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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years ago

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This Isn’t Hypothetical for Chris

SPECIAL CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains a series of arguments regarding the Box Boy’s whole concept, and a survivor’s reactions to it, that may hit too close to home both for survivors of assault/abuse and also considering American history of institutional violence. Please do not read if you think you are not in the right headspace for this, and feel free to message me for a rundown/synopsis of this chapter if needed.

CW: References to pet whump, institutionalized slavery, Box Boy universe, vague referenced noncon/conditioning, self-loathing, victim-blaming, survivor’s guilt, ableism (both internal and external). Also includes some self-harm/negative stimming including head-banging during a meltdown.

Nicholas/Henry (referenced multiple times) belongs to @orchidscript

“Excuse me, can I ask a question?” The one who raises his hand is… Eshiram, maybe? He lives over in Dalton, Chris knows him, more or less. Sort of. The way you know people who live near you, even on a campus as big as this tone.

“Yeah, go ahead.” The grad student who teaches the discussion meetings for their Social and Political History class waves one hand in a quick, not quite dismissive gesture.

Behind him, there’s a projected photo of a young man sitting, testifying in court, wearing a suit and tie. Above his head, the words, The Human Pet Industry and Human Rights, 1952-20XX, are angled just so, framing the young man’s head like a halo.

Chris refuses to look at the image of the young man, caught mid-speech. They already had to watch the video recording of it, discuss the way the lawyers phrased their questions to make the young man look innocent or calculating, depending on what they wanted the jury to think, when Chris could have told everyone in here it wasn’t fucking possible for a pet to calculate like that.

Or maybe it was, and Chris just wasn’t any good at it, when it was him.

“So, we’ve spent all week sitting in lecture, and here, talking about how the pet industry is absolutely fucked up-”

“Excuse me?” A girl sitting three seats to Chris’s right and a little ahead of him turns around in her chair to give Eshiram a flat glare. “That is not-”

“Wait your turn, Callie,” The grad student says, looking weary. “Next time I have to tell you to let someone finish a sentence… Man, just, don’t make me do that. Go on, Eshiram.”

Okay, good, his name is Eshiram. Chris is getting better at names, but it’s still hard, and on days like today it’s harder than ever. It’s not that he isn’t paying attention, it’s just that the scar on the inside of his left wrist, that pale reminder of the life he lived before this one, itches and burns more and more as he stays silent, listening to them talk about a life he’s lived like it’s an abstract concept and not a nightmare Chris will never be able to completely wash off his skin.

“Thanks. So, we talk about the pet industry, but I just-... why doesn’t anyone fix it?”

“Fix it?”

“Go in and pass laws… the public push is there to outlaw it completely. So why doesn’t it happen?”

“Because money talks, man,” Another student pipes up, and Chris stares down at his notes, which have gone from neat, if angular, handwriting to a jumbled mix of letters that mean nothing to a series of increasingly anxiety-riddled pointless doodles of geometrics and horses that look like dogs and dogs that look like blobs and blue ink bleeding spots around them all.

On the inside of his wrist, he starts, slowly, to draw little triangles over the scars, filling them in with the deep blue ink. Their voices are all starting to have weight, pounding against his ears, and he should ask to leave, but he can’t remember how to form the words.

“It doesn’t matter how fucking miserable the pets are, if rich people want something, they just bribe the fuck out of everybody until they get it.”

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t be like that-”

“Pets aren’t miserable,” Callie pipes up, and this time the grad student doesn’t stop her, just looks… interested. This is just a class discussion to him. To Chris it’s a building pile of rocks slowly picked up and thrown in his direction. He has to sit still, to be good, to not give away why it hurts to hear it.

He has to be good.

He drops his head more, blue hair falling across his face to hide it, and digs the nib of the pen into his skin until it hurts.

“Who wouldn’t be?” The student who spoke up rolls his eyes. “Of course they’re miserable. What, you think somebody cleans your house for no money because they’re fucking passionate about Swiffer wipes? All the bullshit in the world can’t hide what this whole system really is.”

“First off, it’s not like that, and second, please do tell me... what is it, really?” Callie asks, poison in her voice.

“Okay, guys,” The grad student says, hands out. “Let’s calm things down a little.”

“You know damn fucking well what it is,” Another girl speaks, glaring a Callie, and Chris looks up from under his eyelashes, almost smiles. Someone speaking up. He pulls the pen away from his wrist, just a little. “Starts with S, rhymes with-”

“Guys. Calm it down.” Callie and the other three all glare at each other, but the whispering among the class slowly settles down. The grad student stands up picking up some papers he has in his hands, setting stapled packets down on every desk. “I’m glad you’re all really passionate about this, and I want you to carry that passion out of this classroom, but we need to focus on the testimonies we’ve been watching this week. Now, each of you has here a written transcript of four examples of testimony from the individuals we’ve heard this week. I want you to read over what Trenton Denver, Phillipa Venn, Yuki Tanaka, and the former Nicholas-”

“You know what’s bullshit, is that you’re all sitting here judging pet owners when I bet none of you has ever even met one,” Callie snaps, and Chris stares down at the rough, photocopied photo on the front of the packet, sees Nicky’s face there. A photo of him before, standing next to his owners during some kind of press conference, and a photo of him after, years later being Henry now, giving a speech standing alone.

Something in Chris twists with an awful, sick guilt. If he’d only stayed with S-... with Oliver, he could have been a friend to Nicky, whenever he could... and instead, the other boy had had to do everything, to go through it all, alone. It’s not a fair or rational thought, but it’s there, insidious and slithering. His heart wants tries to tighten, to stop beating entirely.

Does he even deserve to breathe, living a life like this one, where everyone rescues him and he never once saved himself?

“Do you need to fucking meet one to know it’s miserable to be kept like a fucking Golden Retriever? People. Aren’t. Pets.” Chris wants to look up, to see who spoke this time, but he just keeps staring at Nicky’s face, his slight smile blurred and pixelated by the copier. Fake, and unhappy, because they were both trapped in lives they didn’t want to live.

“Golden Retrievers are pretty happy dogs,” Someone says, and Chris feels himself choke on their words.

