The Pleasure's Mine || Avery

Thursday, July 13, 1922
Outdoor seating area
2:45 PM

Her mother would only be a few minutes.

It was just a little business at the bank.

She should enjoy a treat while she waited.

Kathryn would do no such thing. The little girl sat with the double-scoop sundae before her on the table. There was a banana on either side (she didn't like bananas), chocolate syrup on top (sacrilege), nuts and coloured sprinkles (she wasn't a child and refused to become fat), and a cherry on the very top as if to add the ultimate insult to injury.

It was a treat to be sure, one the shop owner had suggested when no amount of prompting could get either him or his assistant to coax any words out of her for an order.

Perhaps gently nudging her toward the ice cream shop without clear instructions on what she was meant to consume wasn't such a good idea after all. No doubt, her mother had only been trying to make the wait easier. Kathryn didn't care for the goblins inside Gringotts, and they didn't much care for the look of disdain she did little to hide whenever she'd been taken inside. It was in everyone's best interest that Kate ...be otherwise occupied, and the bank was within view, making it an obvious choice of place for her to wait.

Julia had nothing to worry about necessarily. Kathryn wasn't the adventurous sort and wouldn't go wandering off. She was sure her mother didn't waste any worry as she'd headed inside. On the contrary, while her ice cream melted in the afternoon sun, blue eyes remained locked on the bank and the little girl remained firmly planted in her seat. She waited with stoic patience for the woman to resurface, her gaze occasionally drifting to the crowds passing by.

There were a lot of eager children, ready to begin their Hogwarts journey.

She'd already been living in the castle for two years. Any magic it may have held was long gone. Kate hadn't seen every inch of it and knew nothing of the 'mysteries' some children back in the bookshop had been muttering about, but she knew those stone walls. She knew the elves. She knew the pitch, the lake, and the heads of houses. There was little left to the imagination, and she wasn't particularly curious to begin with.

There were a few who walked with their parents, looking around as if they'd never seen magic. Then there were those who boldly barrelled their way through the crowds.

She wrinkled her nose at a little boy who'd been running backward, polluting the street with his yells, before stumbling into a well-dressed gentleman.

Hooligan.

May his fate take him to Beauxbatons.

"I don't understand what any of this even means."

Avery walked alongside his befuddled mother, eyes wide and taking in every inch of the magical shopping alley they had found themselves in. It had been a whirlwind couple of months for the Hale family, since they'd learned Avery was something of a wizard - and who had known those even existed - and would be leaving the safety and sanctity of their home for the next seven years.

He was what they called a 'muggleborn'. A wizard born into a family without a history of magical abilities. There were other types, he'd learned. Halves and fulls - or they called themselves 'purebloods' which to the kid who came from farm stock sounded a lot like 'inbred'.

Still, what did he know and want to bother himself with all of that? He was just like the rest of these kids, running around and shouting with excitement. Had Cal or Leith been allowed to come, he was sure he'd be doing the same with them, but left with just his mother who continued to stare at the shopping list as though it was written in Latin, he was content to stay by her side and just observe.

Every window seemed to be enchanted. Every store had a special scent exuding from its doorway. The cobblestone road beneath his feet felt much richer than the dirt and gravel roads he knew well back home.

They already had his robes, his cauldron and phials. His mother was adamant that he did not need another pet, considering he had Chloe at home, alone with a menagerie of random animals he'd collected over the years. A dog that was no good for herding or anything other than getting into the feed. A few barn cats that wouldn't let anyone except Avery and Leith near them. A garden snake that she'd told the boys to get rid of multiple times but continued to show up in her flowers. A few chipmunks she'd found in their closet.

It was endless, she had said, and Avery tried to hide his disappointment when they passed the shop with owls in the window.

How often did a kid get his own owl?

Not counting the dozens passing by who had them on their pushcarts of course.

"Wait here, son. Apparently I have to stop into this...bank." His mother looked warily up at Gringotts, before shaking her head and nudging him toward a row of unoccupied tables. "What child needs their own account, honestly?"

Avery didn't argue, choosing to smile as his mum muttered her bewilderment and disappeared through the doors of the establishment. His mum was a practical sort, and while she was excited and supportive of this new twist in their lives, it hadn't escaped the boy the way she seemed to look at everything through a lens of distrust.

He sighed, turning back to the street, his eyes taking in everything he could, logging questions he'd throw at his professors once school started, when they settled on a small girl sitting by herself. Blonde, wide blue eyes, and an ice cream sundae that was starting to look like a milkshake.

Never a better time to make friends, he supposed. Maybe she was a muggleborn too.

"Hi!" he said brightly, walking up to the girl and smiling at her as he waved. "Can I sit with you? I'm Avery. I don't have any ice cream, but it looks like you don't really either anymore. Did you mean to not eat it? It's melting. My little brother Leith, he likes his ice cream melted."

The boy sat, taking her lack of refusal as an invitation. "Are you a first year too? Are you a muggleborn? Where's your mum? Mine went in that crazy looking building. She's so confused, poor thing. She means well but she's not a witch and doesn't understand any of this."

