now change [mavis]

Life was like a tightrope -- or, at least, Michael’s was. Not much in his life wasn’t in a precarious near-imbalance. His sleep schedule and his work schedule, his social life and his personality, his friends and his girlfriend, &c. It was a similar struggle trying to do anything that made his mother and his sister and his other sister happy. Everybody had their own schedules and interests and motherly hangups (well, he supposed only his mother had motherly hangups, but they needed to be accounted for approximately threefold everybody else’s opinions.)

There had been effort made to make this a day that worked for all four involved parties, and Esther had scotched it all at the last minute by wanting to hang out with her friends instead, which left Michael in the unenviable position of having an obsolete itinerary and feeling mildly guilty, like he and Mavis weren’t allowed to have fun without her.

To compensate, he had binned the itinerary and stolidly insisted on doing first what their mother thought they were doing, and looking at school supplies. Michael loved school supplies -- if he hadn’t had the option of filching them from the Ministry he’d have “misc. office supplies” on his annual budget.

“This is fun,” he said, inspecting a pencil pouch with teeth. “Look, it -- ow.” He set it hastily back down next to a glass paperweight with three miniature erumpents, galumphing clumsily in a circle.

He picked up a thick scroll of parchment -- “Look, it’s got disappearing rules,” he said (how many hours had he wasted, as a student, going down a length of parchment with a pencil and a ruler?) -- “That’s handy.” It was also expensive -- he set it gingerly back on the shelf.

It was possibly time to surrender. Michael blew out his breath -- “Okay,” he declared, “We’ve looked at the school supplies, wanna just tell Mum nothing was on sale?”

@Mavis Nandamuri

"Shopping" wasn't exactly the first thing she thought of coupled with "Spending time with Michael," but Mavis wasn't about to complain. The teenage witch was endlessly in need of new things, not because she needed them exactly, but because she wanted them, and shopping with Michael sounded far easier than convincing her mother of this. Anytime Mavis went to the store with Sandra, the two inevitably began to argue. Maybe it was just one of those things mothers and daughters did, maybe it was because Mavis always had to be right. Something she undoubtedly learned from her mother. It was an endless rabbit hole. Spending time with her brother was at least less of a hassle, but not any less complex. Especially when their sister Esther decided to change the plan at the very last minute and send the whole afternoon into a tailspin.

Grumpy at the change of plan, but recovering quickly, Mavis had joined Michael in Diagon and immediately set out to find the cutest quill. Did she need parchment? Yes. Ink? Of course, but none of that mattered until she could find the feather she had to have. Mavis had seen another witch with it earlier in the excursion, and now she was dead set on having it. It was big and flowy, and she was pretty sure it sparkled when the writer was feeling inspired. It had a crimson calamus, and the barb faded from a deep purple into rich gold. She needed to have this quill, and if she didn't find it soon, there would be hell to pay. "So fun," she absently repeated her brother as she moved down the aisle to where the tubes filled with various brands and types of quills. She passed the quick-quills, the ones with spell-checking charms, and toward the fancier ones as she saw the pouch bite Michael out of the corner of her eye.

Stopping her search for a second, she put her hands on her hips and cast a sassy smile at him, laughing a little and shaking her head. Like Michael, Mavis spent entirely too much time making sure her essays' margins were perfectly straight. She could not abide by crooked classwork. The idea of a self-ruling bit of parchment did interest her, but she would not be distracted from her current hunt. "Well hold on," She answered his question as she tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. It fell past her shoulders now, long and smooth, and her mother hated it (which only made her like it more). "I want that quill," She gave him a nod, determination in her eyes, and hoped he had been paying attention when she spent an entire five minutes talking about it when they'd first gotten inside the shop.

It was a little crowded because of the back to school 'sales,' but Mavis didn't mind. She bumped into an older witch and excused herself as she motioned for Michael to follow her to the other side of the aisle. There were more quills there, and they had the more extravagant feathers from the looks of it. "Shame Esther bailed on us," Mavis said softly as she started to look over the row of quills in front of her, sisterly sarcasm dripping from her words, "You know how she loves a bargain." The older Nandamuri sister was by far better at saving money and being frugal. Mavis could (and surely would) blow her entire summer savings on one quill that she'd probably break or lose interest in after the new term's first week.

