The meeting with the representative from the Council was worse than I'd imagined. The wizard had started out by staring at me with disgust, open and raw, when I first walked into the hotel lobby. Once I introduced myself and started to speak, going over the reports that John had given me and the talking points Nate and I had worked up together he dropped his gaze to his copy of the papers and never looked back up. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with someone who is doing their best not to acknowledge your existence?
It's awkward and hard as hell to do. It is also incredibly frustrating and anger inducing. I spent a lot of time counting to ten and trying to find some nice, calm spot inside my head. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to grab the decorative little potted plant in the middle of the table and throw it, aiming at a spot behind his head, through his nasty, tight lipped mouth. That was how you did real damage, when you hit someone. You didn't just try to hit them, you tried to hit something behind them. As I spoke, fighting to keep my tone even and calm, friendly, I imagined doing just that. Just once.
Once I'd finished my presentation, the wizard flipped the folder shut with one fingertip, as if he didn't want to touch it more than he had to. And he explained to me, in a snide, insulting tone all while still not fucking looking at me that my suggestions were impractical and that the Council did not need to be told what to do by an infant.
“Look, Wizard Higgins. We're not saying that your training for defense against mental magic isn't good, just that it's not complete. These techniques haven't been reviewed since the sixteen hundreds!”
“It is perfectly adequate. Our curriculum has guarded the minds of White Council members for centuries and I see no reason to change it now. In addition, it is impossible to explore new techniques. Would you like to know why?” No. I would like to punch you in the teeth. “Because that would require someone to use black magic on another wizard. I understand that this is a hard concept for someone like you to grasp, but-” I bit through my lip.
“I'm sorry, 'for someone like me'? I-”
“You are a warlock, Dresden. Irrevocably tainted. Twisted and warped into something sick. It does not surprise me that you are having such a hard time with the concept. I'm certain it seems like a brilliant idea to you.”
“I'm innocent!” My throat started to close up, my chest going tight. I knew it. I told John and he just wouldn't listen! I shouldn't have said anything. They were never going to believe me, no matter how I behaved, no matter what I tried to do for them. I was a warlock, and that meant I was guilty. Simple as that. Tears swam in my eyes and I blinked them away. I hated being so weak.
“I'm certain you've convinced yourself that your story is true.” Higgins made a sympathetic face. “However, the fact remains that you are not a member of this Council. You are, in fact, a convicted criminal. One who is suggesting a course of action that would lead other, law abiding members of the Council into committing crimes. I'm afraid our answer is going to have to be no.”
“Look.” I took a shaky breath. “Whatever you think of me, this is a good plan. At least take it back to the other members of the Council for review.” And then my last card. Appeal to God. “It's not my idea. It's John's recommendation.”
Higgins' eyes went wide, then narrowed again. He frowned down at the reports and I could see the wheels in his head clicking over to a new set of rules and desires. Oh, well if it's John, then it's okay, right? Wouldn't want to insult the savior of the wizarding word. Insulting his chattel was something else, of course. Jackass. They were all hide bound assholes.
“I see. That does change things, of course. I hadn't realized that this particular suggestion was a part of what Mr. Marcone said he was sending over.”
“What, you really thought I'd just slipped in some of my- without John's approval?” I cut myself off, rising and shaking my head, cutting my hands through the air in a tight, angry arc. “Of course you did. Warlock, right?”
Higgins rose as well, tucking the files up under one arm.
“Indeed. Warlock.” His eyes, pale, dull gray, flickered with something that might have been sympathy if it had come from someone who had the tiniest belief that I was a human being before he looked away, his features shutting down on me once more. “I am sorry for you, Dresden. It's a terrible cruelty to keep you alive this way.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
I watched him leave, unable to say another word through the churning mix of fear and anger and pain that choked me. I felt cold, my legs weak. It was a terrible, helpless sensation. Pity was one thing. I could deal with that. I did every time I went out into the community, around people who knew my story. Disgust was harder, so was fear. Higgins thought I was better off dead, and that was a whole different level of- I didn't even know what to call it. How many of the Council agreed with him? How many people out there wanted me dead for my own good? I swallowed and fought down my nausea.
No matter what John thought, I knew I was never going to get through to them. Not if they were all like Higgins. But I'd tried, hadn't I? John couldn't ask me for anything more. I'd told him it would go badly, that the Council wouldn't listen and he'd just ignored me. So here I was, waiting for Higgins and his bodyguard, because I knew there was one, to leave so they wouldn't see me meet my 'escort'. I didn't know why I cared anyway. Higgins would have approved of the 'never leave Harry alone' policy. After all, I might snap and start running around murdering people left and right with my magic, twisting their minds and setting up my own evil empire, even through the controls of the collar.