The girl hadn't said a word yet. He'd talked too much again. It happened sometimes when he got excited. "Sorry. My tongue gets away from me sometimes. What's your name?"

"Hi!"

Blink.

That was her mother's seat. What had been angled to ensure her mother would face her directly now had the little girl staring at a pair of blue irises attached to a boy whose mouth didn't close. Kathryn didn't know what was more concerning: the motor in his mouth or his utter disregard for the space of others. Keen as her mother was to have her make friends, Julia might well let him stay there when he didn't belong. There were only two chairs. There was no need to add a third.

And what gall to sit before waiting to find out if one could. What would've happened had she refused? If she'd told him that she preferred he continued along to wherever he was going to prevent the moral dilemma her mother would fall into upon her return?

Would she be able to make him move at this point? The boy – Avery. He seemed to think it important that she know his name – was already onto other things. Her ice cream. Kathryn's eyes automatically fell on the bowl before her and the frozen treat that was, in fact, beginning to sweat in the July heat. It still held its form, more or less, but the small puddle at the base of the glass was hard to miss. With enough time, it would all become a puddle of unhealthy sugar and fattening dairy. She didn't anticipate her mother being gone so long, leaving no reason for him to be sitting at all.

"Are you a first year too? Are you a muggleborn? Where's your mum? Mine went in that crazy-looking building. She's so confused, poor thing. She means well but she's not a witch and doesn't understand any of this."

...

....What?

Kathryn stared blankly at the b—Avery.

Gringotts was many things; crazy-looking was not among them. There were far more interesting shops along the alley. Had he never been here before? Was he muggleborn? What sort of mother got lost in a bank? It seemed it was her turn to have many questions.

"Sorry. My tongue gets away from me sometimes. What's your name?"

Which one was she meant to answer? Did he have a preference given how indiscriminately he powered through?

She reached a gloved hand onto the table, delicately nudging the sundae toward him. He'd mentioned the ice cream; likely, he had some interest in it. So long as he finished it before her mother returned, she saw no issue. Pondering on it, she didn't think she would mind even if Julia did find out, not when the alternative was having her mother think she'd finally succumbed to the ilk that was the frozen confectionery.

There was no need to get the woman's hopes up.

The ice cream was him now; he could do with some expanding. To provide further help, she slid over the untouched silver spoon.

Her hands returned to their resting position, clasped in her lap, while a book levitated itself from the bag she'd hung over the back of her chair. It was accompanied by a quill with a soft feather, salmon in colour with a golden tip.

Kathryn it simply scribbled.

Pause. Her name vanished into the page.

How long will you be here?

Uh....

Did she maybe not speak English? It was possible. Avery had been told that most everyone who went to Hogwarts were from England, Ireland, Scotland or Wales, but that every now and then they had an exchange student from somewhere else. Maybe she didn't know what 'hi' meant yet.

His eyes trailed down to the bowl of wet sugar that she, for some reason, pushed at him. They lingered on her gloved hand, the wheels in his head beginning to turn at the questions that were forming. Who wore gloves in the dead of summer, and for what reason? Was she a hypochondriac? Did she not want to leave fingerprints behind? Was she a criminal? Only criminals wore gloves when the weather didn't call for it.

Also very fancy people, he imagined, but he didn't know any of those well enough to come to an educated conclusion on the matter. A spoon was then pushed towards him and he found himself perplexed at the obvious silent offer.

Why...would she think he wanted her ice cream? And why would she think he'd take it? Sharing ice cream was gross. If there was anything Avery didn't want to share, it was dairy and he wasn't a big fan of ice cream anyway. Especially when it was a puddle.

Kathryn

Hmm? As Avery pushed the bowl and spoon back towards the girl, he watched with amazement as her name disappeared into the parchment as quickly as she had written it. "Wow..." he muttered, sitting back in his chair. This magic stuff really was something wasn't it?

How long will you be here?

The boy didn't focus on the written question she had posed, eager to get his own out quickly before he forgot them. Fireworks were igniting behind his blue eyes, his mouth turning upwards in an amazed grin.

"I've never seen anyone spell the name 'Kathryn' like that, except in really old books. Like Queen Kathryn Howard? She spelt her name like that, and then some others way back in the day too. Did you know they didn't have standardized spelling back in the Tudor times, so they just spelt names however they thought it should be? They weren't big on silent lettering, although...actually why are you writing your answers? Haven't you got a voice?"

Avery had never met anyone who had been born absent a voice box. He certainly hadn't been.

"Also you shouldn't share dairy, Kathryn. It's very unsanitary. I know because my family has a farm. Mostly sheep you know, but you can milk them just as well as you can milk cows and lemme tell you." He leaned forward, his eyebrows raising a bit, "The bacteria that lives in unpasteurized milk is excessive. This is probably pasteurized, so no worries there, but just think! If milk can hold that much bacteria and then turn into cheese, imagine what it can do when two mouths touch the same...well you get the idea."