"Ah-ha!" She said as she found it, darting to grab it quickly and pulling it from the holder. It sparkled a little as she waved the feather toward Michael with a proud smile. She hadn't even bothered to look at the price, "How neat is this?" She asked him, expecting him to be as enthralled as she was with the glittery thing, naturally.

I want that quill. There was only one quill this could have referred to -- the handsome one about which Mavis had spun such poetry when she’d seen somebody else buying it -- so Michael resigned himself to a dedicated search for this bleeding quill and followed Mavis out of the exciting, boundlessly interesting office supplies aisle into the feather one.

His sister set off determinedly toward the fanciest quills, in the back, and Michael lingered hopefully near the more economically sized quills -- things that wouldn’t brush against one’s face when one was writing, which was a quality of Mavis’s preferred enormous quills that made Michael mad as a hatter, not to mention ticklish -- but Mavis barrelled past that section, giving him only enough time to grab a new Quick-Quotes quill for the start of Quidditch season. As it wriggled faintly in his hand, putting him in mind of an extremely small, hairy snake, he caught up to Mavis.

Michael would have been comforted by Esther’s love of a bargain just now, as a fellow bargain lover. He could generally count on Esther to shop with his budget in mind (Mavis, slightly less.) However, if Mavis wanted to disparage Esther for ditching them, Michael had no qualms agreeing. It had stung a little; he missed seeming cool to his sisters, although in hindsight he should have expected that to change when they went to Hogwarts and met the Michaels of their own generation.

“Shame,” he echoed, a little drily. “How do you reckon I can make her feel guiltiest about it?” He thought buying her a present might be too pointed; it would also cost him money.

Mavis pounced on what -- Michael noted -- was not a quill especially close to selling out. It was even more resplendent than he’d imagined from her description earlier -- very nice, if that was what you were into. She held it out toward him and he caught it in one hand, turned it over.

Very nice, but not three sickles nice. “Cool,” he said anyway. At least it wasn’t a diricawl quill -- Terry had gotten him one of those dodo duds as a joke in fifth year and it’d disappeared in a week. “That it, or d’you want stationery too?”

"Oh, tell her about the two for one deal on parchment rolls," Mavis said with a devious wiggle of her eyebrows. "It'll kill her," Of course, she didn't mean kill  kill, but Mavis was as smart as she was often insensitive. Letting out a bit of a chortle the teenage witch returned to her hunt for the perfect quill. Soon enough, the beautiful and entirely impractical feather was in between her painted fingernails. She twirled it between her thumb and index finger, and it sparkled majestically. Holding it toward her brother, she allowed him the opportunity to bask in its magical glow. Her brown eyes followed the sparkles and wondered whether or not to inform Michael that the glitter was clinging to his sweater. Giggling softly, she bit her tongue for the moment, considering it, but fessed up quickly enough. Especially when he brought up the topic of stationery.

"You've, well, you've got a bit of sparkle just there," She told him with another giggle, the playful grin pulling ear to ear. Reaching for the quill, she went back to inspect it. Bouncing enthusiastically, because Mavis didn't often do things unenthusiasically, she spoke up. "Oh, look, it's a Quink!" She informed Michael (and anyone within a five-foot radius), cheerfully. Holding the quill out toward him again, she ran her finger along with the hallow pocket in the calamus used to save ink. The quill was self-inking, to an extent, but would need to be refilled after a while. It was better than dipping it into a well every other word, but not as lovely as the more expensive no-mess ones that seemed to summon ink out of nowhere.

"What a silly portmanteau, a quink," She mused, the words Quill and Ink being mashed together unapologetically. Bobbing her head, she shrugged the thought off and raised a hand toward the direction of stationary.

Mavis should have been getting the things on her school supply list. Parchment, goblin-made sand erasers, and the like. Mavis, however, was entirely focused on cosmetic items. "Did I tell you I've got a penpal this term?" She mentioned over her shoulder as she led the way toward where the unique sets were housed. "A boy from Beauxbatons," Mavis was more interested in the boy part of the statement than the Beauxbatons bit, but she tried (pitifully) to hide it from her brother.