I was dangerous.
~
“So then he says, 'Well, of course they didn't listen at first. It's going to take time for them to change their minds. They need to be made to see beyond your hi- your youth and inexperience. We'll work on it slowly.' Jackass.” I muttered under my breath, my voice rising on the last word as I threw the cloth rag down to the tile floor and glared at the donation box. It gleamed, the wood warm and healthy with all the oil I'd just rubbed into it. Father Forthill, several feet away, coughed discreetly. “Sorry.” I said loud enough for him to hear clearly. “Jerk. That's what I meant. Jerk.” Big, over confident, arrogant jerk who thought he was too clever for everyone else and ran my life. I kicked at the rag, making it slide a few inches.
“Perhaps, rather than take your frustration out on the innocent floor, you might talk whatever it is through with him. Maybe without yelling this time? Explain how important it is for you to finish your degree.” Father Forthill was a nice guy. I liked him a lot. But he didn't get it. Which wasn't really his fault. I couldn't explain my life to him. The magic, John, the collar, everything. So he thought I complained about my well meaning but over protective boyfriend who wanted me to come work for him, rather than the reality of John and everything he was to me.
I sighed and knelt to pick up the rag.
“Won't work. Won't ever happen.”
“Why?”
“Because he's right. It's more important for me to help these people than it is for me to get my Master's in Physics. I mean, hell. It's important work, this charity. It's a big deal. Even if the people in charge are a bunch of old...tools. And what am I going to do with another degree anyway?”
“Teach.” He laid the last of the flowers in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary and stepped back, looking at it. “You'd be a good teacher, Harry. You've got a lot of patience and you love the material. You're wonderful with the kids here. I know you'd make it exciting for them if you decided to be a teacher.”
“I could be a teacher now. It's not going to happen. There's too much...” I waved my hands around in an all encompassing gesture. “There's way too much to be done, all the time.” I growled at the icon in front of me. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, if I was remembering right.
“Harry, you know I would help you in any way that I could. But I know that there are thing you're not telling me. That you feel you can't tell me. That is your right, though I wish you trusted me enough to let me in. I would love to be able to help you, even if it was just advice. But perhaps there is someone who you could be completely open with? Someone who would be able to see to the heart of the problem?” He patted me on the shoulder. “I need to get the rest of the flowers for the chapel. Do you need any more polish?”
“Nah.” I picked up the half full bottle of wood polish and shook it.
“Be right back then.” He headed into the back of the church. I twirled the rag around and headed to the other side of the church. I did have someone to talk to. Nate. And I did talk to him, when we could get two minutes alone without John lurking in the background or one of the other guys interrupting us with some emergency. It was just that Nate insisted on our conversations being constructive, rather than just ranting, which felt good but didn't suggest a plan most of the time. And his advice was to keep working on the compromise, which so far involved a lot of John getting what he wanted and me waiting for the right time to bring up what I wanted again. The right time never seemed to come though. There was always something that made me hesitate. Something more important.
The votive candles gleamed red through the tinted glass, casting twisting shadows over the wall behind them. Something on the floor in front of the donation box on the other side of the aisle gleamed in a spark of ruby red light.
I bent over and peered at it. A coin. It looked old, blackened with age and use. Worn away on the edges, one side thinner than the other. It might even be an antique, collectible. I picked it up and spun the coin through the air. I played a couple of tricks with it, easy things that I remembered from my father. Walking it over the backs of my knuckles, making it disappear and pulling it out of thin air. It wasn't weighted right for the really cool tricks, and someone obviously meant to drop it in one of the donation boxes anyway. Why else bring something like this to the church?
Father Forthill had told me once that people donated all sorts of things. He'd found necklaces, rings, all sorts of jewelry. Someone had even donated some antique weaponry that their aunt had collected her entire life, though those hadn't been dropped in a donation box of course.
I spun the coin in the air, watching the play of light over it. The sunlight was oddly bright against the dirty surface and I stared at it as it spun, trying to figure out what was causing the effect when a sound reached me. Something faint, like a voice. I caught the coin and looked around, listening. There wasn't a service scheduled for another few hours, but people came in all the time to just pray. Except I hadn't heard any footsteps, or even one of the doors opening. There was no one in any of the pews, and I knew they couldn't have made it up to the choir loft without me seeing them.
“Hello?” Nothing but the quiet echo of my own voice.
“Harry?” Father Forthill called out from one of the storage rooms. I didn't jump at the sound of his voice, but it was close. I'd been concentrating so hard on trying to hear that phantom sound again that the solid reality of his voice was a bit of a shock. “Could you come give me a hand with these boxes?”