A man walked by, huge. Tall. Enormous. One of the biggest men he'd ever seen. He turned in his seat, following the man with curiosity as he ducked under a doorway to enter what looked like some sort of pub. "Blimey," he said, turning back to his new friend. "What's the biggest man you've ever seen? He's definitely the biggest I have. My dad would love to have him work on our farm. Big fella like that? He could get twice the work done in the time it takes three. He's gotta be a giant that one."

He nudged the bowl a little more towards Kathryn, so she really got the idea he wasn't interested.

Back to his initial question about her voice.

"Anyway, do you not like the sound of your voice? You shouldn't let that stop you. There's a woman at my church, we call her Ingrid, she sings at the top of her lungs without a care for anyone's ears and trust me, it's bad. So if she's fine with her voice, surely yours can't be worse just talking. What kinda paper is that anyway where the words just disappear? Did you make that? Could I get some? I need to show it to my mum."

In case it wasn't on the list.

His 'wow' gave her pause.

"Wow" wasn't how anyone had spoken of her enchanted quill and notebook. On the contrary, in the past, it had been met with strange or sceptical looks. Sometimes, looks of pity followed, usually by older women who must surely have thought her some poor dear. It hadn't occurred to Kathryn, not at first, that her lack of inclination toward speech could be – and often was – seen as a clinical condition. Her silence was her wall against the world, her small comfort that kept her regulated. Over time, it became her peace. Seldom did she feel the need to share a world that had grown intricate within her with the outside world.

There was no need. When reactions were some mixture of ignorance, boredom, scepticism or mild acknowledgement, she could just as well do without them. Much like Kathryn didn't care for the funny-looking creatures in the bank, she didn't care to be pacified with "That's lovely, dear" or "Perhaps...we can find something else to do." If there was something else she preferred to do, she would already be doing it. The little girl certainly didn't care to be redirected or patted on the head, no matter how affectionately.

For that reason, she found most conversation tedious. Not many people knew what to do with a child like her. 'Unnerving' was a word that sometimes floated around, though she couldn't understand why.

With Avery, the reason was...starkly different.

Kathryn had no time to register the boy's lack of admonition or disdain for the quill she preferred not to show in public following her summer at Laura's. He didn't give her the chance. The awe he'd displayed was quickly replaced with curiosity and an incessant flapping of his lips.

"I've never seen anyone spell the name 'Kathryn' like that, except in really old books. Like Queen Kathryn Howard? She spelt her name like that, and then some others way back in the day too. Did you know they didn't have standardized spelling back in the Tudor times, so they just spelt names however they thought it should be? They weren't big on silent lettering."

...

Quite.

"Actually, why are you writing your answers? Haven't you got a voice?"

The question gave her visible pause. No one had ever asked Kathryn why she wrote. There were those who'd been frustrated, those who were resigned and those who were just happy she produced words in any form at all. There was her old therapist, who called it 'trauma'; another healer who termed it 'a manageable condition'.

None who'd asked why.

I have a voice. Most days she was still sure of that despite its lack of use.

But he was already onto talk of dairy and the unsanitary nature of sharing. Her brows pulled inward at the mention of 'both mouths'. It was an affront, one that needed correction lest he think her some uncivilised swine like the sort it sounded as if his father kept on some farm. When he inevitably went about his day, it would not be with the image of the girl as a reckless bacteria sharer who would've tolerated the idea of a bowl of communal DNA.

I haven't shared anything. You'd have been the only one to eat it.

What a chaotic boy. Kathryn could only sit and watch as he bounced onto the topic of the large man he didn't know better than to stare at and speak loudly about. It was rude. Did he know? How could he when he didn't know it was rude to invite oneself to someone else's table? Raised alongside the sheep, her Aunt Edith would say. She was inclined to believe the unspoken judgement. Kathryn never looked. She kept her blue gaze squarely on the boy, waiting for him to remember how to act right.

Of course, when that happened, he was back to the topic of her voice. All she could think was what an exhausting boy he happened to be. She was unused to interactions with her peers after years of shuffling, then isolation (intentional or otherwise). It was doubly so with little boys. This felt like a baptism by fire, an initiation she didn't ask to be a part of. Were they all this way?

A gloved hand reached out when he nudged the ice cream closer, moving it to the edge of the table where the mountain of sugar and dairy could continue its slow melt.

"What kinda paper is that anyway where the words just disappear? Did you make that? Could I get some? I need to show it to my mum."

While she ignored his unsolicited comments on her voice, she took a moment to consider the latter. It was another first. No one ever asked for her papers. Kathryn pondered the questions silently before reaching for her book. She set it flat on its spine, flipped to the very back, then made a straight, even crease near its binding. She pressed into the crease and then tore with careful precision.

One page.

Two pages.

A third.

Kathryn pulled them together, knocking them against the surface of the table to straighten them before offering them across the distance to him. It had never occurred to her to test whether they still worked unattached to the book, but she supposed Avery would find out for himself soon enough. The book lifted itself off the table again, floating by her as the quill poised itself for more.