We’re not dogs. We’re people. We’re not dogs. We’re people. We’re not-

“Oh my God, way to miss the point by approximately fifteen thousand miles and also be so insulting to dogs in the process, dumbass. We’re talking about human beings!”

Chris takes in a breath, keeps his eyes down. Digs the pen nib into his skin, deeper and deeper, as hard as he can, trying to drown out the cacophony of noise that is starting to intrude. He can hear their breathing, all of them, huffing in and out. He can hear their words pressing on him, the buzz of the lights overhead is louder for him than anyone else in here, he thinks. He can hear people talking in the hall as another class has let out, he can hear people shouting dimly outside, running to the Student Center, playing frisbee or something on the green space, and he wants to be outside he wants to be outside he wants to move.

Can’t move. Have to be still.

Can’t let them know what he is. Can’t tell. It’ll put everyone at risk. He has to sit still and pretend he doesn’t have opinions on this so nobody looks too close. He has to sit still and stop tapping his fucking foot and stop stop stop moving, stop fucking moving, be still be still be still-

“All I’m saying, is that I have actually met pets before,” Callie announces. Chris wonders why the grad student hasn’t stopped her and sneaks a look up, only to see him sitting and looking bored. It doesn’t matter to him. It’s just something he talks about. He hasn’t had to live it, to see us crying, to know how it feels when they shock you or bring the cane down or make you be still for days and days and days. He’s never seen one of us wake up screaming even when it’s safe.

This isn’t hypothetical for Chris.

“Yeah, Cal, we get it, you’re rich,” Someone says, rolling her eyes, arms crossed over her chest. “We hear about it all the time. Let it go.”

“Eat the rich,” Someone else mumbles behind him. “French had the right fuckin’ idea with the fucking guillotines.”

Chris swallows. He wants to hum, to make some kind of noise to drown them all out, but he can’t. When he, when he needs things, when he needs to tap or rock or hum, it draws attention. Too much attention is dangerous. Have to keep it in until class is over. Just a few more minutes, a few more, just, just a little longer…

“Me being rich isn’t what we’re talking about. I’m just saying none of you knows a thing about the industry, and I do! I grew up with pets! And they were the happiest people I’ve ever met!”

“You don’t, don’t know that.” He doesn’t realize the voice is his own until the eyes feel as heavy as their voices did a moment before, and he notices everyone is looking at him.

He swallows again, his heart starting to pound with nervousness, pulling his sleeve carefully down to hide the drawing he made on his wrist. “You don’t know that,” He repeats, louder this time, willing his voice not to shake. “All you, you know is what, um, what… what what what, what, what they-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Somebody says, and Chris almost stops there.

He manages to finish, “-... what they thought it was safe to tell you, what, what they were trained to tell you.”

“You think I wouldn’t know if my own pets weren’t happy?” Callie looks… stunned, is the only word for it. “You really think that?”

“No, I don’t, don’t think you… would.” Chris hates everyone looking at him. He likes to be hidden, to stay behind the scenes, to blend in with shadows. But he feels like a police siren going off, unmistakable and too loud, with the classroom all looking at him all at once. “They-... they’re… trained. To make sure you, you, you-you-you wouldn’t ever f-find out if they weren’t... if they were scared, or, or miserable, or if your f-f-family was hurting them-”

“How fucking dare you?” Callie’s eyes widened, and Chris watched them fill with glittering tears. “Suggest that my family would abuse our pets? What is wrong with you?”

He almost - almost - apologizes.

Then she adds, “I’ve known them every single day of my life! I think I’d know if they weren’t happy, Chris.” Callie rolls her eyes, arms crossed in front of her.

“How?” His voice is louder, and he doesn’t mean it to be, but his mind is sparking with anger and fear. The warning bells inside his mind are being drowned out by the other thoughts, the way he has listened to too many people give arguments like this, and this week he’s listened to four different speeches by pets detailing abuse, and suffering, and starvation, and drugging, and he’s lived all of it and here she is just dismissing Chris’s life like it’s a fairytale the pet lib people made up to sell magazines and documentaries and not Chris’s actual fucking life. And Antoni’s. And Leila’s. And Krista’s. And Kauri’s and-

And Nicky’s.

Or… Henry, now.

“How what?” Callie sneers the words and Chris shoves himself to his feet. She’s up as well, and she’s taller than him, not that it matters. He’s not intimidated by her height, and he doesn’t even really see her, he sees-... he sees Oliver murmuring, the others will all hate you if they know what you are, darlin’, and mostly that hasn’t been true for him, but with Callie… it would be.

Or she’d call someone, turn him in.

She’s the kind who would make the call herself, and she’d say it was for his own good, that he was breaking the law, that he-

“How would you, you, you-you… you know? It’d never be safe to, to, to to to to-... to-to… to, fuck, to-” He groans, smacking himself in the head with his hand, and the sudden burst of sensation soothes the broken words inside his head, he can find them again. “It’d never be safe to tell you!”

“Oh shit,” Someone whispers. The same person who made the guillotine comment maybe. He doesn’t care. He’s too angry, now, and not even at her, he’s angry at everyone who looked the other way at Oliver’s parties, or when Owen put Kauri in that video on the internet, or when they watched Jake get arrested at protests or made fun of him when he got set free later and it took two fucking weeks for him to go back to class just because he put his body between Chris and a living hell.

He’s too angry, now, to stop.

“You’re, you’re s-s-soulless,” He hisses, and there’s an intake of breath. “Every single one, of, of, of you is soulless.”

“Chris, let’s calm down,” The grad student says carefully, moving forward. “Callie just has a different point of view-”

“Is it a, a, a different point of-... of view when it’s someone’s fucking life?” He doesn’t mean to be yelling. He doesn’t know how he started yelling. He’s terrified of his own voice and he can’t stop. The lights hurt, they sit on his skin and they hurt and the world is full of noise and he just wants it to be dark and quiet and better than this.

“Everyone who hurts-” Us “-them is soulless, is, is devoid, you don’t have one, and everyone who s-s-sits, who, who sits around, who-... who does nothing while they hurt us-”

“I’ve never hurt a pet a single day in my life!” Callie shouts back at him, and someone takes her arm, a friend of hers.

