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11 May 2009 @ 08:23 am
The Dresden Files: "The Most Dangerous Thing" by Gehayi (Part 2)  
Title: The Most Dangerous Thing
Author: gehayi
Fandom: The Dresden Files bookverse
Pairing/characters: Harry Dresden/John Marcone, Karrin Murphy, Anastasia Luccio, Bob the Skull, Charity Carpenter, Molly Carpenter, Waldo Butters, Hendricks, Sigrun Gard and the Archive. And mention of...well, practically everyone else.
Word Count: 27,440
Rating: PG for swearing.
Disclaimer: I most emphatically do not own The Dresden Files. They belong to Jim Butcher, ROC Books and—regrettably, for the next three years--Lionsgate Productions. No profit is being made and no copyright or trademark infringed upon.
Prompt: #1356 The Dresden Files, Harry Dresden, People have been kidding Harry Dresden about being gay for a while. Now Harry's come to terms with his bisexuality and fallen for a man, and while some of his family and friends can deal with this, others are having a plethora of problems--and causing a number of them as well.
Summary: Falling in lust. Falling in love. Becoming aware of both, and deciding to come out to family and friends. Mix in a case involving supernatural politics, warlocks, conspiracies, faeries, Knights, gods and mortal enemies, and it's a typical day for Harry Dresden.
Warnings: (if any) Takes place after the most recent book, Turn Coat. So yeah, there are a lot of spoilers—not only for that book but for the ten previous ones, the novella Backup and the short stories.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my betas, beachkid, erastes and shiplizard.

The title is from a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson: "The most dangerous thing is illusion."

***

Part 1

I drove over in a state of intermingled heroic nobility and high anxiety--nobility because at last I was doing the right thing and telling Michael the truth, and anxiety because he was going to be hurt and would probably kill me.

Charity, who was mixing an enormous bowlful of cookie batter, greeted me at the Carpenters' door.

"Hello, Harry," she said. "How can I help you?"

"Hi, Charity. Um...where's Michael?"

"Off coaching softball practice." She glanced at her watch. "It should be starting any minute now."

It may sound childish, but I was annoyed by this. I'd gotten myself all nerved up to come out to a friend, and the friend didn't even have the decency to be around for my moment of great drama.

Whatever deity is in charge of my life has a sick sense of humor and a horrendous sense of timing.

"Would you like to come in?"

I wasn't going to accept her invitation; I knew she was only offering it for courtesy's sake. I'm not Charity's favorite person by a long shot. But then she opened the door as a follow-up to her invitation, and my nose was instantly assaulted by the warm, delicious smell of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven. There's no way to resist the fresh-baked-cookie smell. The Pied Piper couldn't compete with it.

So of course I said yes. After all, who wouldn't?

I wasn't too surprised to find a tall blonde teenager sharing the kitchen with Charity; the Carpenters have four daughters and three sons, and Molly is the only one of the seven who—so far--has shown no interest in learning how to cook.

But I was surprised by the identity of the girl, for it was Ivy. The Archive.

She'd been seven when we first met, twelve when I'd rescued her from the fallen angels and their psychotic hosts, fourteen by the time I'd tried to save my parole officer and ended up mindmelding with an island in the process. By now she was nearly sixteen, at least, and if I hadn't known better, I would have sworn she was one of Charity's children.

She was dropping tablespoonsful of dough onto a greased cookie sheet, and was wearing an expression of intermingled joy and satisfaction.

She spotted me and gave me a huge grin as I sat down at the kitchen table. "Hi, Harry. Aunt Charity is teaching me how to cook."

"'Aunt' Charity?"

"She told me to call her that."

"People need families," Charity said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone as she donned a mismatched pair of oven mitts and removed some cookies from the oven. I could feel my mouth watering as she did so. "And she's a sweet girl."

Sweet? Not exactly the adjective I'd ever mentally used for Ivy. On the other hand, I'd seen her at the age of seven commanding a material called deathstone while she refereed a duel between me and a Duke of the Red Court.

But then, given some of the stuff I'd done over the years, I was hardly in a position to criticize.