If I ever see you again, you'll tell me whether it worked.

I have a voice.

Neat. So not a strange evolutionary quirk in the human genomes. "Why don't you use it?"

Avery used his, enough for most people, his dad often mused. He liked to talk and had the gift of gab, mostly because he was so interested in others and how they shaped his world. He liked understanding people and who they were, and enjoyed discovering the differences that made each person unique.

Without a voice to ask his questions, how would he ever learn? He certainly wondered about Kathryn and if perhaps she just wasn't as interested in learning as he was.

Everyone had their faults, he guessed.

"Do you not like the sound of your voice? Is that it? Well you haven't got anything to worry about with me. I haven't a care in the world what anyone sounds like. My nan? She does. She complains all the time that I talk to much and too loudly, but my dad says," he paused, puffing his chest out a little and taking on a faux deep voice, meant to mimic his father, "you can't give two rats arses about what a half-deaf curtain-twitching woman passes for conversation."

They loved Nan. She was just nosy and judgy, which wasn't unusual for an old farm wife like her. It was fun to listen to her go on after church on Sundays. "Have you got a nan?" Didn't everyone? Her mum or dad hadn't sprung from a log.

He thought she probably did have one, but also Kathryn wore gloves in summer and didn't speak, so.

All sorts of possibilities here.

I haven't shared anything. You'd have been the only one to eat it.

"Eat what?" he asked, his eyes casting back to the bowl of sweet soup. "That? I wasn't gonna eat it anyway. Why aren't you eating it? Was it too cold for your teeth? My teeth are sensitive, so that's why I ask. It's probably not cold now if you wanted to give it another whirl."

The boy glanced back towards the bank, wondering what sort of exasperation his mother had found for herself now. Should he have gone in with her, since he was technically the wizard in all this? Did that sort of thing matter here? If his mum was a muggle, did he still have to listen to her when it came to wizardy things?

The sound of tearing paper drew his attention back to the girl, and his smile widened, his demeanor taking on a much more cheerful and bright edge at the realization she was sharing! "Great! Thanks!" he said, folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket. He couldn't wait to experiment on it and possibly get more if his mum agreed. The hijinks he and his brothers could plan and get away with, simply because of the vanishing ink.

Remarkable, really.

If I ever see you again, you'll tell me whether it worked.

If he ever saw her again? Avery quirked his head a little, giving the girl a strange look. "If you ever...what...aren't you going to Hogwarts too?" Was the school so large he was unlikely to see her again for seven years? How was he meant to make and keep friends?

Also, he wasn't leaving yet. His mum hadn't come back yet, and neither had Kathryn's.

"Why do you wear those gloves?" he asked, deciding if he had to sit here and wait, he might as well ask all the questions he'd thought up while he was jabbering. "Do you have really weird scars on your hands or something? It's bleedin' hot out here to wear them otherwise."

And if she did have scars on her hands, that would just open the doorway to even more questions.

For the second time that afternoon, Kathryn was met with the grating reality of how...exhausting this Avery boy was. He existed on the opposite end of the social spectrum she'd been exposed to in the last few years. There had been many little girls, including a cousin of hers she'd been introduced to following the incident at Laura's. Many of the girls were chatty and giggly; they made stories and petted dolls. None of them talked like this. No, Avery was in a category all his own, outpacing any single child she'd ever met with his questions alone. That was before even getting into what she realised was his penchant for breaking off into smaller tangents she couldn't remember asking him about.

It would've been one thing if all he did was talk unendingly. That was manageable, easily ignored, if not annoying. He took it a step further with intrusive questions she'd never had to sit with.

Did she dislike her voice? Kathryn didn't think so. It was a voice, same as anyone else's. It was neither good nor bad, neither valuable nor useless. It simply was. The little girl held no inclination toward sharing hers. In the beginning, after everything, it had seemed such a terrifying thing. Then it became unnecessary.

Crying hadn't helped. Asking, begging, negotiating? Those only ever led to pain or, worse, nothing. Nothingness became her constant companion after Benny had left. It stopped mattering what she said. With time, Kathryn had stopped seeing the purpose for her voice. That was when it became its own comfort. In a constantly shifting world where she'd lost control of everything else, her voice became the one thing she could hold onto, the only thing she could withhold. It was her power. It was her solace. The little girl became unaccustomed to sharing her thoughts, her words—with sharing her voice—and found she rather liked it that way.

None of this was the sort of thing she had the words for, however, so when the quill rose again, it shared a different message.

You ask too many questions.

The quill paused a moment as her gaze washed over him, pondering whether the next line was worth scribbling.

It was better to warn him.

Uncle James says unfortunate things happen to those who ask too many questions.

He hadn't been talking to her when he'd said it, but to her mother and Mr. Maddox after they'd come back from Laura's home on 'that' day. She hadn't been sure of the meaning until they attended the man's funeral only a week later. Was there anything more unfortunate than a closed casket and a mangled body? Had Mr. Cavendish been asking questions? None she'd heard of. That couldn't have been the misfortunate her uncle spoke about. She supposed, if Avery kept it up, all she had to do was standby and watch. Eventually something would find him, and she would have a new point of reference.