No one takes Chris’s arm. No one speaks. They just watch him from every corner of the room, and later someone’s going to write a fucking post about this somewhere, and he’ll be a laughingstock, and maybe someone will see the look in his eyes and guess - and know - and call the cops - and he’ll get Jake in trouble again-

“I’d bet every d-... dollar in my, my, my bank account that you have!”

“Christopher Stanton, you need to stop, right now, or I’m going to ask you to leave.” The grad student steps between them, and Chris’s eyes flicker to the older man’s. Suddenly he’s unsure, and he wants to sit down.

Sit still. Silence is better than stammering. Stillness is better than what I do. Sit down, be good, be good be good be good be a good boy be good a pet be good be good after all-

“I mean… they signed up for it, right?” A new voice, the girl holding Callie’s arm. “Pets? They get told what it’s all about before they sign up. Isn’t this kind of… babying them? I mean, they made the choice to be one.”

“Nothing happens to them that isn’t on their contract,” Callie says, smug with triumph, and the grad student doesn’t stop her. “Besides, they really loved me! It was like having a friend right from when I was born. They signed up for this!”

It hurts so much more when he hears it said outside his own skull.

“They didn’t like you.” Chris is spitting venom, suddenly, terrified of himself, of his own anger. He’s so good at not being angry, at not having feelings like this, at having good days and knowing how lucky he is to escape, but right now… “They, they, they didn’t like you, they were told to, to, to be nice to you! You, you just-...”

“I mean, they wipe their memories and shit,” Someone says. “That’s sci-fi horror movie shit, that is definitely fucked up. You can’t think you can wipe somebody’s memory and make them, like, memorize all those fucked up things pets say and then believe they just… like you, Callie.”

“They didn’t want those memories! They sign up on purpose, to give those memories up, because they don’t want them anymore! I mean, what do they lose, really?”

Chris hitches in a breath.

Everything.

I lost everything.

And I’ll never get all of it back.

“That’s why… why-why-why, why you’re not safe, why it wouldn’t be s-safe to, to, to to tell you if they weren’t h-happy,” Chris says, throwing the packet of papers with Henry’s face on the front into his backpack, alongside folders full of paperwork, his textbook, laptop, pens and pencils. “Because you’ll b-believe any, any, any any… any bullshit you’re told.”

Someone laughs, nervously.

“Or maybe one of us has actual experience with pets, and one of us wears the same five fucking t-shirts on rotation because he doesn’t own any others.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Callie.”

Chris stares at her, and it’s not fear that washes cold down his spine, but a blistering, awful, sick rage. “You, you, you-you-you don’t know shit about, about, about about… about m-me-”

Talking is harder, it’s like trying to push words through a wall with an opening the size of his thumb. The wall is built of all the noise and weight and rage and pain and sound all around him. He wants to rock, he wants to tap, he wants to get all the energy coiled inside of him out and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Be good be still be a statue boy that’s my good boy trainee keep still for me sweet boy you wanted this you were made for this you signed up for this you knew what would happen to you you wanted this you wanted this you wanted this you wanted it you want it you’ll always want it-

“I know you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Callie snaps. “And that’s all I need to know, isn’t it? Have you ever even met a pet, Chris?”

He wants to start laughing, at the question, and he’s afraid if he starts he won’t stop until it’s tears instead, and he won’t cry in front of her.

He won’t.

“F-for, for, for, for… for y-your, infor-... fuck, for your, your, your-your-... your-”

No, no no no. He is stalling out, stammering, trains derailed and disappearing into the horrible white light that still lived inside his head, he is stuttering silence is better than stammering you have to stop you have to stop you have to stop-

Callie’s lip curls in a cruel sneer and Chris knows exactly what she’s going to do - how she will hurt him - before she opens her mouth.

“I think you should stop trying to talk until you can stop being such a fucking sp-”

“That’s enough.”

Chris had forgotten the grad student was even still here. He jumps, stumbling into his chair as the man pushes forward and blocks Callie from Chris’s view. Chris’s legs catch in the metal legs of the chair and he falls backwards, slamming on his ass into the carpeted floor, barely catching himself.

The carpet burns under his hands.

Only one person laughs.

It’s Callie.

Chris’s face burns bright red, shame and humiliation sweeping over his skin, and he lost nearly all the words, all at once, drowned in the screaming noise inside his head. All he can remember is how to spit, “I fucking hate everyone like, like, like you! You fucking bitch!”

“Leave the room, Chris.” The grad student’s voice is sharp. “That’s over the line. You’re done in this class for now. I’ll email you later and we’ll schedule a meeting to talk about whether or not you should come back.”

Chris’s lungs stop working. He can barely mouth what?

“Hey, wait a second.” Eshiram pushes to his feet, jabbing a finger in the air as he points. “Callie’s the one who worked this up into a fight, Chris didn’t-”

“Cut it, Eshiram, I’m not interested. Chris. Get out of the room, take a deep breath, and cool down. We’ll talk this out later, okay? I won’t mark you absent for class, or mark down participation, or anything. Just… take a walk.”

Chris can’t remember how to speak. All he can do is nod, good boy, take your discipline, discipline is a humane and necessary part of-

He has to get out of here before he calls someone Sir.

“If he goes, I’m walking out, too,” Eshiram says, strong. He was taller and bigger than the grad student, who looked at him, weary, as Eshiram steps over and offers Chris his hand. Chris takes it, skin crawling, and pulls himself back to his feet. “It’s not his fault and I’m not going to sit here like it is.”

“Yeah, me too,” Guillotine-Kid says, pushing to his feet and grabbing his backpack. “I’m out, too. I’m not going to fall for that propaganda bullshit.”

“Me, three,” Says the girl who had very nearly called the human pet industry exactly what it is. “This is bullshit, Darian’s right. She works him up and gets him all mad, and then you kick him out when he fights back? This is exactly the fucking problem we’ve been talking about!”

“Don’t be fucking dramatic, Tali,” Callie says, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t be such a fucking nightmare asshole, Caledonia,” Tali shoots back.

“Okay. Okay, okay. Just… class dismissed for today. Look over your packets and we’ll meet next time and talk it out. I can see this isn’t going to get back on track. Chris, we’ll talk about you coming back to class when we meet, but until then… just… just work on the assignments.” The grad student sighs.