"Oh, by the way," Ivy said, dropping the last spoonful of dough on the cookie sheet, "Figaro says hello."

"Figaro?" Charity asked.

"My cat," Ivy explained. "Harry gave me a kitten for Christmas after...after the bad time." For a moment, she seemed to shrink into herself.

I'd decided after the rescue that regardless of her magical role, Ivy was a kid and effectively an orphan, and kids, especially orphans, needed love, affection and physical contact. So I'd thumbed my nose at the Council—who swore that The Archive needed emotional distance to be able to function and that getting close to her could be dangerous—and bought her the softest, fluffiest, most affectionate kitten I could find.

After she'd stopped squeeing, she'd named the poor kitten Figaro Sylvester.

Despite the Council's blatant disapproval, I'd kept tabs on her since, taking her out for burgers or ice cream when I could afford it, buying her things like cards and presents for Christmas and Valentine's Day and her birthday. It wasn't much—we both had jobs to do that ate up a lot of our time, and God knows I didn't know how to make things better for a kid who had every word and image from the Internet in her head—but she seemed to thrive on our time together.

Ivy hadn't mentioned that Charity had virtually adopted her too. Which, okay, made me more than a little jealous. I'd never been "Uncle Harry."

"What did you want to see Michael about?" Charity asked.

"Nothing. Something private. A revelation, I guess you'd say." I really didn't want to talk about John, especially in front of Ivy. There are some things that kids just don't need to know.

Charity's eyebrows escalated to her hairline. "A private revelation that's nothing. That you had to come and tell Michael immediately."

"Uh...yes?" Suddenly it didn't sound probable, even to me.

Charity handed off the oven mitts to Ivy, who quickly donned them and put the cookie sheet she'd been working on into the oven, and then placed her hands on her hips and glared at me.

"If you've come over here because you've finally realized that you're in love with my husband--"

"What?!" Where had that come from?

Another death glare. "I have seen the way you look at him over the years. His face. His muscles. His chest. You find him attractive. More than attractive."

I buried my head in my hands, wondering if a wizard could be humiliated enough to will himself out of existence. "Uh...well, yeah, Michael is a very good-looking man, Charity, but--"

"Do not tell me," she said in an Antarctic tone, "that you care nothing for him. I won't believe it."

"Of course I care about him! He's a friend!" Repressing the impulse to whine about trust, I took a deep breath instead. "Charity. How long have you been worried about this?"

"Since I first saw you give him an appreciative look," she admitted, sitting down opposite me at the table. "You're—you shared a world with him for years. You could fight by his side, thanks to your magic. You are the closest of friends. You would die for each other. You could share Michael's life in a way I could not."

"Plus the magic, and me being a trouble magnet."

She bowed her head. "Yes. You frightened me for years. Less, since Michael's injury, but...between your friendship, your magic and your...appreciation...of his looks, it was like being friends with a whirlwind. At the least, you could upset everything. And at the most, you could tear everything apart. And nothing would ever be the same again."

Cautiously, I put my hand on top of hers, wondering if I should do the pat-pat-there-there thing. Nah. She'd probably take my head off with an egg beater.

"I'm not here to hurt you," I said quietly. "I came over because...well, I figured out that this...attraction to men...was maybe a little more noticeable than I'd realized"--damn you, Hendricks!--"and I needed to tell a friend or two the truth."

"It isn't Michael," Ivy said in a matter-of-fact tone, closing the oven door. "Though you're right about Harry being attracted to Michael, as well as a number of other men. And women." She shrugged and glanced at me. "People notice you. Sometimes they notice you noticing them. And then they write it down. Notebooks and journals, usually."

"Can I just die now?" I asked the air plaintively. Seriously, first Hendricks and now these two? I was beginning to wonder if anything was secret.

Charity was gazing at Ivy uncertainly. "Not Michael?"

Ivy shook her head.

"Who, then?"

"Couldn't it just be a hypothetical someone?" I beseeched, giving them both my best beagle impression. "Surely who it is isn't important--"

"It's John Marcone."

I closed my eyes and braced myself for the explosion.