Undeterred, the boy reeled out a second wave of questions, this time about the ice cream neither wanted. Did it matter when neither had plans of consuming it? To him, it seemed to.

Why was he so obsessed with something he wouldn't eat?

I won't fit my leotard. Wasn't that reason enough?

"If you ever...what...aren't you going to Hogwarts too?"

What an odd question. Kathryn wasn't aware that sharing a building meant any obligation for interaction or sightings. She stayed with her mother in her private quarters. In her experience, that put the girl in contact with very few within the castle and left many that she was sure she'd never seen. Being within the castle meant little for the girl who already had her sanctuary.

She supposed she should've been used to the dramatic shift in the conversation, but her brain struggled to find the link between school and her gloves.

Like many other things, Kathryn had never stopped to think about it. Her second mother had introduced her to them, insisting they were necessary for decorum and sophistication. They were her image; they helped with her poise. Somewhere in there, Kathryn learned they shielded her from the world and the many unpleasant sensations therein.

The temperature is perfectly acceptable.

Kathryn was...interesting.

He'd never met a willing mute - or any sort of mute - for that matter, and he just couldn't seem to wrap his head around the idea that anyone wouldn't want to communicate verbally if they had the ability.

It made him wonder - was she maybe not allowed to talk? Some people had strange parents, and he could only imagine how much stranger they were with magical abilities. He studied her thoughtfully, his fingers drumming slightly on the table as he let his little mind crank out thought after thought, question after question, wanting to peek into the deepest parts of this girl who didn't like ice cream and wore gloves in the summer and talked with vanishing ink.

This magical world was a wild one, for sure.

Cal would be as excited as he was to discover how strange all of this - and the girl - was.

Were all wizardy kids weird in some way?

He couldn't wait to find out and study all of them.

You ask too many questions.

It wasn't the first time he'd been told, but how would he learn if he didn't ask? He'd had a teacher once that had been so fed up with his questions and jabbering that she'd placed a piece of tape over his mouth and sat him in a corner as a punishment.

It hadn't worked. He just talked through the tape, muffled as it was.

"And you hardly answer any."

Uncle James says unfortunate things happen to those who ask too many questions.

...Unfortunate? "Like what?" he asked, his eyes widening slightly, and he sat back in his seat, suddenly feeling slightly wary of this girl who'd decided to...threaten him? Was it a threat? Was her family in the Irish Mob? He'd heard of them sorts! They used words like "unfortunate things" when they described offing someone in a potato field.

Or so he'd heard. His family liked to gossip a bit.

He leaned in again. He needed to know for sure. "Is your family some crazy mafia-like thing?" he asked, "Do wizards do that? Do they zap people with their wands and then 'take care of them'?" He demonstrated with his hand in a little flourish. "My neighbor, Mister Crawley, he says he knew a bloke up in Dublin for some time. Strange fellow. Into lots of weird stuff. Anyway, he hung around with the mafia types for years and then one day he came home without an eye." He nodded, his expression serious as he watched Kathryn.

"N-not saying you'll take out an eye. Right? That's not what the gloves are for right?"

The quill was moving again as she'd seemed to select another one of his questions to answer.

I won't fit my leotard.

"What's a leotard?" he asked. He'd never heard of such a thing. Apparently it was something she wore and she was afraid she wouldn't fit in it if she had a bowl of ice cream. Did she'd think she'd bloat like a bird that got into rice or something? "Did you know birds' stomachs expand and then explode if they eat raw rice?" It was true. His mum had told him about it.

"If the temperature is acceptable," Avery thought aloud, not out of malice, but out of logic, "shouldn't you take off the gloves?"

It was starting to weird him out.

"And you hardly answer any."

Well.

She didn't.

Avery wasn't wrong in his assessment. Kathryn reserved her responses for when she deemed them necessary. More often than not, they were not. It hadn't taken her long to understand that most people didn't want answers to their questions. For some, a question was a spaceholder or a social buffer within a conversation before they continued on with whatever they were saying. Occasionally, it was a superfluous display of 'interest' or 'compassion' as they feigned genuine inquiry. Ultimately, most of the world was able to continue on without an answer, and if that were the case, how necessary could they be?

It was just as easy to let the moment pass in silence and have the person come to their own conclusion on the matter. Answer. No answer. Did it ever matter?

Her mother thought so. While sometimes Julia was fine to smile and tell her 'that's alright' before providing her own suggestions, there were times when the entire scene stopped. Sometimes her mother bore those honey-brown eyes into the little girl with expectation, and in those moments, Kathryn could understand that she was waiting to be answered.

Avery was proving to be another exception. His method of execution? Brute force. The boy asked so many questions that eventually Kathryn felt compelled to answer something – if only to prevent him from asking a million more. Of course, then he just found another set of questions. There seemed no winning.

I've answered more than enough. Nothing satisfies you.

