#Boy who is full of whimsy and love. and of course. a secret third thing

[lovedecoded]

bring me the boy. yes. The boy who is Full of Love and Joy

[johnskleats]

Beautiful Fool

That Great Gatsby!Merther AU, ya’ll.

@the-once-and-future-love @arthur-of-the-pendragons @the-fated-dragoness @pretty-pendragon

He had only wanted a little space to himself. That was natural enough, Gaius had said, provided he be mindful to keep sharp whilst on holiday. Privacy was recipe for secrets, his mother had said, get too used to it and risk a doomed marriage. What his uncle failed to understand was that this was not, in fact, a holiday, and his mother, bless her, would have to come to terms with his preferences. Whomever he found as a companion, eventually, would favor a similar life to his- that was what made a household, after all -harmony. “Find a woman who hates flowers,” he had jested, “and lake houses, and sunsets.” Merlin had been grinning. His mother had not. “Specifically task her to woo me, see if I give it up.”

“Give what up, Merlin,” mother had sighed.

He had only gotten so far as opening his mouth before Gaius boxed his ears in scolding. Mother fussed over supper. Merlin set the table. All was as it had always been in their little house on the corner, only in his room, there was a suitcase by the door, and the drawers were empty, and nothing was as it had been, really, at all.

And now he was home, where a new always would forge itself. Even as he had told mother to her bleary-eyed face that he would visit often and call yet more, Gaius had watched the lie weave through his lips as it was spun. His brow had been stern, but understanding. As always, he neglected to stop him spouting words that dug graves; Merlin couldn't blame him, as whatever came to him, he would probably deserve in one way or another. Yet, here he was: Camelot Isle, renting out a minuscule gardener's cottage that overlooked the harbor. His backyard, backwoods rather, lead into the gardens and courtyards of the looming mansion next door, Pendragon House, the full and dreary history of which he had gotten in his tenancy letter. Merlin had skimmed it. As his personal contract with the cottage was in no way connected to Pendragon House, originally servant's quarters or not, he had no interest or attachment to its grounds whatsoever. Because he lived here, he preferred not to be treated as a tourist, though the thought crossed his mind that the rent was fixed where it was for a purpose. The possibility of poor neighbors hadn’t crossed his mind. Between himself and whomever occupied the mansion, they had the isle to themselves; whatever it was that rendered his house so cheap couldn’t be so bad.

Merlin, on the porch of his new-to-him, two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, drank in the character of his little abode through a lens of intentional whimsy. It had windchimes nailed to the wood frame of the awning, bits of Cola bottles and seaglass turned in the lake and hung up with cord. The step into the living room and kitchen area was high and gnarled, and in his rounds about, Merlin had tripped on it no less than three times; his bedroom, the aforementioned second room of the two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, was a splotched lavender color, unevenly applied rose wallpaper fading and peeling away at cracks in the corners of the walls. His favorite part of the bedroom was probably the curtains, orange and visible, with their thick plumes of dust and heavy shadow. They were hideous. They were his.

Between his house and his neighbor's stood a dock leading out to a pier, at the end of which was a signalling bell. It was here that Merlin’s attention was drawn when with a peal of joy, the bell, chimed with the wind, his permanent glass fixtures tinkling with it and all the leaves sounding applause through the boughs of the canopy. A chill cut through him, and Merlin retreated inside to weather the surely impending storm. Awaiting him was a house of his own, just as cramped as his mother’s and far less comfortable, made sweeter and more welcoming by the name on the lease.