Chris yanks his hand away from Eshiram, and Callie’s triumphant little snort hits him in the back like a blow as he stomps out of the classroom and into the hall, the rest of the class streaming out behind him.

Eshiram calls out his name, but Chris doesn’t stop.

He should, he should stop, Jake and Nat always say it’s important to reward people for their work towards changing hearts and minds, and to appreciate the little things like people helping you stand up when you can’t stand for yourself, but he… he can’t stop.

If he stops, they’ll know what he is.

If he stops, they’ll tell someone.

If he stops, he’ll cry in front of them, and Chris has cried too often in his life. He just runs down the hallway, as fast as he can, taking turns and twists and stairways until he’s on a different floor, a different side of the building, and he’s totally, utterly lost in it.

He curls up in a tiny bathroom the size of a closet, lights off, door locked, presses himself into the corner in a room that smells like air freshener and bleach, and starts to rock, violently, forcing his head to smack into the wall with each forward motion, and again when he rocks back.

Again, again, again.

It quiets the screaming inside his head, but it can’t make the last hour not have happened.

Silence is better than stammering, stillness is better than what I do, I signed up for this, I signed up for this, I wanted this I wanted it I was made for it I deserved it we’re happy we’re supposed to be happy I’m broken because I wasn’t happy like this I signed up for it I have to be good to be good I am a good boy be still be silent be still be be be-

His phone starts buzzing an hour or so later, when he misses his lunch date with Laken. Over and over and over again.

He doesn’t pick up.

He wouldn’t be able to speak if he did.

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Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump, @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth

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astoriias · 5 years ago

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{ cisgender woman, she/her } ❝ Thank god women learned to whisper / though I crave a megaphone. ❞ huh, who’s CAITRIONA BALFE? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually ASTORIA MALFOY (NEÉ GREENGRASS). she is a 47 year old PUREBLOOD witch who is CHIEF WARLOCK OF THE WIZENGAMOT. she is known for being JUDGEMENTAL, DISHONEST, COLD, RIGID, and CALLOUS but also PRACTICAL, DRIVEN, INNOVATIVE, STEADFAST and DISCIPLINED, so that must be why she always reminds me of the song TOMORROW - MINER and BLACK LEATHER BRIEFCASES, THE CLICK OF HIGH HEELS ON TILE FLOORS, THE LINGERING TASTE OF FAIRY FLOSS, BURGUNDY NAIL POLISH, AND PEARL HAIR PINS. i hear she is aligned with NO ONE so be sure to keep an eye on her.

BIO

Cursed with a blood malediction that left her and her parents preoccupied with maintaining her health throughout early childhood, Astoria grew up without direction, without passion, and without much to do or think about other than staying alive. She did what she was told and completed what was asked of her by her parents: mostly swallowing thick potions that made her head spin and remaining in bed when all she wanted to do was tumble through the lush gardens of the Greengrass estate and scrape her knees like other children. As she grew older and defied Healers’ expectations — making it past 5, then 10, then 15 — Astoria grew weary of the half-life she’d been prescribed. At Hogwarts, she followed her sister Daphne into Slytherin because she didn’t know where else to go.

It took Astoria almost a year at Hogwarts before she would speak up in class or acknowledge anyone with more than a handful of words — and each time she did her heartbeat would quicken, her face would flush. If she was called on by a professor and — Merlin forbid — got the answer wrong, her eyes would fill with tears, her gaze would shift to the floor, and she wouldn’t be able to breathe. One day, outside her second-year Transfiguration class, an annoying boy named Colin saw her heavy breathing and told her about panic attacks — Astoria’s irrational fear of social situations and new people now made sense.

That same annoying boy became her close friend not long after. It was a month into study sessions by the Black Lake that Astoria Greengrass learned that her Colin, the boy who kept a camera slung around his neck at all times and was so nice to her, was Colin Creevey, yes, that Colin Creevey, who was petrified by a Basilisk a year prior for being MUGGLEBORN. Astoria found that didn’t bother her very much. Sure, she never advertised that they were friends and didn’t freely associate with Colin in public places, but he understood her position or in the very least, didn’t protest it. She even got him to join Herbology club — though she insisted that they enter and exit the greenhouse at different times and never spoke directly, his presence was a comforting balm.

Colin tried to get her to join up with the student resistance that was brewing in her third year — but Astoria knew she wasn’t the type to stir up such trouble. She couldn’t stand with the muggleborns and blood traitors no matter how right they were; she couldn’t risk losing her family. Unlike those in Dumbledore’s Army, Astoria didn’t see this conflict in terms of black and white, good vs. evil — there were plenty of others like her, struggling to find themselves in the midst of conflict, battling tradition and family expectations. She kept out of Umbridge’s way during that time. Kept out of her father’s way during that time — while he had no Dark Mark to speak of, his entrepreneurial hands passed cursed objects and ingredients for poisons to any Dark Lord-aligned wix who wanted them.

Through her friendship with Colin and her time in Herbology Club, Astoria learned she was a talented witch in her own right. Formed an identity outside of being the sick girl everyone doted on. Quietly realized that her muggleborn classmates — despite what her pureblood indoctrination taught her — were fully-fledged human beings. To someone who didn’t grow up feeling trapped in the (sometimes socially constructed) confines of a blood illness, perhaps her time in Herbology Club wouldn’t seem so transformative. But for Astoria, it was everything.

Nowadays, Astoria is still defying life expectancy estimations and is perhaps best known for her robust political career. She joined the Ministry as a pupil/intern in its Wizengamot Instruction in Magical Law Program (W.I.M.P.), and in the span of twenty-five years has climbed the ranks to barrister’s assistant, barrister, then Wizengamot member, and finally, the youngest Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot in the last hundred years. She is extremely opinionated about the runnings of the legislature and judiciary, and her past two years as Chief Warlock have been marked by her love for procedure, due process, and fairness -- essentially meaning trials are very thorough and very focused on making sure the Ministry doesn’t overstep its bounds.