Which sounded a great deal like a problem on his end rather than hers.

"Like what?"

Another odd question.

How should I know? I never ask questions.

Kathryn had become a rather incurious child when it came to many things outside of her relatively narrow interests.

"Is your family some crazy mafia-like thing?"

Oh no.

"Do wizards do that? Do they zap people with their wands and then 'take care of them'? My neighbor, Mister Crawley, he says he knew a bloke up in Dublin for some time. Strange fellow."

Oh dear sweet Merlin, no. He found something else.

"Into lots of weird stuff. Anyway, he hung around with the mafia types for years, and then one day he came home without an eye. N-not saying you'll take out an eye. Right? That's not what the gloves are for right?"

Blink.

Blink.

That's disgusting. The quill paused a moment, hovering with her contemplation. What did he do with the eye? Did it still work after?

Was she surprised he didn't know what a leotard was? In a word, no. While this Avery seemed to know a great many useless and inconsequential or otherwise questionable things, arabesques and pirouettes were unlikely to be among them. It may have been worth explaining, for the sake of ballet being one of her true joys – pearls cast to swine, as the situation was currently proving to be – but the insufferable boy was already onto tales of exploding stomachs and birds.

Sigh.

Nevermind then.

A real explosion or just a bit of extra bloating? Is the body in tact after?

"If the temperature is acceptable, shouldn't you take off the gloves?"

She straightened her back, growing weary of his chronic interruptions of even himself for the sake of further nosiness.

They're not for temperature. Tell me about the birds.

I've answered more than enough. Nothing satisfies you.

"That's rude," Avery said matter-of-factly, his expression taking on the slight offense he felt. It didn't occur to the boy that inundating a complete stranger with personal questions could also be perceived as rude. It wasn't that his parents hadn't taught him better - it was that he was so full of inquiries, he felt he needed to get them out quick before he forgot them - and sometimes forgot himself instead. "Plenty satisfies me. Until more questions come up."

Naturally.

How should I know? I never ask questions.

"Why?" he asked, "Don't you want to know things? Or do you just not...care?" He squinted his eyes a bit at her and leaned forward again, crossing his arms on the table. "My dad's like that, you know? He never asks too many questions, and it's maddening. Something happens to him," he indicated at one point on the table with his hand, "I want to know what..." another spot on the table, "...and he doesn't think the details are important!" He sighed, dropping his chin on his hands. "I'll never understand it."

He wouldn't. Who didn't want to know all the sordid details of the corner store owner's love life? Avery, eleven-year-old gossip-monger extraordinaire certainly did. It would help him understand why the woman was such a grouch all the time.

She never answered any questions either.

But...it seemed he had said something that had finally caught the girl's attention. She posed a question back, and his face lit up like it was Christmas morning. Great. Now they could actually have a conversation!

"It is disgusting," he agreed with a simple nod. "Mister Crawley said the bloke wasn't keen on just chucking the eye in the garbage. Been with him all his life, you see? So he got some sort of solution - probably formaldehyde or some other preservative - and he plucked the eye, nerve endings and all into a jar full of it. So now," he grinned widely, "he can always look himself in the eye."

He giggled. It was his favorite part of Mister Crawley's story.

She didn't answer what a leotard was. No worries. He'd find out eventually when she probably wore one around the school. Then he'd understand why she hated ice cream so much.

They're not for temperature. Tell me about the birds.

Then...what were they for? He'd asked a total of probably three times now and she kept avoiding telling him which made him even more curious - and a little afraid - of what she wore them for.

"SO," he said, straightening his own back and tilting his head a little, "I've never seen it happen, exactly, but I was told that their stomachs explode so profoundly that their little bodies separate into a gloopy mess. However," he held up a hand as though to weigh his own thoughts, "My theory is that their stomachs simply bloat to an unsustainable level causing severe gastric distress, and then they just keel over." He pursed his lips and gave a shrug.

"I kinda want to experiment and see for myself, but I don't like to test on animals. So, the mystery remains."

He sighed with resignation.

Avery's eyes returned to the gloves.

"So about those gloves..."

"That's rude."

In a manner uncharacteristic of the porcelain child with her unmoving veneer, Kathryn Elisa Barlowe's nose wrinkled in full display of her disdain for the boy's assessment. Rude. Her. For pointing out his inability to stop bombarding her with questions? Avery had the gall and utter audacity to place such a label on her. Rude.

Rude.

So are your incessant questions.

In case he didn't realise that on his own. He didn't, Kathryn decided. Like the myriad of other things she was certain he didn't know, the little girl decided within herself that his likely poor upbringing had never provided him with the etiquette to know that this nonsense was not tolerated in most circles. Had no one ever told him? Had no one ever more assertively made the point for him? She wouldn't. Such crude methods weren't for the girl with the delicate touch and mild manner.

It didn't mean she didn't think he couldn't benefit from it at the hands of someone else.

"Plenty satisfies me. Until more questions come up."

That's what insatiable means.