“Sure!” I dropped the coin into the donation box and headed to the back of the church.
Fic: The Life We Make 3a/?
It's awkward and hard as hell to do. It is also incredibly frustrating and anger inducing. I spent a lot of time counting to ten and trying to find some nice, calm spot inside my head. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to grab the decorative little potted plant in the middle of the table and throw it, aiming at a spot behind his head, through his nasty, tight lipped mouth. That was how you did real damage, when you hit someone. You didn't just try to hit them, you tried to hit something behind them. As I spoke, fighting to keep my tone even and calm, friendly, I imagined doing just that. Just once.
Once I'd finished my presentation, the wizard flipped the folder shut with one fingertip, as if he didn't want to touch it more than he had to. And he explained to me, in a snide, insulting tone all while still not fucking looking at me that my suggestions were impractical and that the Council did not need to be told what to do by an infant.
“Look, Wizard Higgins. We're not saying that your training for defense against mental magic isn't good, just that it's not complete. These techniques haven't been reviewed since the sixteen hundreds!”
“It is perfectly adequate. Our curriculum has guarded the minds of White Council members for centuries and I see no reason to change it now. In addition, it is impossible to explore new techniques. Would you like to know why?” No. I would like to punch you in the teeth. “Because that would require someone to use black magic on another wizard. I understand that this is a hard concept for someone like you to grasp, but-” I bit through my lip.
“I'm sorry, 'for someone like me'? I-”
“You are a warlock, Dresden. Irrevocably tainted. Twisted and warped into something sick. It does not surprise me that you are having such a hard time with the concept. I'm certain it seems like a brilliant idea to you.”
“I'm innocent!” My throat started to close up, my chest going tight. I knew it. I told John and he just wouldn't listen! I shouldn't have said anything. They were never going to believe me, no matter how I behaved, no matter what I tried to do for them. I was a warlock, and that meant I was guilty. Simple as that. Tears swam in my eyes and I blinked them away. I hated being so weak.
“I'm certain you've convinced yourself that your story is true.” Higgins made a sympathetic face. “However, the fact remains that you are not a member of this Council. You are, in fact, a convicted criminal. One who is suggesting a course of action that would lead other, law abiding members of the Council into committing crimes. I'm afraid our answer is going to have to be no.”
“Look.” I took a shaky breath. “Whatever you think of me, this is a good plan. At least take it back to the other members of the Council for review.” And then my last card. Appeal to God. “It's not my idea. It's John's recommendation.”
Higgins' eyes went wide, then narrowed again. He frowned down at the reports and I could see the wheels in his head clicking over to a new set of rules and desires. Oh, well if it's John, then it's okay, right? Wouldn't want to insult the savior of the wizarding word. Insulting his chattel was something else, of course. Jackass. They were all hide bound assholes.
“I see. That does change things, of course. I hadn't realized that this particular suggestion was a part of what Mr. Marcone said he was sending over.”
“What, you really thought I'd just slipped in some of my- without John's approval?” I cut myself off, rising and shaking my head, cutting my hands through the air in a tight, angry arc. “Of course you did. Warlock, right?”
Higgins rose as well, tucking the files up under one arm.
“Indeed. Warlock.” His eyes, pale, dull gray, flickered with something that might have been sympathy if it had come from someone who had the tiniest belief that I was a human being before he looked away, his features shutting down on me once more. “I am sorry for you, Dresden. It's a terrible cruelty to keep you alive this way.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
I watched him leave, unable to say another word through the churning mix of fear and anger and pain that choked me. I felt cold, my legs weak. It was a terrible, helpless sensation. Pity was one thing. I could deal with that. I did every time I went out into the community, around people who knew my story. Disgust was harder, so was fear. Higgins thought I was better off dead, and that was a whole different level of- I didn't even know what to call it. How many of the Council agreed with him? How many people out there wanted me dead for my own good? I swallowed and fought down my nausea.
No matter what John thought, I knew I was never going to get through to them. Not if they were all like Higgins. But I'd tried, hadn't I? John couldn't ask me for anything more. I'd told him it would go badly, that the Council wouldn't listen and he'd just ignored me. So here I was, waiting for Higgins and his bodyguard, because I knew there was one, to leave so they wouldn't see me meet my 'escort'. I didn't know why I cared anyway. Higgins would have approved of the 'never leave Harry alone' policy. After all, I might snap and start running around murdering people left and right with my magic, twisting their minds and setting up my own evil empire, even through the controls of the collar.
I was dangerous.