BLOOD MALEDICTION

i’m truly on my bullshit and this needs its own section..........,,,,, i’m sorry

I originally started writing Astoria out of pure spite — it enraged and continues to enrage me that all we’re given about this woman is a few lines about her and an off-page (or off-stage, I guess, but Cursed Child is its own beast) death. It makes me mad that she is only defined by her role as a mother and wife to Scorpius and Draco, that she doesn’t get her own ambitions and a life of her own. The racist and sexist underpinnings of the blood malediction/Maledictus concept are par the course for JK but still, bad!

And while I can’t choose for Astoria to have this particular chronic illness and completely divorce it from those origins, I can at least eschew parts of it I don’t like and give a Astoria a rich and fulfilling life with a chronic/potentially terminal illness — not in spite of the blood curse, but because those of us with illnesses and disabilities are people with rich and fulfilling lives, wants, desires, and ambitions.

AN IMPORTANT NOTE: I try to be really careful about ableist language when I describe this blood malediction and its effects on Astoria’s life — I think that there is so much to explore regarding chronic illness and what, exactly, we constitute as ‘health’ — but I know that I can fall into the traps of my own internalized ableism. If there are terms or concepts here that make players uncomfortable and/or have harmful effects, let me know! I’m happy to make changes.

So anyway!

— origins of the blood malediction

I don’t have this fully worked out, but I think the Greengrass blood malediction stretches back a good ten generations to a very vindictive-in-her-righteous-cause-Muggleborn-witch cursing the family for their refusal to let her marry their son. It’s not limited to just the girls in the family, because I hate that, but it does affect at least one child per generation, so long as the family continues to marry exclusively purebloods — which they have continued to do, not knowing that their bigotry (though in some cases, real love!) is the reason for the curse’s spread. Astoria’s parents mistakenly believed that since the last few cases of the curse had cropped up in different branches of the Greengrass family — distant cousins living on the Continent — that their children would be spared.

— astoria’s symptoms and treatment

Since it’s a blood curse, I figure Astoria’s symptoms manifest as issues both with her blood and with her cardiovascular system at large. I’d compare it to haemophilia. Her blood itself is thin and cannot clot without healing spells and thickening potions, meaning that nosebleeds are frequent, bruising is easy, and bad cuts can be fatal. She’s at high risk for internal bleeding in her joints, and a big — though often unvoiced fear — of hers is a brain aneurysm that ruptures into a haemorrhage.

(miscarriage tw) These symptoms have waxed and waned her entire life, with particular incidents that have brought her close to death; an accident falling from the garden wall at five, a wayward spell hitting her across the face in second-year DADA, trying for a child. She doesn’t regret that last one — not at all — though it was five weeks after her miscarriage before she was able to stand unassisted, and her Healer’s face when she said “I strongly advise you to not have any more children” haunts her to this day. Scorpius’s birth, possible due to a wonderful surrogate, was alternatively the happiest day of her life. (end miscarriage tw)

Then there come the potions — a barrage of them, to be taken at specific times of day, with extras if she’s bleeding externally or feeling pain in particular areas — that come with side effects like exhaustion, headaches, and nausea. She visits St. Mungo’s once every three months to ensure that the potions are working as intended and has learned to accept her Healers chastising her for the times she skips parts of the regimen or pushes herself too far physically.

PERSONALITY

astoria!!! my love. clearly i have a lot of thoughts and Feelings about her lol,,,,,,,

there isn’t any world or timeline in which astoria would be rushing to join the death eaters -- lol, i’ve always envisioned her being extremely inquisitive and Critical of other people, their motivations, their methods -- this makes her extremely Good at Lawyering and Suspicious of Bullshit. i also have always thought that it was important for her to make a muggleborn friend or two just to really hammer the point home that pureblood nonsense is just that.

still, again, she’s not really motivated by niceness, she doesn’t have a bleeding-heart-sense-of-empathy, she’s kind of snarky and mean. her friends describe her as an acquired taste.

has a massive sweet tooth. her family is regularly concerned she does not eat enough vegetables.

adores her son. just, absolutely thinks he can do no wrong. she and draco agree that most parents think their child is the most perfect and amazing child in the world, but scorpius actually is the most perfect and amazing child in the world, so.

a note on astoria and draco: i think draco doesn’t treat her with pity or kid gloves, and has never underestimated her capacity to get shit done in light of her blood curse. and they have an honesty and rapport with each other that astoria hasn’t been able to cultivate with anyone else. they may not be very great people but they’re great partners and great parents. i luv them ok bye

STATS

GENERAL

name. astoria céline malfoy (née greengrass)

nickname. aster (reserved for use by her sister only!)

birthdate. 1 january 1982

place of birth. greengrass residence via midwifery

family. daphne greengrass (sister), draco malfoy (husband), scorpius malfoy (son)

residence. malfoy manor, wiltshire

occupation. chief warlock of the wizengamot

gender identity. woman

romantic orientation. biromantic

sexuality. bisexual

blood status. pureblood

relationship status. married

pets. a scottish terrier named hades

HOGWARTS / MAGIC

house. slytherin

extracurriculars/leadership. herbology club

allegiance. neutral/no one

n.e.w.t. grades charms (o), transfiguration (o), herbology (o), d.a.d.a (a), potions (a), arithmancy, astronomy (o), history of magic (a), ancient runes (e).

wand. willow, nine inches, unicorn hair core

boggart. tbd

patronus. also tbd! my brain hurts

magical strengths. nonverbal casting, herbology, transfiguration, ancient runes

magical weaknesses. flying, defensive spells, domestic spells

#potterintro #////this is so long #i regret nothing

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brightlotusmoon · 5 years ago

Text

"It is a truism that there are people, particularly on social media, with whom one simply cannot reason. Hell, some of them aren’t even actual people, but rather bots whose very existence makes every other interaction suspect. And so we could certainly take worse counsel than to avoid wasting our precious little energies on those who make it clear that they do not share our core values, particularly online, and particularly when the values in question are equality, inclusion, respect, and the most basic, fundamental rights of every human being on the planet.

But I worry. I worry that our wholly understandable refusal to engage with one another will ensure that the bifurcation of us as a people, both as a purposeful political strategy by those in power domestically and as a means for external forces to "sow societal chaos and discord*” becomes permanent. And I worry about what it will do to our ability to evolve, both as individuals and as a society.