Merlin was a third of the way through chipping the grime from his stovetop when the first cracks of thunder rent the air. He jolted in surprise, butter knife clattering to the tile, and, shakily, took up his task again. The sound of pouring rain had deafened him to all other stimuli, and the sense of exposure rattled his bones. With the panes trembling in their frames and shutters fluttering, clamoring against the sides of the house along with the waving branches and pelting rain, wind whistling through the waterspout with the gush of overflow, he felt swallowed inside a void. The house was empty, save for himself. A new always, he supposed, being safe, unscathed, while simultaneously so utterly immersed in what his mother lovingly referred to as trouble. It filled him to the brim with the kind of excitement that makes boys leap from cliff faces to the sea, the kind of adrenaline that demands to know whether or not he could make the jump. The chaos scraped at his safehouse as the wall of his own skin, itching. It called to him like a siren song and, oddly, his heart ached. Merlin had longed to be alone, but the magic had followed him anyway.

Forlorn, he closed again the beaten shudders.

--Merlin opened them again.

There, in the earth driveway leading up to his neighbor's abode, was a car, the likes of which Merlin had only ever seen on magazine covers in stores. Yellow, canary yellow like rain slickers, yellow like bananas and technicolor and his mother's good dress stared back at him, obscured by black mud and torrents of water coursing along the body of metal. Outside the vehicle was a man of equally astounding quality, although less from the fact that he was soaked through to his designer shoes with water-dark hair in his eyes, and more so that he stood outside apparently his car, mixing himself in what was about to be ankle-deep mud. The moment Merlin had registered that the man was trying to push it out of its rut to no avail happened to be the same moment that the man had given up, throwing up his hands and kicking at the white-faced wheels with petulant abandon. The car wasn't hooded, rather open, actually, and the man looked away, paced, fumed as it rapidly took up water. Much longer in the road, which was flooding quickly, and the vehicle may not be operable at all.

Merlin, despite his brain telling him quite avidly that this would somehow change the course of his day, if not his life, in a way that would render him devoid of control, took it upon himself to don his raincoat, nevermind the boots, there was little time, and help the remarkable stranger.

When Merlin dashed out his front door, the look of surprise and relief he expected left much to be desired. Instead, he saw bewilderment and agitation, characteristic of a man who has had a very, very long morning. The man was shouting at him. Merlin was shouting back, but both voices were carried away in the storm, leading to a mutual agreement to shut up and push the car. He was struck with regret at his choice in priorities; his raincoat did him little good, as the exertion and laboured movement lead to water penetrating and eventually inundating his upper half, while he suspected galoshes would have done him much good indeed, in place of the cold mud oozing beneath his heels and riding up his socks. In several short pushes of combined effort, plus one big push, the buggy was out of the worst of the puddle, and arguably fit to go again. Still too loud to speak much, Merlin offered a thumbs up, and the man blinked at him, surprised again, although it may have been to chase away water clinging to his lashes still blindingly. Merlin gave that close-lipped, polite smile that offered immediate exit to limited acquaintances to urge him forward and out, but when the strange man, a drowned cat in a suit, continued to look at him as though transfixed, Merlin decided to make an executive decision on part of the universe.

He turned, and went inside.

The man watched him go, Merlin could feel it like the prickle of lightning in the sky, but he dared not look back, not even out his ugly curtains until he was certain his guest was gone. When he opened the shudder for the third time that rainy first day, it was to a flooded, murky street made to a mud pond in front of his house, and a long trail of tire tracks he could trace like a piece of string to the gates of the beautiful Pendragon House.

-

The first of the letters arrived the following morning. Merlin had only barely begun updating his address, most of his mail sure to be forwarded by his mother in the coming months, but this first letter, addressed to him, was from someone he was vaguely surprised but not astounded to hear from. Arthur Pendragon, his landlord. He could assume it was just like the last few he had received, informative snippets about his tenancy or more fluffy introduction to the place he was so privileged to live in, and so he paid it little mind. Merlin set it aside. The man with the yellow car crossed his mind once or twice, but only in passing. He hoped he had made it wherever he was going without much more trouble, even if it was his own fault for leaving such a valuable possession vulnerable to the elements like that.

He spent the day cleaning and tidying, much as he had the day before. The sunny sky and renewing smell of rain set him in a mood of rebirth, of new beginnings, and everything in his cozy fixer-upper was an opportunity to make something lovelier than before. He had a day or two yet for his holiday before he would have to call into work, and until then, he intended use his time wisely.