And there he went, asking more questions again, as if eager to prove her point for her. It had never occurred to Kathryn to ask why or what happened to people who asked too many questions or why she herself wasn't inclined to question many things. The girl who often sequestered herself in her own world had no issues taking things at face value and moving on. It sounded like his father understood the simple principle as well, leaving her to wonder how he'd come out so differently. Then again, she supposed it only made sense. She and Benny were nothing like their parents. Admittedly, there were an increasing number of days where she remembered less and less of them, but what remained of her sharp memories supported her point.

"- and he plucked the eye, nerve endings and all into a jar full of it. So now."

Avery giggled.

Kathryn waited in silence for him to be through with his self-inflicted amusement. The joke, if he meant it to be, fell horribly flat under the logic that once plucked, an eye could no longer see. How could one look oneself in the eye under such conditions?

There was, however, a more pressing concern. All the things in the world, and the man chose to stick it in a jar forever.

How unimaginative.

The things she could do with a plucked eye – the things she would ask her mother to teach her. Already ideas were forming inside her head, wheels turning behind impassive blue eyes that gave nothing away.

There was, however, a more pressing concern. All the things in the world and the man chose to stick it in a jar forever.

Would he let you have it if you asked?

After all, she'd just given him magical paper. It was only a fair trade.

"I kinda want to experiment and see for myself, but I don't like to test on animals. So, the mystery remains."

Her head craned slowly into a tilt.

Would you experiment on a person. Stomachs, she thought, were stomachs no matter what body they sat in. Inferences could be drawn and that was often enough to satisfy h-

"So about those gloves..."

Kathryn scowled deeply, moving her hands beneath the table so they folded in her lap instead. Out of sight, out of mind would have to be the order of the day with this one. The little girl looked him up and down, unable to understand his fascination with such a mundane part of her world. Her hands were always gloved, her showers and sleep being the only exceptions. They kept the rest of the world out, curating her experience and removing much of the fuss about dust and dirt and grime and other things that could make a little girl dirty.

Never...never did she want to become the small girl with filth smudges and matted hair again. Every inch of her would be pristine at all times, and she would remove herself where possible from such a dirty world.

Nothing for him to worry about.

So are your incessant questions.

The boy perked an eyebrow up at the silent girl who wanted to call him rude for trying to make friends and get to know her while she sat there looking stoic and stern. For a moment, Avery wondered - was it possible for old lady wizards to look like kids? Was Kathryn really someone's strict Nan, disguised as a little girl to catch misbehaving children? To sniff out their secrets? It'd be the best sort of ruse, and all at once the boy was even more intrigued.

He made the executive decision that he wouldn't ask yet. He'd wait until school started to get a real read on her and then expose her for the imposter she probably was.

Instead, the boy merely narrowed his eyes at her with curiosity.

"And I know what 'insatiable' means. I read the dictionary when I have nothing better to do." Which wasn't often. There were always things that needed to be done on the farm, and his father didn't really suffer idle hands. Perhaps it was a bit strange for an eleven-year-old kid to sit and read something so monotonous, but he knew a girl at his old school who read the Encyclopedias for fun, so at least he wasn't that sort of nerdy.

How unimaginative. Would he let you have it if you asked?

Avery shook his head with regret. "No," he said with a light shrug, "I don't actually know the bloke who had his eye plucked. I just know the man who knows him. But all things considered, since he preserved it, I doubt he'd be willing to part with it. People usually like their eyes, you know?" It only made sense to him. Would he have done something different with his eye had the mafia forcibly removed it from its socket? Maybe if he knew there were other things he could do with it, but until a month or so ago, Avery had had no idea magic was a thing.

Preserving had seemed the best option. Consider his interest peaked, however. "Why? Do you think there's other things we could do with a disembodied eye?" He glanced back down the alley. Were there shops around here that had such items? He'd seen a lot of strange stuff in the shop windows. Human eyeballs didn't seem that far-fetched an available product all things considered.

His eyes followed her quill, his lips tightening in thought as a more contemplative expression took over. Would he experiment on a human? The boy had never really thought about it, but he was a scientific sort and there were things he needed a live specimen for. Currently, he had about four different theories he wanted to test out based on random questions in his head, but his proclivities for letting animals be had kept him from diving in.

He could have tried a couple of them on Leith, but he was a crybaby and probably would have snitched on him to their mum. Avery was certain his little brother would have been fine, but he knew his mum wouldn't have seen it the same way.

Especially if Leith's fingertips had turned black and fell off.

It was the problem with experiments. Even the best hypothesis were subject to be proven incorrect.

"I think I would," he said finally, following her gloved hands as they disappeared beneath the table. Seemed it wasn't a question she would answer. Like ten others she had ignored.

It hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Do you have a subject in mind?"

He knew what 'insatiable' meant but couldn't understand why it described him to a tee. It was like the...irony her mother explained to her during a reading of one of their books. It hadn't been a difficult concept for the girl to grasp, not with how her mother had explained it. Even so, Kathryn thought such things only happened within bound pages. To find a living example, well, she wasn't quite sure she would call it a 'treat'. Such labels were reserved for...she supposed she'd never really been one for treats.