I look back on my life and I remember a lot of moments that I’d prefer to forget, and that I hesitate to share. I remember when I was fresh out of college and just starting out in business and one of the senior-most guys on my desk, a man I admired greatly, would make fun of the support staff by saying, “We hire the handicapped; they’re fun to watch.” I remember that I laughed. Not because I thought that I had to to keep my job, not because I felt pressured to do so, but because I thought it was funny.

I remember when the girls were tiny and we bought Katie a doll house, and it came with a family of dolls. I remember that I hadn’t noticed that I’d bought the one with the Black family until I’d brought it home and decided it was a happy mistake. But I also remember that when a guest saw it one day, they laughed and said, “Oh, look, the house came with help,” I chuckled, rolled my eyes, and carried on.

I remember when I screwed something up and thought it was funny to mockingly say, “I”m special. I ride the little bus and wear hockey equipment every day.”

I remember raising inordinate amounts of money, making speeches, pleading for pity, all in the name of finding a “cure” for autism, with no idea that the vast majority of the people for whom I was supposedly fighting desperately needed help and support, but had no desire to fundamentally change who they were.

That was ME. The me that you know, the one who fights like hell for equality and dignity and respect, started out as a person who mocked disability and allowed racial jokes to stand unchallenged in her own home. Who effectively silenced her daughter’s autistic peers. And who desperately needed interaction with people who were light years ahead of me to get me to where I am now. And it scares me, on so many levels, to think of how different my behavior might be had I not had those interactions.

Now I want to be as clear as humanly possible that I don’t mean to imply that we owe our time and energy to anyone, particularly those who deny others’ lived experience or excuse brutality or withhold justice or actively fight against equality. And I want to be even clearer that it is absolutely, positively not the job of the oppressed and marginalized to educate their oppressors and marginalizers. A thousand times no, no, and, just for good measure, hell no. No one is entitled to your labor.

But I do want to take a pause to consider what happens when the vast majority of us, particularly those of us with relative privilege who claim to be allies in the fight, simply stop talking to anyone who isn’t already standing shoulder to shoulder with us. What happens to the folks who might just have taken up the mantle of advocacy had they been exposed to a wider variety of people and perspectives? What happens to the ones who are never challenged to examine their own role in perpetuating the systems that keep us separated in the first place? My behavior changed because I had the opportunity to interact with people outside of the bubble in which casual bigotry and degradation and punching down for a laugh were perfectly acceptable. But what if I hadn’t?

Years ago, I became facebook friends with a particularly radical disabled activist who had taken me to task here on diary a number of times. At the time, a close friend asked what the hell I was thinking bringing them into my inner circle. They said something I’ll never forget: “Aren’t you going to be, like, so uncomfortable knowing that they’re seeing all your personal posts? You’re going to have to watch *everything* you say from now on.”

It wasn’t until I’d heard the thought that had been rattling around in my own head out loud that I’d realized just how important it was to be made uncomfortable. How vital it was to be "aware of everything I was saying.” How desperately so many of us needed - and still need - to widen our circles to let in precisely those about whose lives and opinions and reactions we should deeply care.

We can’t take up every fight, particularly not on social media. But I do hope that at least in our brick and mortar lives, we will keep finding avenues to connect, to talk, to learn, and to grow. Because the absence of connection has proven to be fertile ground for nothing but fear, hate, and further division — and we’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.

* Full quote: "One of the ICA’s most important conclusions was that Russia’s aggressive interference efforts should be considered ‘the new normal.’ That warning has been borne out, as Russia and its imitators increasingly use information warfare to sow societal chaos and discord.” - Republican Senator Richard Burr of North Carolina, Chairman, Senate Intelligence Committee"

And now, me:

FYI, one of my mentors is the activist mentioned, Radical Neurodivergent K, who coined the term neurodivergence many years ago, who will indeed take you to task regardless of what your brain is. And it's only been since 2013 that I discovered I was autistic, but in that time I have experienced and listened to so many ways of thinking, I've put them all in a crucible, and I keep trying to explain that just because you know a thing it doesn't mean you have all the knowledge. You always have more to learn. Information changes, expands, updates, increases. It's really easy to be a hypocrite. You need to keep listening to yourself, and you can't just burst in to gatekeep no matter how you feel.

A good example might be: an "Aspie Supremacist" insisting I or other autistic fans can't make an autistic headcanon about a fictional character who displays autistic traits because, according to that gatekeeper, the character doesn't have all the "right" traits, meaning their own traits, because they still retain their Aspergers diagnosis. By itself this is deep internalized ableism, and now it's with the added insult of an outdated diagnosis connected to a eugenics program that makes me extremely uncomfortable. Because Aspergers Syndrome is autism full stop, and functioning labels don't work and are arbitrary. Nobody needs to be that haughty or condescending to another neurotribe member, especially when it comes to expressing very personalized imaginings. That's kind of what Headcanons are about.

Anyway.

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thechildoflightning · 6 years ago

Text

Satellite

Title: Satellite

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: Background CALM/LAMP

part of the jksf verse

Summary:

To put in simple terms- Logan and his sister don't talk.

To make it more complex- Well are you sure you want to open that can of worms? - Or: Logan and his sister have played the blame game for years. It's time to metaphorically clear the air. But doing so brings up a lot more than simple sibling rivalry.

Warnings: Unhealthy Family Dynamics, Internal and External Ableism, ABA Therapy and Practices

[ao3 link]

Satellite

It was approaching dark on the fourth of July when Logan decided to make his way outside. He and his sister had both been home for three weeks now, and neither had made an effort to really talk to each other. Not that the lack of communication was unusual, in fact it was quite normal for them. Now, nearing dusk, Logan was attempting to change that.

He opened the front door and slipped out, his headphones around his neck as an upcoming precaution against the fireworks he knew were bound to go off.

In the past few hours there had been minor bursts; mostly kids playing around with Bang Snaps and the like. Nothing large had been set quite yet, as it was still early evening and no one wished to waste the colorful bursts in a sky that was still light.

Veera, his sister, was sitting out on the deck, half-reading a book as she watched some of the children on the street race around in hyperactive excitement.

Logan carefully took a seat next to her, letting the sound of the neighborhood reach him. The kids were loud, but the space around them trapped their voices and made them seem far away. Parents muttered on decks and the faint smell of BBQ and potlucks was in the air.