The wallpaper was the first thing to go.

With the night came the smell of drying paint and the sound of cars passing his house one after another, the chatter of excitement and the glare of filtered, colored light. Merlin would have shut it out if he could, but to close the window would be to suffocate in paint fumes, his beauty rest be damned. He wanted a good night's sleep, not a hangover. In the earlier hours of the evening, he had thought this would be an eight to ten kind of affair. Then the music started, a whole brass band, it sounded like, and he knew he was in for something interminable.

Merlin rolled around his cluttered living room, everything from the bedroom shoved into it whilst his paint aired out. He perched on his loveseat, did a lazy summersault out of his pillowfort, baked cookies to warm the house, even put on his own record as though to spite Pendragon House for its inconsiderate racket. The latter was to no avail, and he turned it off after a few minutes; the clash of melody was giving him a headache. He checked his watch- almost three in the morning. He was agitated enough to round up; at most, he had dozed a little under two hours between nine and now, fifteen minute increments interrupted by raucous laughter and what he assumed to be drunkards skinny dipping in the lake. He wished he didn’t know, but again, his windows were all wide open, and if anything killed him, it would be curiosity, followed swiftly by this miserable Arthur Pendragon.

Just then, Merlin remembered the letter he had received this morning. Was it a notice? He could find it in himself to be less put off if he had been warned- at least then it would be his own fault. Eyes shot, he fumbled with the heavy envelope until the seal popped- who wax-sealed their letters? -and squinted to make sense of the elaborate script.

Hereby invited...party...courtesy of Arthur Pendragon…

That was about all he got out of it, and all he really needed to read. Merlin tossed it aside with a huff and, exhausted, covered his ears with  throw pillows.

-

The letters kept coming. The parties kept happening. The house was coming together.

Merlin had painted the outside a soft blue and rigorously cleaned the white trim, although he left the knobbed stair and wind chime as they were. The living room and bedroom were a brisk white, the curtains had been washed- Merlin didn't have the heart to throw them out -and he had livened up the space with a new dining table, a novelty painting of a farmhouse, and a little potted plant. The teakettle was operable, and life was good.

Still, the invitations came. Invitations to day trips into the city, rendezvous on the yacht, tours of the estate, and at the end of each was a reminder of the inevitable nightly house party.

Merlin had received seven now, and other trinkets had started to accompany them in little red boxes. A birdhouse. A teacozy. A brass watch, at least he hoped it was brass. All in all, it was unsettling, but Merlin had managed to put it out of his mind. It was thoughtful, and probably born of guilt, although, if Arthur knew he was a terrible neighbor, Merlin wished he would just start being a good one instead of perpetuating this compensation nonsense. It was the ninth night, and the eighth letter that finally convinced him. It had come in a box that was shaped frighteningly like a necklace from Tiffany’s, or some other such bizarre place, and Merlin had opened it with pallor and trepidation. The letter was on top, he could only guess its contents, but beneath that, in the box itself, was a simple, soft, blue...scarf. There was no price tag, no note, for when he did open the envelope, it was only his name in that elegant script he had come to be so familiar with. Somehow, that was enough.

Merlin made yet another executive decision.

He would attend one of these parties, only one, and put an end to this strange outreach of companionship. He was willing to make passing friends, would allow teatime some afternoon or another, but this gift business would stop, and by the stars and stripes, they would be on a mutual last name basis. No more of this dear Merlin business, no signed Arthur. It would be Mr. Emrys, Mr. Pendragon, chatter about the water pressure, the Sox game, and no more.