"His name is @Léon Lachapelle, we haven't written yet, but I'll need a nice looking set to start," Mavis stopped when they got to the sets and turned to find Michael's expression, "Don't you think?"

“Cool,” said Michael absentmindedly -- “Fratricide, your mum’ll love that.” He was paying more attention to his own intended purchases: he let his Quick Quotes Quill up to bob angrily above his open palm. Its stint being clutched had left it ruffled but undamaged, so he closed his hand around it again and mused on whether it would actually make Esther jealous.

Mavis and Esther had a complicated and inscrutable relationship, which to Michael just seemed exhausting. He was no stranger to competitive bickering or stupid debates (he and his mates fucked with each other’s heads at a rate that would impress libidinous March hares) but his sisters were, he thought, absolutely insane. If Mavis wanted Esther to burn with envy over a parchment sale, Esther would burn. The pair of them drove their mother twice as mad as Michael ever had, and did it in half as long. It was sort of a wonder to behold.

Speaking of wonders to behold: the quill. She took it back, but not before he could see the price tag (higher than was deserved) and apparently not before it could leave contaminants on his sweater. “Shite,” he mumbled, giving the spot a forceful rub with the hand that wasn’t holding a quill. It did nothing for the glitter.

That was not it -- Mavis’s next conquest was Quinks, which were sillily named but at least more practical than that scarlet thing. “I knew a Beauxbatons student once,” he said. “Took her to the Yule Ball.” Mind, he hadn’t taken her from the Yule Ball -- she’d spent the night with another Beauxbatons boy and he’d spent it flirting with @Ginny Weasley. “You learning French, or is he learning English?”

As he followed his sister down the aisle, Michael pressed his lips together in almost a grin -- “Well, now, give us a mo’,” he said. “What’s your message here -- d’you want him thinking you mean business or d’you want him to be your friend?” He picked up a stack of cards wrapped in twine to inspect; these, doubtless, would tell this Léon Lachapelle bloke that she meant business. Michael didn’t like to describe things as “intimidating” unless they’d earned it (and Michael was not easily intimidated) but these cards seemed like they’d been invented as stationery’s answer to brutalist architecture.

“Maybe they’ll have cards with twee little bunnies on the letterheads,” he suggested wryly.

Giggling as she watched him fail to brush off most of the glitter shrapnel that clung to his sleeve Mavis moved along the aisle. She stuck to her overpriced sparkly quill as if it was the cure for dragon pox, or something equally as valuable, but let its large feathers brush over the merchandise. It left a trail of sparkles in her wake, which amused the young witch to no end, and she grinned. "Did you?" Teenage ears perked up at the thought of possible gossip, her brother taking a petite Beauxbatons witch to the infamous Yule Ball, it sounded like a story that needed telling.

Instead, Michael returned the conversation to Leon, and she bounced a little when she answered. "Oh, he already knows enough English for us to write," And then the thought of learning French began to sit in, and she turned back to ask for Michael's advice. "Should I learn French?" She asked, but began answering herself out loud almost as soon as she'd voiced the question. "It would be the polite thing to do, don't you think?" Pausing only to take a breath, she continued, twisting a black strand of hair around the glittering quill absently, "Well I already,y know Hindi and some Latin, though, not sure if I could squeeze in French too," And Merlin knew she didn't have the time. She was already taking as many subjects as her timetable (and the Headmistress) would allow, she had signed up as a mentor, and she was desperately trying to get back on the Quidditch team.

"Oh, goddess, no, not that one," Mavis answered quickly. With a bit of flourish, the teenager shook the feather at her brother. The motion and the look on her face implying he should have known better. She was dressed in bright colors, with a bit of bright pink eyeshadow and a definite taste for shiny things. She couldn't write to Leon Lachapelle with that, though, it indeed sent a message. "Can I have both?" She asked, "Friends, and not to be trifled with," Her shoulders bouncing, she giggled once more. She didn't want to scare him away with letters that looked like they had been sent from Azkaban prison, but she also didn't want to seem less intelligent by choosing something too girlish. It was a delicate balance.