Logan’s own parents were inside. When they were younger, his parents had done more to celebrate the holiday, most notably bringing them to the 4th of July parade and buying small fountain fireworks.

The holiday had always been Logan’s least favorite. The bustle of activity combined with the noise of the parade, fireworks, other activities already provided an overwhelming amount of sensory input. Add in the overwhelming smells emanating from grills, perfumes, and gunpowder, well it had always been quite a bit more that just “too much” for him. All of the excessive stimulation was truly agonizing.

As a child it had led to overwhelming meltdowns that had his parents dragging him inside by his arm telling him to behave and not ruin the holiday for everyone else. He wouldn’t even be able to respond, shutting down at the best and getting violent at worst. He would scream and shake but his parents would just yell at him and sometimes even cry, and well, it wasn’t a pleasant experience for anyone.

In result of this, he was more than happy his parents had stopped making such a big fuss out of the holiday. He definitely preferred it over the alternative.

It was during this inner reflection when the first of the fireworks went off with a loud bang and a flash of color.

Logan jumped and slammed his hands over his ears. The loud noise echoed inside his head and he gritted his teeth in a futile attempt to protect against it.

As quick as he could, he took his hands off his ears to grab the headphones around his neck. He placed the headphones over his ears to better block out the noise.

He could still hear the bangs, but they were not nearly as deafening and overstimulating as before. Logan started to rock back and forth gently as he stared up at the colorful explosions.

Veera turned to give him a look at the action, then rolled her eyes and stared back up at the sky.

Logan’s heart dropped and he stopped rocking.

The noise- which had seemed manageable just moments ago- started to build.

It was then he remembered an old conversation with Patton and Virgil. A conversation that led to research and explanations about stimming. Because that’s what the rocking was- it was a stim. And he shouldn’t have to be ashamed of that. He knew that. And even if he forgot, his boyfriends were quick to remind him over and over again, as many times as he needed.

He had momentarily forgotten that and started to feel ashamed of his stims. That’s why he had stopped rocking. Veera had given him that look and he had remembered everything he had been taught, everything he had been told to hate about himself.

He was ashamed, but he shouldn't have to be.

The noise from the fireworks continued to build.

Logan made his decision, and continued to rock.

The noise settles slightly, falling back into the manageable sensory range, and Veera didn’t spare him another look.

The two of them watched the flashing colors for what had to be hours before they started to dim. And just dim- not stop completely- even though it, again, had to have been hours. Not that he had been expecting any different, America could be quite extravagant when it came to such a holiday.

The noise had also reduced to a much more manageable level, so Logan slid his headphones off, even as he continued to rock.

Veera side-eyed him as Logan slipped his headphones off, and he decided that now was as good of time as any.

“We haven’t talked much this summer,” Logan commented.

Veera let out a soft scoffing noise before speaking up.

“Logan, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve never really talked that much,” she stated.

“We did as children,” he insisted, and then before she could reply to that he continued you on, “I know I’ve told you this before, but I’ve been dating someone over a year now. Patton. And he talks to his siblings all the time. And, a friend of mine, Roman, does the same.”

Logan felt a little guilty of calling Roman his friend instead of boyfriend, but he hadn’t had the chance to explain the concept of polyamory to his family, and now was not the time. He continued to rock.

“The both of them talk to their siblings quite fondly, and often. They do occasionally fight with their siblings, and get into quarrels, but they always come back to each other just as close. We don’t do that,” Logan continued.

“We don’t,” Veera agreed, shifting slightly to place her book off to the side from its position on her lap.

Logan took it as a sign that she was indeed listening to him.

“Why don’t we?” he asked.

She gave him another look, one that Logan was absolutely unable to decipher.

“You know why we don’t talk Logan,” she said.

Logan did not.

But even so, he scrambled for some sort of solution. He had no clue what she was referring to, but she obviously expected him to know- which meant he missed something vital in a previous interaction.

He rushed to locate exactly what he had missed, because he tended to miss a lot of things with other people and he couldn’t ask questions because he was supposed to know these things, was supposed to know how humans work because he was one and why couldn’t he just figure this out like he was supposed to?

He paused for a breath and took a figurative step back.

He missed something in a human interaction, something that he knew tended to be a result of his poor social skills, most probably stemming from being autistic. That’s all it was. He didn’t understand because that’s how his brain was programmed. It worked differently, and that was okay.

It was also okay to ask for help and guidance. If someone refused, that was their own fault.

“Veera,” he spoke up, “I- I actually don’t know why we don’t talk. I don’t have a clue why.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, “Logan, you’ve always been the center of our parents' attention. They devoted everything to you. And like I get it or whatever. Mom and Dad didn't expect to have a kid who has autism.

“But that then meant that everything was about you. ‘Oh Logan finally did this!’ ‘Logan looked me in the eye’ ‘Logan’s new therapy seems to be going really well.’ They always, always, have cared about you more. And again- I get it. But it meant nothing was ever about me. Everything was always Logan, Logan, Logan.”

Logan could only slowly rock in numb silence as her words crashed over him.

The first thing that seemed to come from that numbness was anger, because plain and simple- her assessment wasn’t fair. And that made him angry and hurt.

Here was Veera complaining about him taking away their parent’s attention when he had never asked for it. She also claimed that they cared for him more even after they put him through tortuous programs that forced him to behave as neurotypical as possible. Plus, they always talked about Veera. How many times had Logan heard ‘Why can’t you just be more like your sister’ growing up.

How many times had he been compared to Veera’s perfection?

She was always the achiever, and Logan’s parents loved her for it, and hated him for never meeting her standard.

“That’s not fair,” he protested as he ceased his rocking. He clenched his hands and his fingers dug in deeply into his palms. “That’s not fair,” he repeated.

“Life’s not fair Logan,” was Veera’s bitter response.

“No,” Logan insisted, “No, no, no,” and he was choking a bit on his words now. It was getting harder and harder to talk, to just get them out, but he had to, “Mom and Dad did spend a lot of time dealing with me. But it’s not fair to say that they cared about me more than you.

“All they did was try to make me easier to handle. That’s not care at all. I may have gotten more attention than you, but you’re assuming that the attention was positive, which it wasn’t.

