50. Writer's Choice / Bob the Skull
Title: Subtlety
Author: Cyloran
Characters: Justin Morningway, young Harry, Bob
Prompt: 50. Writer's Choice
Word Count: 694
Rating: G
Summary: Harry tries to impress his mentors with mixed results.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
With his hands precisely folded over the silvered ball of the cane, Justin Morningway watched the demonstration with an impassive expression. Nothing missed his shrewd gaze; not the look of fierce concentration on his young nephew's face as he placed the elements or the first hand gestures, still awkward and unrefined as he began the summoning. Morningway's eyes narrowed slightly, judgment in his dark eyes. There was still far too much Malcolm Dresden and not enough Morningway in the boy. But that would change, given enough time and the proper tutelage.
Subtlety, Harry, Justin mentally admonished his nephew although his expression gave nothing away.
Harry raised his arms, hands palm downward and fingers splayed. Sweat beaded on his forehead but he valiantly resisted the urge to swipe it away with his sleeve. He was determined to get this spell right. No, better than right. Absolutely perfect!
I can do this. I can do this!
Painfully aware of his Uncle's scrutiny, Harry intoned the keywords and punctuated them with an exaggerated flourish of his hands reminiscent of the way his father would conclude one of his stage tricks. In response, the beaker on the table before him began to glow a soft pale green, eliciting a triumphant smile from Harry -
-- moments before the vessel suddenly imploded with a loud BANG! and evaporated into a glittering pile of sand.
"It needs work," said Justin curtly as he stood. He remembered to offer Harry a fleeting smile meant to encourage before turning his cool gaze to the ghost standing at rigid attention in the corner. "Less chatter, more study. See to it."
The dead sorcerer inclined his head in stiff acknowledgement of the rebuke but Morningway was already on his way out the door.
"Damn." Harry dropped heavily into a chair, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms.
"Mind your language, please."
"Damn," replied Harry perversely.
"And stop pouting. It doesn't become you."
"I blew it, Bob."
"Yes, you did," the ghost agreed. Hands clasped loosely behind his back, he peered down at the beaker's remains with mild interest. "Rather spectacularly, I might add."
"I don't know why it didn't work," said Harry defensively. "I should have worked! I mean, I did everything you taught me."
"Indeed you did -- or at least, tried to do." Bob turned to regard his young pupil. "On the whole, I'm rather proud of you."
Blinking his confusion, Harry looked up at his spectral mentor. "But I blew it," he repeated, as if the ghost was incapable of interpreting the evidence for himself. "I mean, I really blew it. All up!"
"Did you give it your best effort?"
"Well, yeah."
"That's the important thing, Harry. You did your best." Bob stooped down so that he was at eye level with the forlorn boy seated in the chair. "You tried your hand at a spell several levels above your comfort zone and managed to grasp the concept surprisingly well."
"Uncle Justin doesn't think so," sighed Harry. "He didn't look too happy."
"Your Uncle Justin is anxious for you to excel. And in truth, he almost always looks that way."
"Like a sourpuss?"
"He's a very busy man with a lot on his mind," replied Bob somberly, although there was a conspiratorial humor in his pale blue eyes. "But everything in its time and at its own pace. Your Uncle does realize that, even if he sometimes forgets."
"The spell should have worked," said Harry petulantly.
"You need to practice your invocation. A bit more subtlety with your hand gestures wouldn't hurt. They are still too broad."
Bob had very nearly said 'too exaggerated' but stopped himself in time. He did not wish to sound as if he was casting judgment on the author of those over-dramatic movements. There would be no criticism from him, overt or otherwise, of the deceased father that Harry so deeply missed and idolized.
Harry glowered at the scorched desktop with its dusting of sand. "I can do this."
"Yes, you can."
"Smaller hand movements."
"Yes."
"More concentration."
"It would help."
Harry glanced back at Bob, his expression hopeful. "You're proud of me? Really?"
