't always get along."
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They used to.
But not in recent years.
Lily grins, suddenly.
"You know, Mum has been worried all afternoon that Dad was boring you to tears, and you were just to polite to say anything about it."
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"Oh, no. Definitely not." There's a brightness in his eyes. "I think your dad's brilliant. He knows so much; I've learned more tonight about Muggle literature than I have in my whole life. And his - your - library is amazing."
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"And if I'd thought there were even a chance you were bored, I'd have dreamed up some way to rescue you."
But she looked in. He didn't look bored.
"He did that thing, didn't he? Where he starts talking and then something reminds him of something else and you have to follow him around the room and he's pulling books off the shelves and quoting things and handing them to you and before you know it, you're holding nine books and neither of you can quite remember the original question?"
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"Yeah," he says. "And d'you know, I had this thought, while he was doing that. I was thinking, if I really did end up teaching, like I think I really want to, I'd want to be like your dad. He made literature seem so ... exciting."
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"He'd be really pleased to hear that. He loves what he does. Even though I don't think most of his students come close to appreciating him. He says it's worth it for the ones who do.
"And you could definitely do worse, as role models go."
There's Professor Binns, for one.
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"She can get pretty enthusiastic about Herbology.
"But, yeah, I know."
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"Like flowers and bumblebees."
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"Yeah, maybe. It's those screaming Mandrakes."
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Or you'd do something else.
"You've had a good day, then?"
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"It's one of the best I've had," he replies, happily. "Thank you for inviting me here, Lily."
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"Midsummer is one of my favorites.
"One of the many things I grew up thinking everyone heard as a bedtime story. Only to learn that, no, most people don't hear Shakespeare instead of Mother Goose."
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Albus raises an eyebrow, curious.
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"Um, they're children's rhymes, or nursery rhymes. There isn't really a Mother Goose, but she's kind of used as an author of them, or a way of gathering them as a collection.
"There are all kinds of theories about the rhymes being political, or meanings they'd have had when they were written, but mostly now we just read them to children. Things like, um, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider, who sat down beside her, and frightened Miss Muffet away.'"
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"Oh, that's kind of brilliant. So these were read to kids for bedtime stories?"
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"I mean, we heard them, too, growing up. Dad just read us whatever else he took it into his head to read us, too."
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"Beedle the Bard?"
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"Yeah. He's ... sort of like a Mother Goose, I suppose. His name is used to gather a bunch of stories. Like Babbity Rabbity and the Tale of the Three Brothers."
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"With the gifts from Death?"
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