“And even if I was cared for more or given more love, it’s still not fair for you to be mad at me about that. Because I didn’t do anything. I didn’t ask for any of that. Our parents chose to do that, but that was their decision. I had nothing to do with it.

“And it’s unfair that you say I was cared for more. Because I was always compared to you. I was always told that you were perfect and I knew that I would never meet that standard. Our parents knew it too. And that disappointed them,” Logan explained.

When he finished he took a deep breath to center himself. He felt tears start to poke at the corner of his eyes. Weird, he hadn’t realized he had gotten this emotional over the conversation.

“I mean, sure, but if you hadn’t been-” Veera cut herself off.

Logan closed his eyes harshly as he held back tears. He may not be the best at nonverbal language and cues, but he knew how to fill in this particular blank.

“If I hadn’t been autistic,” he said.

His hands gripped tighter in on themselves, and he had to fight the urge to sit on them or shove them into his pockets.

“I-” Veera floundered. She ducked her head, “Yeah,” she admitted quietly, “If you hadn’t been autistic. A lot of the things that are issues started around that.”

“They might of started around that,” Logan admitted, as the first tear fell from his eye, “But it’s not fair to say that’s what caused it.”

“Then what did?” she challenged.

“Maybe it wasn’t me being the autistic that was the problem, but our parents inability to support an autistic child.”

“That- I get what you’re saying Lo- but that’s not- they did everything for you.”

“No,” he whispered, “No they didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone taking on a startling biting edge.

“I-” Logan tried, “Have you ever looked up what autistic people have to say about ABA?”

“What? Logan what does this have to do with anything? “

“Look it up?”

She frowned at him but pulled out her phone. For a few minutes she typed and scrolled. Eventually, she turned back to him. Logan was surprised to find her cheeks were stained with tears. She reached up a hand to wipe a few away. Logan’s own tears continued to slowly drip from his lashes.

“Oh,” was all she offered.

“Yeah,” Logan said.

“Oh.”

“Do you remember when you bought me the book Seeing Stars by Sarah Gillingham for my sixth birthday?” Logan asked abruptly.

Veera let out a watery chuckle and sniffled.

“You remember that?” she asked him.

“Yes, of course,” he aid quickly, “It was- is my favorite book. I still have it.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. He hesitated, he looked up, briefly making eye contact with her before pulling his gaze a bit upward to look at her forehead.

“I want us to be like we were on that day. I opened the package and was so excited. And you hugged me tightly and laughed as I rambled about our solar system. After I was done, you pulled me on the back and opened the book to read the first page to me.

“I couldn’t sit still and kept jumping up and down, which must of hurt considering I was sitting on top of you. But you didn’t complain. You just laughed and smiled and read to me. I want us to be able to have that again.”

She hesitated. Logan saw her hesitate, and he knew it was now or never. He would convince her or not. This was it.

“I have a lot of resentment,” he admitted, “And a lot of that resentment used to be directed towards you. Because you could be really mean as a child. When I used to have meltdowns you used to scream at me, telling you you hated me and to shut up. And that hurt. But I get it, I understand now. And I forgive you.

“The truth is, the only resentment I hold now is towards our parents. Because they were the ones that were supposed to teach and guide us. Instead they pitted us against one another and were unable to handle us. They never scolded you because they didn’t know what to do.

“You were a child, and so was I. None of what we did had malicious intent. Both of us were hurting and we didn’t know what to do. Our parents failed us in that regard. But that wasn’t our responsibility. We were children.”

At the end of his mini speech, both him and Veera were crying heavily.

They two of them were silent cries. Silent cries because they had both learned to hide such a thing.

Logan hid it because he always cried about the wrong things. The texture of food wasn’t something he was supposed to cry about after all, he was just supposed to eat it dammit.

Vera hid it because she learned it was distracting. If she was crying it took away from Logan’s time, and Logan needed the extra help, you understand right sweetheart?

They were crying because at the age of adults they were still lost children.

“I think Mom and Dad are trying a bit more now,” Logan eventually got out as the tear tracks on his face refused to leave, “I haven’t talked to them for a while ago. And I- well I don’t think they’re ready for us to have a conversation about what autism really is and what ABA does and everything.

“But, I think they know something along the line got messed up between us. We both know something is missing. I- I think they’re trying to figure out what.

“And maybe- well maybe you should talk to them too. I- I don't think they meant to hurt us. I know that doesn’t excuse it by any means, but I think, I do think they care about us. I think they care enough to try for us. That, at the very least, is important to me.”

“God Logan Berry, when did you get so smart?” Veera asked.

“Well if we’re relating ‘smart’ in terms of brain development, the brain develops the most in the first two years of life and finally stops around age 25. If we’re talking about ‘smart’ as in over all knowledge, I actually know very little of all that is out there, and such knowledge would be hard to compare to other human beings. Plus we would then have to factor in the possible existence of aliens as well as the possibility that knowledge is infinite and therefore impossible to measure. Or we talking ‘smart’ in the way of in tune with others? Because I’m particularly bad about that too. Really, the word ‘smart’ has so many definitions and ultimately is subjective and therefore undefinable,” Logan rattled off.

She smiled a bit at him before releasing a quiet huff of laughter, but Logan didn’t think it was directed at him. She then looked back at the sky, which now seemed to be absolutely devoid of all fireworks.

“You said you wanted to talk more?” she asked.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Okay,” she said with a nod, “Let’s talk more.”

Thinks weren’t suddenly perfect between them, and perhaps they would never be, but they had started the process of reconnecting. That in itself was worth a chance.

The two of them spent another hour outdoors, just staring upwards. Logan pointed out the constellations that were visible in the polluted sky, and only decided to go back inside once their constant yawning was too much to ignore. They gathered themselves and headed inside, quietly say goodnight to the velvet blanket above them.

And somehow, the stars seemed to glow brighter than ever before.

~~~

taglist:

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#logan sanders #lamp/calm #ts sides #sanders sides #oc #autistic logan #autism #angst #hurt/comfort #family dynamics #my writing #ao3 #fanfiction #fan fiction #colupdate #colao3update #colfanficupdate #jksf #justkeepstumblingforward

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