~
“So then he says, 'Well, of course they didn't listen at first. It's going to take time for them to change their minds. They need to be made to see beyond your hi- your youth and inexperience. We'll work on it slowly.' Jackass.” I muttered under my breath, my voice rising on the last word as I threw the cloth rag down to the tile floor and glared at the donation box. It gleamed, the wood warm and healthy with all the oil I'd just rubbed into it. Father Forthill, several feet away, coughed discreetly. “Sorry.” I said loud enough for him to hear clearly. “Jerk. That's what I meant. Jerk.” Big, over confident, arrogant jerk who thought he was too clever for everyone else and ran my life. I kicked at the rag, making it slide a few inches.
“Perhaps, rather than take your frustration out on the innocent floor, you might talk whatever it is through with him. Maybe without yelling this time? Explain how important it is for you to finish your degree.” Father Forthill was a nice guy. I liked him a lot. But he didn't get it. Which wasn't really his fault. I couldn't explain my life to him. The magic, John, the collar, everything. So he thought I complained about my well meaning but over protective boyfriend who wanted me to come work for him, rather than the reality of John and everything he was to me.
I sighed and knelt to pick up the rag.
“Won't work. Won't ever happen.”
“Why?”
“Because he's right. It's more important for me to help these people than it is for me to get my Master's in Physics. I mean, hell. It's important work, this charity. It's a big deal. Even if the people in charge are a bunch of old...tools. And what am I going to do with another degree anyway?”
“Teach.” He laid the last of the flowers in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary and stepped back, looking at it. “You'd be a good teacher, Harry. You've got a lot of patience and you love the material. You're wonderful with the kids here. I know you'd make it exciting for them if you decided to be a teacher.”
“I could be a teacher now. It's not going to happen. There's too much...” I waved my hands around in an all encompassing gesture. “There's way too much to be done, all the time.” I growled at the icon in front of me. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, if I was remembering right.
“Harry, you know I would help you in any way that I could. But I know that there are thing you're not telling me. That you feel you can't tell me. That is your right, though I wish you trusted me enough to let me in. I would love to be able to help you, even if it was just advice. But perhaps there is someone who you could be completely open with? Someone who would be able to see to the heart of the problem?” He patted me on the shoulder. “I need to get the rest of the flowers for the chapel. Do you need any more polish?”
“Nah.” I picked up the half full bottle of wood polish and shook it.
“Be right back then.” He headed into the back of the church. I twirled the rag around and headed to the other side of the church. I did have someone to talk to. Nate. And I did talk to him, when we could get two minutes alone without John lurking in the background or one of the other guys interrupting us with some emergency. It was just that Nate insisted on our conversations being constructive, rather than just ranting, which felt good but didn't suggest a plan most of the time. And his advice was to keep working on the compromise, which so far involved a lot of John getting what he wanted and me waiting for the right time to bring up what I wanted again. The right time never seemed to come though. There was always something that made me hesitate. Something more important.
The votive candles gleamed red through the tinted glass, casting twisting shadows over the wall behind them. Something on the floor in front of the donation box on the other side of the aisle gleamed in a spark of ruby red light.
I bent over and peered at it. A coin. It looked old, blackened with age and use. Worn away on the edges, one side thinner than the other. It might even be an antique, collectible. I picked it up and spun the coin through the air. I played a couple of tricks with it, easy things that I remembered from my father. Walking it over the backs of my knuckles, making it disappear and pulling it out of thin air. It wasn't weighted right for the really cool tricks, and someone obviously meant to drop it in one of the donation boxes anyway. Why else bring something like this to the church?
Father Forthill had told me once that people donated all sorts of things. He'd found necklaces, rings, all sorts of jewelry. Someone had even donated some antique weaponry that their aunt had collected her entire life, though those hadn't been dropped in a donation box of course.
I spun the coin in the air, watching the play of light over it. The sunlight was oddly bright against the dirty surface and I stared at it as it spun, trying to figure out what was causing the effect when a sound reached me. Something faint, like a voice. I caught the coin and looked around, listening. There wasn't a service scheduled for another few hours, but people came in all the time to just pray. Except I hadn't heard any footsteps, or even one of the doors opening. There was no one in any of the pews, and I knew they couldn't have made it up to the choir loft without me seeing them.
“Hello?” Nothing but the quiet echo of my own voice.
“Harry?” Father Forthill called out from one of the storage rooms. I didn't jump at the sound of his voice, but it was close. I'd been concentrating so hard on trying to hear that phantom sound again that the solid reality of his voice was a bit of a shock. “Could you come give me a hand with these boxes?”
“Sure!” I dropped the coin into the donation box and headed to the back of the church.
~