Fic: we rise together (HP) Cub (Sanditon)
Mar. 19th, 2023 08:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shallownesswe rise together. Harry Potter, Luna, Ginny, Neville, set during ‘Deathly Hallows’). Written for the threesentenceficathon prompt ‘any, any OT3, thinking, feeling, doing’. 120 words.
we rise together: shallowness
They’re crouched beside a staircase that moved into place several minutes ago, and of course Luna has no watch and it’s a cloudy night, so she can’t be going by how high her namesake has risen, but rather seems to have heard whatever she was listening out for when she murmurs, “I think it’s time.” Ginny, who has been stewing over all the cruelties she’s witnessed here in Hogwarts only today, squeezes both her companions’ arms and reaches for her wand. Neville takes the first step up the stairs, because they agreed he would go first as he’s the tallest, but he doesn’t mind admitting that his resolve is stronger from knowing that Ginny and Luna are right behind him.
Title: Cub
Fandom: Sanditon
Rating: Universal
Characters: Leonora Colbourne, Mrs Wheatley, Alexander Colbourne, Augusta Markham.
Summary: How Leonora came to have short hair.
Author's Note: Set before season 2, assume season 2 spoilers. Young lions are called cubs, regardless of gender. 2,284 words.
Cub: shallowness
Of course it happens between governesses, because Miss Colbourne and Miss Markham are more often without one than with. The latest had made the error of talking too much about Miss Leonora’s appearance, although for once the topic hadn’t been the state of her clothes as much as her hair. Miss Whatever-her-name-had-been had suggested ringlets, as her previous pupils had had. Well, Miss Perhaps It Had Started With A “J” had had little to say when she departed, never to return, and Miss Leo had been in an exultant, strange mood since then.
Mrs Wheatley chides herself as she takes in the sight before her now. She had meant to keep an eye on Miss Leo, sensing that the child was not done even after routing her latest governess, but there had been household matters to attend to. In the thick of it, she had had to hope that the two girls were still allies. It had been a case of hope triumphing over experience to think that Miss Markham would suddenly mind the younger girl, and keep her in order without riling her.
Now here Miss Leonora is standing in the kitchen, but not Miss Leonora as Mrs Wheatley last saw her. The housekeeper is used to torn skirts, muddy boots and cuts and scrapes, but the half-shorn girl in front of her, with battle in her eyes, is quite something new.
Mrs Wheatley stares, words still beyond her. Miss Leonora’s hair is an unkempt mess, all different lengths, but apart from a very few strands, cut short. Perhaps hacked off would be a fitter description.
It’s beyond her, she realises.
“Your father will have to deal with this,” is what comes out of her mouth. She is not surprised that those words don’t douse the martial light in Miss Leonora’s eyes. After announcing their latest governess’s departure, Mr Colbourne had had little to say to the girls. Miss Jamieson, that was her name, used to young ladies, had not been too difficult for the cousins to thwart. They had not needed to be at their most outrageous.
In the main, the girls listened to Mrs Wheatley herself, and part of that was because she knew her limits. She now raises her hand in a gesture indicating that the girl should be the first to leave the kitchen, and Leo obeys, walking as tall as she can with no slouch about her out into the hallway.
It is a shame that they pass Miss Augusta on the way to the master’s study. Although she holds a book, she is not reading it intently enough to miss them walking past her through the open door.
“What on earth have you done?” she cries out at the sight of Leo. The younger girl turns and gives the older a scornful look.
“Isn’t it quite obvious what I’ve done?” Her tone makes clear what she thinks of the bigger girl for asking the question.
Miss Augusta flushes, preferring to be the one delivering put-downs to being at the receiving end.
“Come along,” Mrs Wheatley interjects, gently pushing Miss Leonora’s back. The sooner the master sees what has been done, the sooner it is over. Yet another quarrel between the two girls will only cause delay and bad tempers.
Miss Leonora resumes walking, not picking up her pace, not dragging her feet either. Like Mrs Wheatey, she ignores Miss Augusta’s rather loud, “Well.”