-

Merlin was unfit to be there. He didn't only feel that way, but was, surrounded by people he saw glimpses of in movie pictures and heard on the radio, talking about their careers and mixing brandy in their sequined dresses and tight suits. Even amongst those closer to his own economic class, college students wasted out of their minds, he didn't feel at ease. There was no theme, no center, no purpose to their frivolity- only music, loud and frenzied, and glittering champagne, dancers, fireworks above the tower raining stars into the lake. Whoever he spoke to told him something different; Mr. Pendragon was a prince, an actor, a war hero, a famous doctor, a mob boss. Not once did he hear Arthur. No one seemed to know him, or where he was, if he even lived in the house bearing his name, if he intended for there to be a shindig tonight. Apparently, the gates opened and people came, from everywhere, and no one was ever turned away.

No one was ever invited.

That put a knot in his stomach like nothing else, and he kept a white-knuckle grip on his little box of unsolicited gifts. He would find Arthur, if he could, and return them, explain himself if there was air left in the atmosphere. He would apologize. He would leave. The stars fallen into the lake would stay there, extinguished, and Merlin would soundproof his bedroom. The next letter he got, he would pack his things. The overwhelming sense of impending change, so much like doom, made his heart beat heavy and his teeth ache.

He had meandered for two hours, and like Persephone in the underworld, dared not partake. Unlike her, he could leave whenever he pleased, even if it didn't feel like it just then. The pull of destiny made him stay put, and with every passing moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and join the fray.

Four hours in. Midnight. Merlin felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, the band meeting crescendo to the coo of a love song and the stars bright overhead, a moment of stillness and light, he stared, caught in the blue eyes of Apollo himself. He wished he had had something to drink. Heart fluttering in his chest, he half listened to the man welcoming him with a smile, leading him by the shoulder to somewhere more private where they could talk, and yes, he did have a lot on his mind, and indeed, the decorations were splendid. The click of a door brought him to his senses.

“What’ve you got there?”

They were in a study lined with chestnut bookshelves, each full of old, decorative books and ships trapped in bottles. The man who Merlin recognized as Mud Man With the Yellow Car had seated him on a plush lounge, black leather that squeaked faintly when he moved and smelled particular, but good. Its arms were too wide for his comfort, and he felt small. The man, much neater than when Merlin had last seen him, placed a cold glass in his hand.

“Just water,” he assured amiably.

Mindlessly, Merlin broke his vow and sipped.

Arthur Pendragon was a tall, broad man, who knew his way around a suit. In private now, he had shucked his coat to a hanger and loosed his ascot, red, to leave it hanging about his neck. He had never seen a man in suspenders any color but black or brown before, but for the sake of fashion, Merlin compelled himself to understand one's need for scarlet, if only to pair with a white suit. A white suit that looked fantastic, mind.

His host was watching him bemused, as if he knew what Merlin was here for. Merlin certainly didn't. He swallowed.

“Is that for me?” Arthur probed again. All eyes went to the repurposed gift box in Merlin’s hands, suddenly thrust into Arthur’s, who took it with mild surprise. Opening it, the look of someone enjoying a marvelous and delightful game was lost to one crestfallen. In the box, was a birdhouse, a teacozy, and a brass watch. Arthur closed the box. Had he continued to paw through it, he would have found the stack of letters, each written in this very study. Merlin, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, was relieved that he had stopped there.

“Would you like a drink? I'd like a drink,” Arthur hummed, and he was gone again, opening wine.

“So you're not a gift person,” he said cheerily. A new glass found its way into Merlin’s hand. “Or a, how do you say, luxury adventure person,” he was starting to feel guilty, “or a party person--”

“You don't even know me,” Merlin heard himself say. The half empty wine glass he didn't remember drinking set itself on the table. Everything about this night was shiny and ethereal, his whole body abuzz with newness and golden warmth. He didn't know he had passed four hours wandering this house, drunk on art and a myriad of mismatched strangers, didn't realize he had spent almost half an hour drinking with the mysterious Arthur Pendragon in his private study, didn't know how he had gotten to the point where he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't understand who on earth had put them there, but here he was, and, “You don't know a thing about me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and stared into his glass, the box far from forgotten on the coffee table. “I know you like the color blue,” he said quietly. “I know you like to watch birds. I know you like to work with your hands when you could call someone instead.”