"Tell me about your Beauxbatons date?" She asked, turned to give him another eyebrow wiggle before dancing toward the next shelf of stationery sets. She skipped past the beige and white ones and frolicked straight to the neon-colored ones. They were far more her style.

Should I learn French? “No,” he said frankly. He considered himself a tenacious, driven person -- someone with a true passion for learning and being learned -- but he’d quit learning French after about three days. Some things hadn’t been created for human conquest; the French language was one of those things, even if it was the polite thing to do. Besides, it was Mavis’s O.W.L.s year -- if it went anything like Michael’s had, she had enough on her plate.

She was appalled at the frightening stationery he’d picked up first; something of her manner suggested she was thinking along the lines of how dare you! Michael grinned and returned them to their stack, taking care to align the corners correctly -- “Just use normal parchment and nice ink,” he suggested, “It’s businesslike but unostentatious.” He rather doubted she would take his advice: while Michael was perfectly content with being dull in adulthood, Mavis was (1.) not, and (2.) nearly sixteen.

He picked up a set of elegant, less foreboding cards, but set them down again as Mavis beelined past them to a display of brightly-coloured stationery. Ah. He followed; at length he answered, “It wasn’t really a Beauxbatons date, she ditched me about ten minutes in. I think she was trying to make one of her classmates jealous.” Hopefully this was boring and unfortunate enough to satiate Mavis’s curiosity -- but, having had that thought, he felt a little guilty. It was no fault of Mavis’s (or Esther’s, for that matter) that all of Michael’s teenage tribulations had happened when they were too young to hear any of the details. They were all over those details now.

As an afterthought, he added, “That was when I met Ginny.”

This was enough unsolicited backstory for now. He moved on, picked up a small stack of printed parchment. “Here,” he said, holding it up so Mavis could see the yellow polka-dots, “Reckon this’ll tell him you’re a hard-boiled sort?”

"No? Just no?" Mavis looked over her shoulder at her brother, giving him a look that was a mixture of confusion and complaint. "Why not?" Being that she was barely a teenager and had zero experience in the real world, Mavis was still under the impression that she should change herself to please other people. Little by little, she was learning better, becoming more confident in who she was rather than who she was trying to be, but it took time. Being a teenage witch was hard.

Michael picked out some horrifyingly bland stationary, but Mavis wouldn't have expected anything less. Her big brother was great, and all, but Mavis had learned a long time ago that they had different... styles. She brushed off his words with a wave of her hand and headed for the perfume laced sparkly stationery sets instead.

Mavis gave Michael a sympathetic look upon hearing his date ditched him. The witch immediately hoped that never happened to her and then began preparing for how she would deal with this hypothetic situation. Distracted by her doomsday prepping, the young witch nearly missed the end of his story. "Ginny Weasley?" She asked, of course, she knew that was exactly who he meant, "It is soooo cool that you know Ginny-freaking-Weasley." Mavis was unbelievably jealous, and she didn't even bother to try and hide it. The teenage witch loved Quidditch, so of course, she idolized Ginny. "Or I suppose it's Ginny Potter now," Turning on her heel, her finger tapping her chin, Mavis couldn't help but muse out loud to Michael. "Do you think she will change her last name? It's such an archaic tradition, and she seems like such a feminist...."

Scrunching up her nose at the yellow polka dots, Mavis laughed at his use of the word hard-boiled. It was like the old comics they would read; some sleuth always got locked in their office. Mavis' fingertips trailed over stationery sets until finally, she found pretty light purple ones. Holding them up to her nose, she smiled, Lilac and Lavender, it was faint, but it was perfect. "Found them~" She sang as she wiggled her hips a little and turned back toward Michael. Mentally checking things off her list, she took a step closer to her brother, looked on either side of her, lowered her voice (to a regular person volume, as opposed to her constant near-yell), and spoke.

"I also need some parchment that conceals what is written on it, you know, for... essays and classwork." She gave him a look, hoping he'd understand and praying he knew the right place to get such an item.