Which didn't come. Instead, when I opened my eyes, Charity was gazing in my direction, puzzled. "Why him?" she said.

"That's it?" I asked, disbelieving. "No rage? No hatred? No moralizing? No tons of resentment that I fell for the guy your husband got crippled rescuing? You were furious at me a few minutes ago!"

"Not furious," Ivy said quietly. "Protective."

Charity just stared at me—or rather, she stared about two inches to the left of my right ear to avoid a soulgaze. "Harry. I've been afraid of you. I've been angry with you. But I've never hated you. And I don't blame you for what happened to Michael. I blame the Denarians and their minions."

"It was my shitty plan!"

"If you'd gone up in Michael's place, the bullets wouldn't have hit you in the chest, Harry," Ivy interrupted. "I know what the X-rays looked like, remember. I can figure the probable trajectories. They would have gotten a man your height right about here." And she touched the area just under her jaw and the back of her neck.

I'd heard something similar from the Archangel Uriel. Somehow, I believed it more when I heard it from Ivy. "So I would have been killed."

"And after that, the rest of us would have been too. Or worse." She shuddered, then gave me a very stern look. "You and John are exactly the same. You blame yourselves for things that aren't even your fault."

"How do you know about him?" I asked, mentally throwing in the towel. "I doubt if he's been scrawling love letters in his day planner."

"He comes to see me sometimes," Ivy said. She glanced at her hands and then at the remaining dough that had to be kneaded, grimaced, muttered something about, "Unhygienic," and began scouring her palms and fingers as if she were scrubbing up for brain surgery.

"He comes to see you?" Clearly I'd fallen down a rabbit hole somewhere. "And no one worries about this?"

That earned me the patented patient gaze of a teenager. "Harry. My guardian-protector is a centuries-old half-demon mercenary called the Hound of Hell. And I've known every form of deadly and apocalyptic magic since birth. Do you really think that anyone's going to worry about a crime lord taking me out for ice cream?"

Reluctantly, I had to agree with her. "Still, I doubt if he was talking to you about his feelings."

She was silent for a minute. "We took a trip to Wisconsin recently. He wanted me to meet his daughter."

"She's...not his daughter."

Another patient look. "Not biologically or legally, no. Those are both very minor considerations."

"And he...uh...talked to you about her?"

"No. He talked to Amanda about you while I examined her to see if I could repair the damage." She looked thoughtful. "And truthfully, he didn't say much. He kept his voice neutral and his face blank. But when he talked about you, no matter how dull and boring and annoying he tried to make you sound, his eyes lit up. He's happy.

"So I knew. He wouldn't have told her if you didn't matter."

That hit me hard. Harder than I'd expected. I'd just about figured out that I could be physically attracted to men. I hadn't thought very deeply about how much I enjoyed being around John. That he made me happy.

Shit.

It's a low blow to discover, while you're still more or less convinced that someone is just a friend who might, with luck, become a friend with benefits, that you've gone and fallen in love with the guy.

I don't do love well. I had no desire to have hideous bad luck attack John as it had Elaine, Susan and Anastasia.

It wasn't as if I couldn't give him up. Okay, yeah, I liked him, but I'd lived like a hermit before. Hell's bells, I had more dry spells than the Sahara Desert.

So why was the idea making me sick to my stomach?

I don't even remember saying goodbye. Or driving home, for that matter. The next thing I remember clearly, I was pacing up and down in my sub-basement lab. And I was most definitely not thinking about the fact that I'd fallen in love without noticing it. Trying not to think about it, actually.

Damn it, why wasn't there a good city-threatening horror to fight when I needed one?

Unfortunately, you can't pace in my basement—at least not indefinitely—without waking a certain air elemental who lives in a skull. All too soon, Bob was awake and alert, demanding to know why I was so upset and why my aura showed every sign of intermingling with someone else's essence. I told him that was flat-out impossible, since I hadn't...er, mingled for a couple of years. Since the last time Luccio and I had had sex, not that I got specific. That would be like handing Daffy Duck a stick of dynamite and expecting him not to play with it.