Merlin, at once feeling too big for his skin and yet very small under the pressure of Arthur’s attention, watched him carefully. He watched his body language, stiff even in as casual a position as he was, legs crossed and leaning. He watched his lips, red from the worry of teeth and wine, round themselves about his words, saw his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

“I know you don't mind helping strangers,” Arthur was saying. Merlin’s mouth was dry and his water was gone. Arthur was watching him now, too. His eyes were blue, bluer than anything, his jaw was sharp, his shave was close and he could smell his cologne and Arthur was saying, softly, “I know your name,” and then, “Merlin,” and then.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“We know each other plenty well,” returned the easy smile. The moment was gone just like that, leaving him breathless, as though he'd been kissed. Arthur hadn't kissed him, though. He hadn't touched him aside from the occasional brush of fingers exchanging a glass, hadn't tried to breach the distance. He was still talking. Merlin wondered how his a smile didn't reach his blue, blue eyes. “But you've avoided me quite avidly, I would say. I was starting to get ideas when-”

“--When?”

“Beg your pardon?” Arthur flushed red, not expecting the question. He was used to Merlin’s silence, had no way of knowing how unusual it really was. Perhaps he had rehearsed parts of this conversation. Regardless, he disliked being thrown off guard.

“Ideas. I've been here a week, when could you have possibly found time to get ideas?”

Arthur was incredulous.

“You'd be surprised to find I do have a brain, you know,” he seemed about to continue, but Merlin glowered. Arthur began again.  “...Ideas about you?”

“The Queen,” Merlin answered dryly.

“Victoria or Elizabeth?”

“Mary.”

Arthur winced, and poured more wine.

“You pushed my car,” he murmured. “No one asked you, there was no proposed reward, you just came out in your loafers and helped me.”

Merlin thought back to that night, the sniffles he'd had the remainder of the evening, the mud he had to mop up the following day. “I help people who need it,” he corrected. “The ‘who’ makes no difference to me.”

Arthur toasted him halfheartedly. “‘Sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?” His host glanced back to the box of rejected gifts, rejected friendship, and again, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. The distant sound of the party made its way to them, a bass beat that had always been there but had still managed to be forgotten. The clock read two.

Merlin took a drink.

“What do you want from me?” His glass clinked against the wood of the table.

“Are you flattered?” He frowned in confusion. Arthur repeated himself, clearer and more distinctly. “Are you flattered, Merlin?”

“I…”

Merlin didn't know. Why was he here, he thought, what brought him into this situation? Why had he set out tonight, bent to break his promise to his mother? Why did he insist on following that drag of purpose clutching his heart, leading him into danger such as this?

“...I am.”

There was a breath, Arthur waiting for a ‘but’ that didn't come. Again, Merlin was caught in the gaze of an Adonis.

“Would you come back?” Arthur’s tone was low, wistful, concealing. His look didn't waver, daring Merlin to lie, staring into his heart or perhaps just enjoying what he saw- both concepts he couldn't understand. “If I let you go tonight, home,” he sighed, every word sounded like a sigh now and the world was a void, “would you come back?”

The implication that his landlord might not permit him to leave should have been disturbing. Much of this should have been, in fact, he ought to have reported it or left or something--

“Yes.”

What.

“Yes?” Arthur smiled.

What are you doing?

More than smile, he beamed. He tried to hide it but couldn't, the relief overwhelming his composure and Merlin was damned if he saw anyone more beautiful than Arthur Pendragon was in that moment.

“...That's all I wanted,” he said simply.

Merlin was damned.

He knew then that if he took even the smallest amount of momentum towards Arthur, he would do something they would both regret. He would lose a potential friend, although an odd one, of his an admittedly lousy, endearing neighbor. He could always say he had been drunk, which he was, a little- he wasn't -and bank on Arthur being the same- sober, that is -and maybe, maybe then he could get away with it. Dangerous thought, danger, danger--

“Will you stay tonight?”