"Really."
Author: Cyloran
Characters: Justin Morningway, young Harry, Bob
Prompt: 50. Writer's Choice
Word Count: 694
Rating: G
Summary: Harry tries to impress his mentors with mixed results.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
With his hands precisely folded over the silvered ball of the cane, Justin Morningway watched the demonstration with an impassive expression. Nothing missed his shrewd gaze; not the look of fierce concentration on his young nephew's face as he placed the elements or the first hand gestures, still awkward and unrefined as he began the summoning. Morningway's eyes narrowed slightly, judgment in his dark eyes. There was still far too much Malcolm Dresden and not enough Morningway in the boy. But that would change, given enough time and the proper tutelage.
Subtlety, Harry, Justin mentally admonished his nephew although his expression gave nothing away.
Harry raised his arms, hands palm downward and fingers splayed. Sweat beaded on his forehead but he valiantly resisted the urge to swipe it away with his sleeve. He was determined to get this spell right. No, better than right. Absolutely perfect!
I can do this. I can do this!
Painfully aware of his Uncle's scrutiny, Harry intoned the keywords and punctuated them with an exaggerated flourish of his hands reminiscent of the way his father would conclude one of his stage tricks. In response, the beaker on the table before him began to glow a soft pale green, eliciting a triumphant smile from Harry -
-- moments before the vessel suddenly imploded with a loud BANG! and evaporated into a glittering pile of sand.
"It needs work," said Justin curtly as he stood. He remembered to offer Harry a fleeting smile meant to encourage before turning his cool gaze to the ghost standing at rigid attention in the corner. "Less chatter, more study. See to it."
The dead sorcerer inclined his head in stiff acknowledgement of the rebuke but Morningway was already on his way out the door.
"Damn." Harry dropped heavily into a chair, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms.
"Mind your language, please."
"Damn," replied Harry perversely.
"And stop pouting. It doesn't become you."
"I blew it, Bob."
"Yes, you did," the ghost agreed. Hands clasped loosely behind his back, he peered down at the beaker's remains with mild interest. "Rather spectacularly, I might add."
"I don't know why it didn't work," said Harry defensively. "I should have worked! I mean, I did everything you taught me."
"Indeed you did -- or at least, tried to do." Bob turned to regard his young pupil. "On the whole, I'm rather proud of you."
Blinking his confusion, Harry looked up at his spectral mentor. "But I blew it," he repeated, as if the ghost was incapable of interpreting the evidence for himself. "I mean, I really blew it. All up!"
"Did you give it your best effort?"
"Well, yeah."
"That's the important thing, Harry. You did your best." Bob stooped down so that he was at eye level with the forlorn boy seated in the chair. "You tried your hand at a spell several levels above your comfort zone and managed to grasp the concept surprisingly well."
"Uncle Justin doesn't think so," sighed Harry. "He didn't look too happy."
"Your Uncle Justin is anxious for you to excel. And in truth, he almost always looks that way."
"Like a sourpuss?"
"He's a very busy man with a lot on his mind," replied Bob somberly, although there was a conspiratorial humor in his pale blue eyes. "But everything in its time and at its own pace. Your Uncle does realize that, even if he sometimes forgets."
"The spell should have worked," said Harry petulantly.
"You need to practice your invocation. A bit more subtlety with your hand gestures wouldn't hurt. They are still too broad."
Bob had very nearly said 'too exaggerated' but stopped himself in time. He did not wish to sound as if he was casting judgment on the author of those over-dramatic movements. There would be no criticism from him, overt or otherwise, of the deceased father that Harry so deeply missed and idolized.
Harry glowered at the scorched desktop with its dusting of sand. "I can do this."
"Yes, you can."
"Smaller hand movements."
"Yes."
"More concentration."
"It would help."
Harry glanced back at Bob, his expression hopeful. "You're proud of me? Really?"
"Really."