Mrs Wheatley knocks on the study door, trying to gauge Mr Colbourne’s temper from the way he calls out “Come in,” out of habit. She knows full well that whatever his mood, and it is generally subdued,his daughter’s latest doings will rile him. It is merely a question of whether his fury will be scorching or icy. She guides the girl into the room by the shoulder, following her inside. Miss Leonora does not resist, but takes no further step forward of her own volition.
Mr Colbourne looks up from his papers and takes in the sight. Leonora’s dress, neat and clean first thing this morning, is a little dishevelled, but it is her hair that captures the attention. Where once there had been long brown hair falling over her shoulders, there is a ragged mess.
Mrs Wheatey takes another look at it. In some places the child cut her hair so very short that it is a mercy she hadn’t injured herself in so doing. A qualm smites Mrs Wheatley, perhaps she could have tried to do something before marching Miss Leonora here, but Mr Colbourne might as well see the worst of it.
He must be overcome with shock, as Mrs Wheatley herself was.
Miss Leonora stands ramrod straight, defiant about what she has done. Mr Colbourne breathes in through his nostrils, his lips are pursed, but not for long.
“Why did you cut your hair like this, Leonora?” he demands, voice loud and sharp. Angry, but in control. He remains seated.
“I wanted to be a spy,” she replies.
Of course the child did. She is such a one for pretendings and imaginings, as if simply being Mistress Leonora Colbourne is unbearable. This playing at being a spy is new this year. Perhaps the household staff have humoured her too much, for this is going much further than putting on a cap or breeches that can then be taken off and put away.
Mr Colbourne stares fixedly at Miss Leonora. She doesn’t flinch.
“And where did you get the scissors from?” Mrs Wheatley feels obliged to ask, suddenly curious.
“The greenhouse,” Leonora mumbles. “The door was open, I saw some shears and—“
The idea that the child could well have done herself an injury returns to Mrs Wheatley. Well, at least it wasn’t anything from the kitchen, Mrs Wheatley thinks, with a touch of self-righteousness as well as relief, but knows then and there she’ll have to get the child’s hair washed and see that she scrubs her nails.
“You are old enough to know better than to play spies,” Mr Colbourne’s voice is a gust of northern wind directed at Miss Leonora. “You knew you had no business in the greenhouse. You are a very silly infant.”
There is a slight twitch in the small frame that Mrs Wheatley only notices because Miss Leo is standing right before her.
“Mrs Wheatley, you do what you can with her hair, and then, Leonora, you are to stay indoors for the rest of the month.”
The child stares at him, a good deal of her fight gone now. As Mr Colbourne knows full well, denying Miss Leo the right to go outdoors is a better punishment than most. He has not often laid a hand on her since realising this.
“And as you are clearly not sufficiently occupied, you can write out fifty times ‘I must not cut my own hair’, in the hope that you will learn such a simple precept,” he adds.
“Yes, sir.” Leonora says, cowed now.
“Go then, I’ve had enough of the sight of you.”
Walking behind the girl, Mrs Wheatley can see that Miss Leonora’s shoulders are a little less straight, her pace is half a second slower than it was before this encounter.
She says very little other than instructions as the child is bathed by Mary, with especial attention given to her hair and nails. Mrs Wheatley tells the maid that she’ll tend to the hair herself, knowing that the whole household will have heard the story by the time she is finished.
Miss Leonora is dressed in her nightgown, a towel covering her shoulders. Mrs Wheatley has just got her seated when Miss Augusta enters the room.
The housekeeper throws the newcomer a glance. Her presence will likely be no help at all.
“You look like a drowned—“
“Miss Augusta, please be quiet!” Mrs Wheatley commands. “If you can’t, you will have to leave. I am going to neaten Miss Leonora’s hair.”
“Or what’s left of it,” Miss Augusta mumbles.
There’s a gulping sort of gasp from Miss Leonora and Mrs Wheatley spins around to see that the child is staring at herself in the mirror. Her face is pale and haunted looking, framed by uneven, damp hair.
She is both irritated at what lies before her and sympathetic. But if Miss Leonora breaks down and cries, it will only make her task more difficult.