"That's pathetic, you know," Bob said in a disappointed voice. "Humans are good at having sex, Harry. Why don't you try it?"

I gritted my teeth. "Bob--"

"Anyway," the skull continued blithely, paying no attention to me at all, "sex is one way to mingle essences. It's not the only way. It's just the easiest. F'r instance, another way involves emotions—not basic stuff like lust that even I can get behind, but confusing stuff that involves morality. Love. Trust. Things like that. Don't get me wrong, exchanging energies through physical contact? Lots easier. A hug is simple. But even though the morality stuff takes longer, it goes pretty deep."

Not what I wanted to hear. Because what Bob was saying felt good and comfortable and right, and I didn't want to get comfortable. I wanted to be okay with wanting John without having to change one iota, and I had a terrible feeling that instead, a huge continental shift had taken place when I wasn't looking.

"You can tell how the...mingling...was done just by looking?" I asked without much hope.

"Well, duh, Harry," said Bob, his orange eyelights rolling around in the skull's sockets. "That's easy. All I have to do is look at your aura. Which—hey!" The sheer delight in his voice made me wince.

"What's wrong with my aura?" I demanded.

"Nothing, nothing," Bob replied hurriedly, in a tone that sounded as if he was snickering and smirking at the same time. "It's just that I never pictured you...uh...mingling essences with another guy."

"It's not a guy."

Don't look at me like that. Bob is obsessed with sex and has an eidetic memory. It's not a good combination. If I didn't shut him up, he would keep laughing at me for the rest of my life. Which could be another five hundred years or thereabouts.

In any event, it didn't work. The skull snorted at me instead. "Puh-LEESE, Harry. I can tell, you know. Male essence differs from female essence."

I was momentarily distracted. "How?"

"It's more opaque, for one thing. Bright but opaque. Like frosted glass. Female essence tends to be more translucent, like stained glass. Okay, granted, there are people—human and non-human—with a mixture of both, and yeah, this could have been from someone who was male in spirit, if not physically. Or not originally physically.

"But I don't know of any transmen you're this close to. I don't know of any transmen you're close to at all. However, you do know a lot of guys who were born guys, and you're friends with most of them. So I figure it's one of them. Now, which one? Hmmm." The eyelights dimmed from a fiery orange to a dull ocher as Bob mulled it over.

Oh, God, I was doomed.

"Bob," I said, pouring as much of my will as I could into my voice, "let it go. Just don't think about it anymore."

"But it's interesting, Harry," Bob whined, sounding just like a bratty kid who doesn't want to go to bed. Please, just a half hour more? One more story? One more glass of water? "Besides, it's familiar. I've felt that essence on you before."

"It's not Thomas." I don't know why I said that.

"Psssh," Bob said, dismissing that idea. "Of course it's not. This is from someone of your species. Your brother isn't human, Harry. The quality of the essence is a little different. Plus, I'd be able to sense the demonic influence on you from here. Besides, I really can't picture you mingling essences with your brother. Your morality gland would rupture." A pause. "Even though you do think he's totally hot."

I briefly considered banging my head into a wall, but considering that Listens-to-Wind had only just cured my killer migraines a couple of years back, I suspected that wouldn't be a good idea. Instead, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Are you through?"

"Now where have I felt this essence before?" he murmured. "Aside from every time you come back from the island." One eyelight flickered on and off swiftly. Bob was winking at me.

I said nothing. Unfortunately, this didn't dissuade Bob.

"So what are you two doing on the island, hmmmm?" he leered. Don't ask me how a skull can leer. This one did.

"Building. A. Tower," I said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days..."

"Bob!"

He sobered up instantly. "That's significant, you know. Building something together."

"I don't follow."

"It's simple. Towers are bases of power. They're also wizard's homes, or they used to be in the old days. You're building a base of power, as well as a home, with someone you're in love with. Do you have any clue how much magic is involved in all that? You expect me not to notice? Feh. Anyone who's not spiritually blind could see it sticking out all over you like porcupine quills."

"Anyone?" I said weakly. "I mean, I never noticed this kind of stuff."