His heart leapt to his throat to choke him, treacherous thing.

“...Until the party is over?”

The clock read two fifteen, Merlin unabashedly eyeing those red, red lips.

He made an executive decision.

He left.

[douxreviews]

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Review

I really struggled with this review. Mostly because of JK Rowling’s #KeeptheSecrets initiative, designed to keep people who want to see the play but haven’t away from spoilers. So, what I’ve decided is this. In keeping with #KeeptheSecrets, the first bit is very general and totally spoiler-free. Then comes the spoiler kitten. After that, anything goes. We good, JK?

Having grown up with these characters, being in a room with Harry, Ron, and Hermione was…there’s no other word for it…magical. I honestly could’ve watched the three of them sit on a plane for six hours and would have been happy with it. Did I think the play was perfect? Of course not. Would I recommend flying across the world and spending thousands of dollars to go see it? No, that would be irresponsible. Am I glad I did that thing I’m not recommending you do? HELL YES. Now, okay, not all of that is the play. If I had flown to London, seen the play, then gotten right back on a plane, I would have felt cheated. But I really had a killer time in London. Sorry, tangent.

By far the play’s strongest assets are its Golden Trio (for the uninitiated, that’s Harry, Ron, and Hermione). They felt so consistent with their book counterparts. Every actor (I saw the original cast) so perfectly encapsulated their characters. There were no awkward “Hermione wouldn’t do that!” moments* (expanded upon in the spoiler section). The one exception to the wonderful acting may have been the character Delphi, who started out okay but by the end of the play was distractingly over the top.

Without spoiling anything, the effects ranged from “that’s cool but I totally see how they did that” to “NO WAY??!? HOW?????!!!” There’s even a scene that takes place in the lake. Like, UNDERWATER. I remember reading the script beforehand thinking that there was no way in hell they could pull off half of what was written. I’m happy to say I was wrong. One thing, though: there is way more interpretive dance than you are expecting in this show. No matter how much you are expecting, there is more.

I do recommend the script as a piece of literature, if you’re a Potter fan. If you’re not, give it a pass. The plot is fairly uninspired and the whimsy is missing in action without Rowling’s prose. Potterheads should definitely check it out if you haven’t already. You get to spend a few more hours with Harry, Ron, and Hermione and there are a couple of solid humor bits.

*(continued from above) There were moments when I felt like, Hermione wouldn’t do that or Professor McGonagall wouldn’t do that, or Cedric wouldn’t do that, but only in the alternate timelines. You can explain away their totally out of character behavior by saying the past has been changed and time travel can create unpredictable results but I refuse to believe Hermione could be cruel, McGonagall could allow herself to be dressed down by a former student, or that Cedric could kill anyone. By the way, this story features time travel and alternate timelines. Okay maybe at this point I should throw in a quick summary of the plot.

Basically, Harry and Ginny’s youngest son, the tragically named Albus Severus Potter, doesn’t really fit in with his family or at school (he was sorted into Slytherin!). His best friend is Draco Malfoy’s son Scorpius. The two get their hands on an illegal Time Turner (a device introduced in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban that allows the user to travel through time). They use their Time Turner to go back to try to save Cedric Diggory who was killed by Voldemort in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Long story short, they make a total mess of things. They erase family members from existence, destroy relationships, and ultimately resurrect Voldemort. Well done, boys. That’s the first of two thirds of the show. Then it is revealed that Albus and Scorpius’s friend Delphi is Voldemort’s daughter and the entire Time Turner fiasco was masterminded by her in order that she be reunited with daddy dearest. Yeah, I know how stupid it sounds. Finally, after the earlier Time Turner mishaps were sorted out, Delphi goes back to the night Voldemort killed the Potters in order to stop him and save his life. The Potter-Granger-Weasley clan, now wise to what’s going on, follow her back in time to stop him. A final fight ensues, Delphi is defeated (as well she should be, one teenager/twenty something is no match for four adult wizards) and everyone goes back to the future, the end. This is the simplified version. Seriously. The story is…involved.

