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A Fairy Tale
Strangely enough, I think this may be the sweetest thing I've ever written.
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You set your hand firmly in your lap and try to continue talking, but for the first time the conversation is awkward and stilted, and you are not entirely sorry when the moon sets and you return to your bed.
The conversation is still awkward the following evening. You feel like you’re saying the same things you’ve said before, the same things you’ve been saying forever. Maybe you just need some sleep, you think. Maybe tonight you should go home early.
Then you say something about being a wizard, and Heledone asks, “What would you do then?”
“What?”
“If you became a wizard. Where would you work? What would you do?”
You’ve never thought about this, not past the moment when you stand in the Great Hall holding fire in your hands, and the snickering, pitying children finally shut their mouths to listen. You don’t even know what you would say.
Tomorrow, says a voice in your mind, a voice that you’re scared to listen to. Tomorrow you’ll have to know.
“I . . .” you say finally. “I could move home? Buy a house with a garden?”
Your parents had a house in a tiny village, once, with gnomes in the garden. You wouldn’t mind gnomes, not compared to children.
You say you might grow vegetables.
“Wizarding vegetables?” asks Heledone.
“Pumpkins. With stripes.”
“If I could leave the water,” says Heledone, “I think I would grow chrysanthemums.”
You sit hand in tentacle for the rest of the night, mapping out a market garden.
As you wake up the next morning, you realize that something is wrong. You move your hand and a strange substance oozes from it. Your bleary eyes identify it as red, and you’re almost ready to scream, “Blood!” when you smell the sweet, sticky scent. Your room, the hallway, and most of the classrooms are coated in strawberry jam.
You spend the day mopping, and cursing everything Weasley. You hate Fred, George, strawberries, summer, and the color red. And even when you’re done, when the last speck of jam is scrubbed from the last corner, you still stink of strawberries. Sweat and jam. You hate everything.
You wonder if you should avoid Heledone. She shouldn’t see you like this, not angry and sticky and utterly hostile. But she’ll be expecting you. You don’t want to leave her waiting in the dark.
You compromise by showing up late, and snapping at her. When she reaches out a tentacle, confused but sympathetic, you recoil.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Damn strawberries,” you say.
“I don’t understand.”
“Weasley twins. Mocking me. Mocking sanctity of life. I hate strawberries.”
“Calm down,” Heledone says. “Tell me.”
Her tentacle twists out of the water again, and this time you hold it. She’s clean and smooth, utterly removed from the world you hate. You tell her the story of your day, and by the end you’re clutching at her tentacle with all your strength—because the jam did look like blood, and you’ve cleaned real blood off Hogwarts walls before.
“Shhh,” says Heledone. “Breathe. It’s all right.” Another tentacle curls about your shoulders, like an arm laid quietly across the back of a chair. It’s still wet. Water drips down your back, and you begin to feel that the stickiness might, some day, be washed away.
“It’s all right,” Heledone says again.
You try to speak, but you can’t. All day you’ve been restraining yourself—you could have tracked down the Weasleys and have told them that they had no sympathy, no moral fiber, and not a shred of humanity, but you were polite and did your job without violent retribution, and suddenly it’s too much. You can’t even spit words out. You’re shaking.
“You’ll be all right,” Heledone tells you. “You can be angry. It’s going to work out.” Her tentacles wrap around you, cradling you. You shake.
After what seems like hours on hours you can lie still and breathe again. You’d like to thank Heledone, but you don’t know how. Finally, you take the curling pink tip of a tentacle and kiss it. It’s a chivalrous thing—Heledone’s as much of a noble lady as you will ever see.
You hear a low, thrumming sound. The tentacles about you vibrate with the noise. After a minute you realize that this is Heledone, laughing in a way you’ve never heard her laugh before.
“I’m sorry,” you say, embarrassed.
“No, don’t be,” she hums. “It’s just . . . Just reaction, I suppose. You scared me, a little while ago.”
“But this? You don’t mind?”
“No. It’s good to touch someone, sometimes. It had been so long . . .”
She’s right. At least you have a cat. Heledone has been living in the cold, dark moat, for years upon years.
“You’re so warm,” Heledone says. A tentacle cups your face. You turn your cheek into the touch.
“You’re warm, too,” you say. And it’s true. Underneath the soft wet skin you can feel her almost burning.
You feel yourself growing tense again, but this time you’re not angry. The fabric of your pants suddenly feels rough. You shift in Heledone’s embrace.
“Am I holding you too tightly?” she asks. A tentacle draws away from you, but slowly, sliding across your thigh.
“Yes . . . No . . . I don’t know,” you say.
“So very long,” says Heledone. “You don’t mind?”
You shudder, clinging to a round, curved tentacle, as she undoes your belt. She’s like a rose, a white petal blushing with fire. She’s holding you, everywhere.
“Please,” you say. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for, and you don’t care.
Her touch is wet, and yet not cold at all. You slide against her. She is everything and every place. You kiss her arms.
Heledone laughs again, or throbs, or purrs, and you can feel the sound through her, through her touch. You strain toward her, and her tendrils respond. You laugh with each other now, entwined. She is smooth and impossibly close, and warmer than anyone has ever been. She is everything you want, everything and everyone, forever. You feel your thoughts break into sweet, warm salt as you whisper her name.
And then you’re lying on the ground in the arms of a woman you’ve never seen. Her hair is white and there are wrinkles about her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” you say.
“I’m Heledone,” the woman answers.
The seventh night is over. The sun is rising.
You leave Hogwarts together, you and Heledone. You buy a small farm, together, and grow vegetables. You’re the same age, you discover, and the lines about her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
You don’t mind that you’re not a wizard, not really, not any more. But some mornings, when you’re watering the garden before dawn, you find yourself missing the smooth white skin and the soft rose blush of the squid.