"You don't look," snorted the skull. "You could—you can see auras, and even read them to some extent. But you could be a lot better. And trust me, most wizards don't ignore the opportunity to learn something. That can be dangerous.

"So," I said, feeling as if I was poking a sore tooth. "Anyone who saw me in the past few years who can read auras would have known that there was a man in my life. Not the name of the man, but that he was...a man."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"How would the Council feel about this?"

His reply was soft. "Which one? White or Black?"

I shrugged. "Both?"

"The regular Council? They wouldn't care. Wouldn't be thrilled—they'd want to be sure you passed along some genes to future generations at some point, and the sooner the better, probably. But your sex life wouldn't affect them. It would be no skin off their noses. They have other issues where you're concerned.

"The Black Council, though—they'd care. They'd want you and him apart immediately. And forever. They wouldn't care how, either. Death, damnation, distraction, deception--"

A picture was forming, and I didn't like it. "Why?"

"Because there's power in love, Harry," he said gravely. "It's the essence of life."

And life was what wizards drew their power from. I was beginning to grasp this. And now that I thought of it, John had been in danger since the werewolf mess. It had seemed natural for even for psychotic FBI Hexenwulfen to go after a crime lord, but now I wondered who had suggested the wolf belts to their leader, and that John be their target.

The werewolf mess wasn't the first time we'd collided, nor the first time one of us had threatened the other. But it was the first time that we'd worked together to save each other.

And it had gotten worse after that case, hadn't it? Denarians. Vampires—including one possessed by an Outsider. And then Denarians again. And against all odds, we'd kept on working together and grown even closer. And we'd kept saving each other's lives. The eeriest occasion had been when I'd been dealing with a passel of necromancers and wannabe-gods. John had driven by in a limo and given me a lift. A very minor moment in my life...but John's driver-contractor, Sigrun Gard, had been convinced that by giving me a ride in his car, John had prevented my death.

I have this strange tendency not to argue with Valkyries. Not on the subject of fate, anyway.

And how many conspiracies and apocalypses had I prevented since that day?

And how many narrow escapes for both of us?

It was strange how, the closer we got, the more we kept falling into identical patterns. Threats of death. Attempts to damn both of us—I wondered why the Denarians hadn't touched one of their coins to his skin while they'd been holding him prisoner, but maybe the coin had to be touched voluntarily. In any case, there hadn't been a trace of a demonic sigil on his body when I'd found him. And he'd been stark naked.

He'd been stronger than I had.

And the same pattern had prevailed with our traitors, I realized. We'd both been deceived by women we were close to, both betrayed by men in positions of trust in our respective organizations.

The same pattern, over and over again. Whatever happened to one happened to the other. The same occurrences, times two.

There's a power in repetitive magic. And the more a spell is used and repeated, the more it grows in power. It's not always easy to create the echo of an event, especially when the events aren't happening in exactly the same circumstances. Sometimes it can take ages. Me, I'm not that patient. Plus I tend to need magic that's quick, dirty and easily accessible in a battle.

But power builds up over time.

How long had it been since the last disaster had befallen the wizards? A year and a half, maybe?

I had a terrible sensation that something had slipped past me for far too long—and that Chicago was running out of time.

"Hey!" Bob was hollering. "Ground control to Major Tom!"

I barely glanced at him. I was still busy thinking. "Bob. You're sure someone with the ability could have seen this on me?"

"No question, boss," he said firmly. "A wizard could spot it easily on anyone, whether the someone was magical or not."

"What about someone who wasn't a wizard, but who could still do magic? Could they tell?"

"Um...hello? Do I look like a wizard to you?"

"Point," I muttered. "What about vampires? Or faeries?"

"Trust me. The rest of the supernatural world notices this stuff. You don't, because you're too busy pretending to be ordinary."

I glared at Bob. "I am ordinary, as wizards go!"

Bob gave a deep, deep sigh. "When you were sixteen, you banished an Outsider—which your average wizard can't do without centuries of training. When you were thirty-nine, you mindmelded with an island. Which the Gatekeeper—a member of the freakin' Senior Council—can't do. Face facts, Harry. You're about as ordinary as Merlin."