Mavis gave him a baffled look; clearly she didn’t trust his answer. “Some things were not created for human conquest,” said Michael, “e.g., the French language.” He paused to straighten the corners of another stack of stationery and added, to Mavis’s litany of the other languages she knew or wanted to know, “There you go.”

He sort of did want to learn another language sometime, if only because then he would know another language, but for now he was content with the meagre Latin he picked up from having a lawyer for a best mate. If he couldn’t be worldly he could at least be unbearable.

Though he’d tacked it onto the end of his story in what he’d thought was obviously a conclusion, Mavis zeroed straightaway onto his mention of Ginny, and Michael regretted straightaway that he’d brought it up at all. If he’d had any bloody sense he’d have finished this with a moral -- ‘and that’s why you should go to school events stag with your best mate’ or ‘and that’s why you should wait until you’re twenty-five to even associate with the opposite sex’ but now he had to talk about Ginny Weasley and how it was cool that he knew her.

“Thanks,” he said. He would be feeling the ramifications of knowing Ginny-freaking-Weasley for the rest of his life; not only had he dated her, but he’d followed her willfully into a student militia. “I certainly know how to pick ‘em.”

He wondered if he’d told Mavis he’d gone to the wedding. Doubtless if he did, she’d want to hear more, so he just said, “I think she did change it. If you think about it, you know, there’s a hundred Weasleys already and only one Potter. Must be sort of lonely being the last one left.” He considered pointing out to her that he was the last living Corner, but decided against it, lest she take the opportunity to tell him that he was being patriarchal or something.

Finally Mavis picked out a set of stationery from a display of scented parchment. Michael had just opened his mouth to ask if she was done yet when she lowered her voice to ask, as discreetly as she was capable of, about what he could only assume was parchment intended for academic dishonesty. “Just use Vanishing Ink, it’s cheaper and functionally not that different and Weasleys’ll ship it to Hogwarts,” he said. “Should I even bother asking what for?”

"I suppose there is a point to that," How sad it must have been to be the last of the Potter's, or the last of any line, Mavis thought, and soon enough, that thought tracked back to her big brother. The last Corner wasn't lost on her, but because he hadn't mentioned it, the witch chose not to bring it up either. She had been young when everything happened, not nearly mature enough to understand what had happened truly, and now, it seemed too long ago to bring it up randomly. Time was weird like that.

Instead, the topic changed to vanishing ink (and less than stellar morals), and Mavis felt right at home again. "Vanishing ink..." She drew the words out dramatically, putting her hand on the top of her head as her jaw hit the floor, "Why didn't I think of that!" She nearly shouted, crossing the area to hold her hand up for a high five from Michael, before spinning around. "Bloody brilliant, you are," Mavis threw the compliment at Michael over her shoulder with a bright smile as she headed toward the inkwells lining the far wall.

"Oh, this one is sparkly, certainly need that," She tucked the glittery pink ooze under her arm and then realized there was more to what Michael had said. Vanishing ink was a Weasley specialty, which meant it wasn't at Flourish and Blotts, and they would need to add another stop to their shopping day. "Okay, I think I've got everything. Shall we get in line?" She asked, not wanting to, but it wasn't like there was another choice. The lines during back to school sales were always the worst, and she was far from patient, but maybe if she batted her eyelashes enough, Michael would wait in line while she went to do reconnaissance in the next shop.

Mavis was a lot happier about his suggestion than he’d expected her to be; he gave her a less enthusiastic high five than she deserved and scratched his head with amusement as she beelined toward the display of inkwells. Any Vanishing Ink they got here would have been marked up inexcusably, but -- fortunately -- it looked like Mavis had been distracted by the bright colours.

He hadn’t technically asked what the vanishing ink was for, so he was unsurprised that Mavis decided not to answer. Plausible deniability, he supposed -- if she was going to cheat on her exams it was better that he didn’t know it, even though, in a strictly hypothetical sense, he knew plenty that would have come in handy. But their mum already thought he was a bad influence -- he’d gotten Mavis to himself today only by dint of Ray’s bafflingly complete trust in him -- so he kept his mouth shut about any scholastic scheming he or his friends had gotten up to, and caught up.