--------------------------------------------
You set your hand firmly in your lap and try to continue talking, but for the first time the conversation is awkward and stilted, and you are not entirely sorry when the moon sets and you return to your bed.
The conversation is still awkward the following evening. You feel like you’re saying the same things you’ve said before, the same things you’ve been saying forever. Maybe you just need some sleep, you think. Maybe tonight you should go home early.
Then you say something about being a wizard, and Heledone asks, “What would you do then?”
“What?”
“If you became a wizard. Where would you work? What would you do?”
You’ve never thought about this, not past the moment when you stand in the Great Hall holding fire in your hands, and the snickering, pitying children finally shut their mouths to listen. You don’t even know what you would say.
Tomorrow, says a voice in your mind, a voice that you’re scared to listen to. Tomorrow you’ll have to know.
“I . . .” you say finally. “I could move home? Buy a house with a garden?”
Your parents had a house in a tiny village, once, with gnomes in the garden. You wouldn’t mind gnomes, not compared to children.
You say you might grow vegetables.
“Wizarding vegetables?” asks Heledone.
“Pumpkins. With stripes.”
“If I could leave the water,” says Heledone, “I think I would grow chrysanthemums.”
You sit hand in tentacle for the rest of the night, mapping out a market garden.
As you wake up the next morning, you realize that something is wrong. You move your hand and a strange substance oozes from it. Your bleary eyes identify it as red, and you’re almost ready to scream, “Blood!” when you smell the sweet, sticky scent. Your room, the hallway, and most of the classrooms are coated in strawberry jam.
You spend the day mopping, and cursing everything Weasley. You hate Fred, George, strawberries, summer, and the color red. And even when you’re done, when the last speck of jam is scrubbed from the last corner, you still stink of strawberries. Sweat and jam. You hate everything.
You wonder if you should avoid Heledone. She shouldn’t see you like this, not angry and sticky and utterly hostile. But she’ll be expecting you. You don’t want to leave her waiting in the dark.
You compromise by showing up late, and snapping at her. When she reaches out a tentacle, confused but sympathetic, you recoil.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Damn strawberries,” you say.
“I don’t understand.”
“Weasley twins. Mocking me. Mocking sanctity of life. I hate strawberries.”
“Calm down,” Heledone says. “Tell me.”
Her tentacle twists out of the water again, and this time you hold it. She’s clean and smooth, utterly removed from the world you hate. You tell her the story of your day, and by the end you’re clutching at her tentacle with all your strength—because the jam did look like blood, and you’ve cleaned real blood off Hogwarts walls before.
“Shhh,” says Heledone. “Breathe. It’s all right.” Another tentacle curls about your shoulders, like an arm laid quietly across the back of a chair. It’s still wet. Water drips down your back, and you begin to feel that the stickiness might, some day, be washed away.
“It’s all right,” Heledone says again.
You try to speak, but you can’t. All day you’ve been restraining yourself—you could have tracked down the Weasleys and have told them that they had no sympathy, no moral fiber, and not a shred of humanity, but you were polite and did your job without violent retribution, and suddenly it’s too much. You can’t even spit words out. You’re shaking.
“You’ll be all right,” Heledone tells you. “You can be angry. It’s going to work out.” Her tentacles wrap around you, cradling you. You shake.
After what seems like hours on hours you can lie still and breathe again. You’d like to thank Heledone, but you don’t know how. Finally, you take the curling pink tip of a tentacle and kiss it. It’s a chivalrous thing—Heledone’s as much of a noble lady as you will ever see.
You hear a low, thrumming sound. The tentacles about you vibrate with the noise. After a minute you realize that this is Heledone, laughing in a way you’ve never heard her laugh before.
“I’m sorry,” you say, embarrassed.
“No, don’t be,” she hums. “It’s just . . . Just reaction, I suppose. You scared me, a little while ago.”
“But this? You don’t mind?”
“No. It’s good to touch someone, sometimes. It had been so long . . .”
She’s right. At least you have a cat. Heledone has been living in the cold, dark moat, for years upon years.
“You’re so warm,” Heledone says. A tentacle cups your face. You turn your cheek into the touch.
“You’re warm, too,” you say. And it’s true. Underneath the soft wet skin you can feel her almost burning.
You feel yourself growing tense again, but this time you’re not angry. The fabric of your pants suddenly feels rough. You shift in Heledone’s embrace.
“Am I holding you too tightly?” she asks. A tentacle draws away from you, but slowly, sliding across your thigh.
“Yes . . . No . . . I don’t know,” you say.
“So very long,” says Heledone. “You don’t mind?”
You shudder, clinging to a round, curved tentacle, as she undoes your belt. She’s like a rose, a white petal blushing with fire. She’s holding you, everywhere.
“Please,” you say. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for, and you don’t care.
Her touch is wet, and yet not cold at all. You slide against her. She is everything and every place. You kiss her arms.
Heledone laughs again, or throbs, or purrs, and you can feel the sound through her, through her touch. You strain toward her, and her tendrils respond. You laugh with each other now, entwined. She is smooth and impossibly close, and warmer than anyone has ever been. She is everything you want, everything and everyone, forever. You feel your thoughts break into sweet, warm salt as you whisper her name.
And then you’re lying on the ground in the arms of a woman you’ve never seen. Her hair is white and there are wrinkles about her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” you say.
“I’m Heledone,” the woman answers.
The seventh night is over. The sun is rising.
You leave Hogwarts together, you and Heledone. You buy a small farm, together, and grow vegetables. You’re the same age, you discover, and the lines about her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
You don’t mind that you’re not a wizard, not really, not any more. But some mornings, when you’re watering the garden before dawn, you find yourself missing the smooth white skin and the soft rose blush of the squid.