Hm.

Kathryn's mind wandered for a moment, breezing at first past his admission of reading the dictionary. She knew what a treat was, in principle, and could name the things that others her age typically considered as such.

Did she have treats?

Is that your treat? The dictionary?

He said he read it when he didn't have anything better to do. Kathryn loathed idle moments, never quite knowing how to fill them. But, for others, breaks were the treat. The things she filled her schedule with made her warm and left her feeling like she was floating, but they weren't free moments and couldn't qualify. As well, Kathryn didn't suppose she could distinguish between glee and overheating from practising her ballet too long in a poorly ventilated room.

"I don't actually know the bloke who had his eye plucked. I just know the man who knows him. But all things considered, since he preserved it, I doubt he'd be willing to part with it. People usually like their eyes, you know?"

A pity.

It was unfortunate, but Avery was right. Many people, even when they no longer needed parts of themselves, were quite fond of keeping them. She didn't know whether she would be the same, having never lost anything herself.

"Why? Do you think there's other things we could do with a disembodied eye?"

Of course, the quill scrawled lazily. There's always plenty you can do with an eye. Why not attach it to a doll? My mother says blood is a powerful binding. Even a drop remaining might be enough to have your soul dragged to hell if you don't know what you're doing.

Why shouldn't it be put to more practical use.

Instead, the man had stuffed it into a jar and had likely degraded much of the useable material. A real shame.

"I think I would."

Interesting. Not a lost cause after all. Kathryn sized up the boy who asked too many questions. If he could be taught to speak less and question fewer inconsequential things, she might not have to walk the other way every time she ran into him within the castle. The jury was still out on the matter. Kathryn couldn't think of many pauses Avery had taken during this...conversation. It was a wonder he hadn't run out of air.

"Do you have a subject in mind?"

None that are living.

Was...the dictionary...his treat?

Avery's eyes followed along the lettering, comprehending what the words meant, but not so much the context. Why would a dictionary be his treat? A dictionary was a dictionary. Meant to provide definitions and a way to pass the time when he was ridiculously bored. It wasn't some coveted book that his parents only let him have access to once in a blue moon when he'd done well at something.

"I don't know what you mean," he said earnestly, giving a little shrug. "Everyone can read the dictionary whenever they want. It wouldn't be much of a treat." A treat for him would be something like a day in town with his dad and brothers, helping to load up and haul chicken feed with the promise of a trip to the sweets shop. What a sad life he'd lead if the most he had to look forward to was finding out the definition of 'pandiculation'.

"What's your treat?" He was almost afraid to ask. With some of the answers she was providing, Avery was finding himself more and more wary of the gloved girl who avoided questions about the mafia and dove into those about unattached eyeballs.

There's always plenty you can do with an eye. Why not attach it to a doll? My mother says blood is a powerful binding. Even a drop remaining might be enough to have your soul dragged to hell if you don't know what you're doing.

Like that.

Avery blinked. For the first time since he'd sat down, the boy was speechless and at a loss for words. He stared at the girl, feeling a strange chill run up his spine. Blood...binding? Souls dragged to...Hell?!

Avery went to church with his family. This was all starting to sound like some scary witch-of-the-wilds folklore the people in his hometown talked about. A crazy woman who lived in the hilly forests and cursed and hexed the poor innocent villagers.

Was that...what he was?! Was he something to be feared now and have to isolate himself in the dark boggy forests, playing with animal bones and talking to himself for company?

No, no absolutely not. Some of these wizardy people seemed normal or normal-ish. It had to be Kathryn and her blood-binding mum. Something wasn't right here. "Umm," he stuttered, looking back over his shoulder towards Gringotts, where thankfully his mother was emerging. She looked even more bewildered than she had entering the place, stopping momentarily to turn and look back at the building as though it might offer up some of the answers she wanted.

Avery turned back to Kathryn, ready to offer a friendly-ish goodbye and a polite indication he'd see her at school, when her quill dropped. A final parting sentence.

One that made his blood run cold.

None that are living.

None...that were...living?! So...unliving. She had unliving subjects. Which meant...dead. Dead subjects. Bodies. PEOPLE. She was...her family was...

Avery swallowed hard and stood up slowly from the table. No sudden movements. No impolite bolting. If he didn't want to turn himself into her next target - her next victim - he needed to act as normal as possible. He couldn't let her know he was onto her.

"So that's my mum," he said uneasily, forcing an awkward smile onto his lips as he indicated over his shoulder. "I-I should get going. It was um...interesting to meet you, Kathryn."

Another glance at the gloves, culprits in the crimes the little innocent-looking blonde committed. Well, he wouldn't be next, that was for sure. Avery didn't offer anything else. Not a goodbye, not a parting question, not a 'best of luck in your next homicide'.

The boy turned, and walked swiftly, stiffly to his mother, a robotic smile gracing his features as he led the confused woman away from the mini witch-of-the-wilds.