She was selecting a threateningly shimmery bottle -- certainly need that -- Michael couldn’t resist the urge to say, “What’s that for? Your mail isn’t glittery enough already?” He plucked an even more fulgid bottle off the top shelf, where she almost certainly couldn’t see it, and handed it down: “Here,” he said, “God forbid you get caught sending letters with ink what doesn’t match your quill.” He meant it facetiously, but suspected she would agree anyway.

At least it was -- for now -- her last purchase. “Alright,” he said, and let her lead the way back to the register. The check-out queue stretched all the way to the blank journals; he and Mavis got in line behind an elderly couple. “You’re definitely sure you got everything?” he asked, just to make sure.

Armed with what (she thought was) the more glitter-infested ink the store had to offer, Mavis turned back to her brother with a joyful little bounce. "Not even remotely," She replied, sticking her tongue out at him and considering threatening him with yet another glitter bomb letter. In such a chipper mood, the young witch felt like she put the Flourish in Blotts and giggled when he handed her another inkwell of sparkles. Swirling it around in her hand, Mavis's mouth fell open in awe as the blues, purples, and golds danced around the glass like the soul of a unicorn.

"That would be tragic, absolutely, utterly, tragic," It wouldn't be. There were far worse things than mismatched ink and feathers, but to a teenager who survived off of snacks, OWL prep workbooks, and sparkles, it might as well have been the end of the world. "What would I do without you," She said with a dramatic sigh, nearly dropping one of the too-many things she was carrying, as they headed to the line. She sighed again, louder this time, in hopes that her brother would pick up on her impatience, but was quickly distracted by his question.

"Everything from here, but I still need a new cauldron and that ink," By some miracle, Mavis managed to defy the laws of physics and balance another last-minute impulse ink correcting puff disguised as a kneazle on her pile of things. "Prooooobably should have gone to Potage's first, huh?" Mavis was well aware that she was at fault for skipping the cauldron shop right by the entrance to Diagon Alley. Writing glittery letters to her French penpal was way more pressing than getting the supplies that were actually on her back-to-school list, obviously.

“Well now,” muttered Michael -- any comment he made disparaging glitz would land him in the danger zone; he’d had enough glittery explosives delivered to his workplace by now that the owlery attendants made him promise not to open them until they’d left his cube. He trailed after her to the queue; there was much he could have said -- there are far worse things than using the wrong quill for an ink, for instance, or you’d shop with your mother or if I have to wait in line, so do you -- but instead he said, “Let me hold that,” and skimmed the top layer off her pile of stationery products, tucking it all against his body in one arm.

She was dropping more and more hints, though -- he twisted awkwardly to dig in his trouser pocket for some money (Sandra would pay him back for the cauldron, he hoped -- it was expensive and he wasn’t making the piles of money she claimed to make selling little boxes.) “Go get your cauldron,” he said in surrender. “I’ll meet you outside Weasley’s.” He couldn’t go in on his own -- he was sort of afraid of both George and Ron Weasley -- he added, to the back of her head, “Do not tell your mum I let you go off on your own!”

[out]

When Michael scooped half of her wares up and held them, Mavis beamed at him, "Thanks!" She exclaimed, a bit louder than she meant to, but not nearly as quietly as was acceptable in a place like this. Earning a look from an old witch shorter than herself, Mavis smiled apologetically at her. The teenager was not made for lines, or libraries, or really any place that called for an 'inside voice'. The idea of being quiet for more than a minute gave her anxiety.

"Your the best," Grinning ear to ear, Mavis wasted zero time reaching for the sickles he handed her. In one motion, she pocketed the coins and dropped the rest of her merchandise into his hands. Mavis bounced a little, nearly dropping the sparkly well of ink on the stone floor, and caught it just in time. She plopped it on the tippy top of Michael's new pile, humming a little, and nodded.

The Gryffindor silently made the motion of zipping her lips closed, threw away the key, and gave him a dramatic wink for good measure. "See you at Potages!" She called after herself, fully intending to stop at the street vendor for a snack on the way, and skipped out of the door.

[/end]