So as far as the story goes I have favorite little bits and pieces I cling to. For instance, Hermione is the Minister of Magic. Atta girl. Dudley Dursley and Harry remained in touch and Dudley sent him the blanket he was wrapped in when the Dursleys found him on their doorstep. Awww. Neville Longbottom’s importance in the Harry Potter saga is cemented when it is revealed that his death is what triggers the darkest timeline, the one where Voldemort won the war. That said, Neville doesn’t actually appear in the play which I found…irksome.

Aside from the few incidents previously mentioned, everyone felt very much in character throughout which had to be hard to achieve. Harry is still lazy about certain things (Divination homework has turned to Ministry paperwork) and still has a tendency to shout at people when emotional. Not a great characteristic, but one that’s been very consistent throughout the books. Deserving of special mention is Draco who still dislikes Harry but admits now that he was jealous of him and the friendships he had while they were in school. I also really loved Draco’s darkest timeline persona. In the world where Voldemort was defeated Malfoy was a good guy. In the world where Voldemort won he was…less of a good guy. That’s just the Malfoy way, isn’t it? Go with the flow. But less in a hippie dippy way and more in a purely ambitious way.

There were some characters who weren’t used to their full capacity. Ron was played entirely for comic relief. Now, in the books he was usually the one to relieve the tension but he also got important things to do. He played the chess board to get through to the Philosopher’s Stone, he saved Harry from the locket horcrux, he destroyed the locket horcrux, he was the only one who thought to try to get back into the Chamber of Secrets to destroy the rest of the horcruxes. Here, he’s just there for laughs. Ginny, too, is seriously lacking in things to do. She mostly nags Harry about his relationship with Albus and stands just behind him in group scenes, looking worried. She seems to be the logical continuation of movie Ginny, not the book Ginny I know and love.

A lot of people have issues with the idea that Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange had a daughter. It doesn’t bother me too much but I also feel the need to point out that there is no proof that Delphi is actually Tom Riddle’s daughter and not, say, an extremely disturbed girl. The only evidence that she may be related to him is that she and he share the talent of Parseltongue, the ability to speak to snakes. Now, Parseltongue is a rare ability, true, but it’s not exactly a DNA test. I seriously think Delphi is just a crazy person with delusions of grandeur.

One of my favorite parts was the darkest timeline bit where we got to see what would have happened if Voldemort had won the war. Umbridge is in charge of Hogwarts, which bothered me a bit (it should, logically, be Snape). But they have this cool handshake everyone does and they say “For Voldemort and Valor” which was kind of awesome and yet it bothered me that everyone used the name Voldemort when, in the books, it was sort of a huge deal to say it and few people ever did. But there were a bunch of cute bits from this part of the play. “Potter” was a swear word, there was a day celebrating the Battle of Hogwarts (Voldemort Day) and Hermione and Ron lived underground as freedom fighters. Watching Scorpius attempt to navigate the world all on his own (Albus had ceased to exist at this point) was hilarious. You know what? Scorpius was hilarious full stop. I loved him when I read the script but watching him on stage he was so…flamboyant is maybe the word. I just adored him. He felt like the weirdest combination of Hermione (mega-nerd) and Ron (blurts out whatever he’s thinking) with just a bit of Neville thrown in for good measure.

And now, more, spoilery details on cool effects!

- The best was every time the characters traveled through time, the whole stage kind of did this visual shudder that was amazing. The audience legitimately gasped.

- In the comedic highlight of the play, Albus, Scorpius, and Delphi take Polyjuice Potion to turn into Ron, Harry, and Hermione (respectively). The transformation was clearly done with trap doors but it was still an amazing bit of stage trickery.

- Delphi’s true identity is revealed by glow in the dark writing on the wall. As the characters discover this, the whole theater lights up, also covered in the same, heretofore invisible writing.

four out of four cursed children

sunbunny