"Oh, please," I snapped. "As if I have anything in common with Arthur Langtry."

"Not Merlin-the-title," Bob retorted in a tone that added "you jerk" to his words. "Merlin."

I rolled my eyes. "Right. And is this where you tell me that that you knew Merlin? Or—no, don't tell me. You were Merlin."

"No," the skull said in a steely I'm-rapidly-getting-pissed-off tone. "I was his father."

I gaped at him for a few minutes. "Huh?"

A deep sigh. "Merlin was sired on a Welsh princess by what her people called 'a demon of the air'—that would have been me, before I annoyed Maeve and lost the ability to take on an earthly form like a normal air elemental. Believe me, I remember. I wouldn't even make the comparison, but--well--you keep ignoring things that could help you against your enemies. It was kinda cute when you were younger, boss. But now...it's getting dangerous.

"And. Well." I had the impression that if Bob could have shuffled his feet, he would have. "He did the same thing. It nailed him in the end. Trust me, you don't need to be like him in that respect."

Trying not to gulp, I nodded. "Okay."

Bob's eyelights flickered as if he were nodding.

There was, understandably, an awkward silence. I was the first one to break it.

"I better get going. Something's about to happen. I can feel it."

"Make a potion before you go."

My foot was already on the bottom stair when I heard this. "What? What kind of potion?"

"A random one. Pick a number. A color. Anything."

"Bob." I stepped down from the stair and walked over to the shelf Bob's skull was sitting on. "You're not making any sense."

He whistled a dum-de-dum-de-dum tune. Don't ask me how he does that when he hasn't got lips. "You suck at planning because you always think the same way. Your enemies know this. Now you have to go up against something that's been outsmarting you for years, because let's face it, you are ultra-predictable. You always defend people you care about, you hate harming women even if they're hurting you, and you're a chivalry lemming. Clearly you're not gonna start outthinking whoever-it-is at this stage. You're a nice guy, Harry, but you're really not that bright."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered.

"So what we do instead is introduce something random into the mix," he said patiently. "Something that has nothing to do with the way that you think. Something that your enemies didn't plan for."

I mulled that over. "That might actually work."

"I know." Bob sounded as smug as a banker who'd just received a federal bailout.

"You have a suggestion, I suppose?"

Bob did. It was relatively simple—a spell with plain water as its base. I added the other ingredients: the flash of a lightning bolt for sight, the sound of a memorable tune, the smell of Charity's cookies as they baked—NOT collected earlier that day, incidentally—the taste of potato chips, a snip of a brand-new bathroom sponge for touch, a scrap of paper with the equation for Newton's law of universal gravitation printed on it for the element of mind, and a powerful magical amulet for spirit. It took about fifteen minutes to brew, tops.

But once it was done and ensconced in a sports bottle in one of the pockets of my duster, I armed myself with handgun, staff and blasting rod and bolted out the door, hoping and praying that I would get to John's office building in time.

***

Part 3

Part 4--Conclusion
 
 
Current Mood: busy
 
 
 
aunt_zeldaaunt_zelda on May 15th, 2009 09:32 pm (UTC)
This fic is PERFECTION. And there hasn’t even been any kissing yet! The characters are spot-on, Harry is hilarious, Charity was right on the head, and … just WOW. *reels*
*pokes you to check that you are not, in fact, Jim Butcher in disguise*

"'Aunt' Charity?"
"She told me to call her that."
"People need families," Charity said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone as she donned a mismatched pair of oven mitts and removed some cookies from the oven. I could feel my mouth watering as she did so. "And she's a sweet girl."
Sweet? Not exactly the adjective I'd ever mentally used for Ivy. On the other hand, I'd seen her at the age of seven commanding a material called deathstone while she refereed a duel between me and a Duke of the Red Court.
But then, given some of the stuff I'd done over the years, I was hardly in a position to criticize.

*SQUEE*

"Figaro?" Charity asked.
"My cat," Ivy explained. "Harry gave me a kitten for Christmas after...after the bad time." For a moment, she seemed to shrink into herself.

Firstly: FIGARO AWWWW! Secondly: *huggles Ivy*

After she'd stopped squeeing, she'd named the poor kitten Figaro Sylvester.
And now I’m not going to be able to stop squeeing.

"If you've come over here because you've finally realized that you're in love with my husband--"
"What?!" Where had that come from?

*jawdrop* Whaaaaaaaaaa?! I concur, Harry, I concur!

Cautiously, I put my hand on top of hers, wondering if I should do the pat-pat-there-there thing. Nah. She'd probably take my head off with an egg beater.
Hells yeah, she would … *is in constant awe of Charity Carpenter* I feel that she and Sandra Bennet would have much to discuss …

"People notice you. Sometimes they notice you noticing them. And then they write it down. Notebooks and journals, usually."
And the interwebs!

"No. He talked to Amanda about you while I examined her to see if I could repair the damage." She looked thoughtful. "And truthfully, he didn't say much. He kept his voice neutral and his face blank. But when he talked about you, no matter how dull and boring and annoying he tried to make you sound, his eyes lit up. He's happy.
"So I knew. He wouldn't have told her if you didn't matter."

*has the sudden urge to tear up*

"But it's interesting, Harry," Bob whined, sounding just like a bratty kid who doesn't want to go to bed. Please, just a half hour more? One more story? One more glass of water? "Besides, it's familiar. I've felt that essence on you before."
I ♥ Bob. He’s such a slasher.

"Building. A. Tower," I said through clenched teeth.
"Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days..."

*passes out* Heh heh heh heh heeeeeee …

He sobered up instantly. "That's significant, you know. Building something together."
"I don't follow."
"It's simple. Towers are bases of power. They're also wizard's homes, or they used to be in the old days.

Also a Tarot card … an ominous Tarot card …

"Oh, please," I snapped. "As if I have anything in common with Arthur Langtry."
"Not Merlin-the-title," Bob retorted in a tone that added "you jerk" to his words. "Merlin."

Oooooo … a friend of mine on LJ has been extrapolating upon this theory with me in the past …

"No," the skull said in a steely I'm-rapidly-getting-pissed-off tone. "I was his father."
OMG *GEEKSPASM* ‘Demon of the Air!’ OMG! Makes so much sense!

Hurray for potion-brewing! *beams*
Gehayi: harry dresden with skull (gehayi)gehayi on May 17th, 2009 05:37 pm (UTC)
I feel that she and Sandra Bennet would have much to discuss …

She would. She so would.

And the interwebs!

Definitely the interwebs. I considered having Ivy say something about descriptions of Harry showing up on various blogging sites, but Harry wouldn't know about LJ, IJ, Blogger or Dreamwidth--not in detail, anyway--and the explanation would have derailed the story.

I ♥ Bob. He’s such a slasher.

He is. Though granted, he'd probably react similarly to Harry and a woman. He just approves strongly of Harry getting laid...and preferably a lot.

OMG *GEEKSPASM* ‘Demon of the Air!’ OMG! Makes so much sense!

Thank you! Granted, it doesn't fit all the variations of the Merlin stories, but it does fit at least one.

Making up the potion was just plain fun.
aunt_zeldaaunt_zelda on May 17th, 2009 11:33 pm (UTC)
She would. She so would.
Someday I'll write that crossover. Because Molly Walker and Ivy would get along too.

Definitely the interwebs. I considered having Ivy say something about descriptions of Harry showing up on various blogging sites, but Harry wouldn't know about LJ, IJ, Blogger or Dreamwidth--not in detail, anyway--and the explanation would have derailed the story.
It's fun to imagine it, though ... *giggles*

He is. Though granted, he'd probably react similarly to Harry and a woman. He just approves strongly of Harry getting laid...and preferably a lot.
Not a bad additude ... *tosses hair over shoulder and eyes Harry* Not only do I ship Harry, I also kinda want to marry him myself. Weird, huh?

Thank you! Granted, it doesn't fit all the variations of the Merlin stories, but it does fit at least one.
No no, THANK YOU for this AWESOME fic!

Making up the potion was just plain fun.
Most things in fic writing are.