“Not a word, Miss Augusta,” Mrs Wheatley says, giving her a glare that works on the lowliest maid and haughtiest young lady alike. She knows that if Miss Augusta stays put, Miss Leonora will refrain from tears out of pride. But if Miss Augusta continues to goad, her cousin will be impossible.
Miss Leonora is perfectly still, her eyes closed. Perhaps it would be better not to touch her to offer comfort. His housekeeper doubts Mr Colbourne was being kind with his orders for Leonora to go to bed for the rest of the day after her hair was dealt with, it was probably meant as a period for the child to reflect on what she’d done. But she suspects that Leonora will welcome being able to hide away and cry. The best thing Mrs Wheatley can do for her is her duty.
First, she has to comb the hair. The child’s damp hair is such a different texture from her own, but she has trimmed it before. Her fingers don’t tremble at the memory of cutting another child’s much darker hair. But she concentrates her mind on how Miss Leonora’s hair has not been so short in many a year, and never in such a state.
She reaches for the scissors. She tries to be as methodical as she is about anything, starting on one side, trying to guess how much she needs to cut for it to be even. Soon, she realises it will be as short as a boy’s hair is, shorter than some. Perhaps that was what Miss Leonora had been truly aiming for, rather than playing at being a spy. She had certainly rebelled against Miss Jamieson’s notion of what a young lady should be, sweet and frilly.
“It’s not even,” Miss Augusta observes.
As Miss Leonora’s eyes snap open, Mrs Wheatley has already stepped back to ascertain for herself.
“I know, I’ll neaten it,” she says as neutrally as possible, keeping a closer eye on Miss Leonora than Miss Augusta.
“Lionesses have no mane,” Leonora declares. “Lions do, but lionesses don’t.”
“Do they now?” Mrs Wheately says absently, snipping away, glad that Miss Leonora is talking.
“Well, you won’t look like a lioness. Your hair isn’t going to be all shorn off,” Miss Augusta tells her.
Mrs Wheatley runs her fingers through the newly cut hair to check that she has got every strand. It is odd to keep finding her fingers free. No doubt Miss Leonora will keep finding it strange whenever she looks at herself in a mirror or runs a comb through her hair. Well, if they young miss is ever in a mood to do such a thing. Usually it is the maids or Mrs Whatley who comb her hair and put a ribbon in it if they are feeling venturesome. That will have to stop for now, until it all grows back. Miss Leonora will find her head colder, lighter, altogether strange.
Done, Mrs Wheatley steps away. Miss Leonora carries herself as if she does not regret what she has done, despite her father’s displeasure, despite Augusta’s mocking, despite the punishment. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees a lioness now, not a spy. Miss Leonora is quite the determined personage, despite being the youngest inhabitant of the house.
Mrs Wheatley would like to give that last governess a piece of her mind, but she clearly hadn’t been able to manage the girls from the moment she had stepped foot in the house. Mrs Wheatley hadn’t even bothered wagering how long she would last.
But it is Mrs Wheatley herself who keeps having to pick up the pieces after the young girls’ shenanigans. And yes, she can mostly get them to mind her, but here is Miss Leo doing this unthinkable thing. What will it be next? She looks down at the matted hair on the foor, notes that will have to see that that was all swept away too.
“We’re done, let me finish drying your hair,” she says, not letting any of her thoughts and worries into her voice, “and then it’s bed for you.”
“Will she be allowed supper?” Augusta asks with a ghoulish interest.
“The master didn’t say,” Mrs Wheatley replies, but catching a glimpse of Leonora’s rather forlorn face, she adds, “There’ll be some bread and butter, no doubt.”
Perhaps there could be more, but if the child has a fit of weeping, anything else might be beyond her. Miss Leonora hates to cry, and pretends she doesn’t in general. Mrs Wheatley knows that isn’t right, there is a time for weeping and a time for laughing, certainly for children. Do lions weep, she wonders. Do their cubs laugh?
The hair is soon rubbed dry – that will be an advantage, it will dry more quickly. Miss Augusta leaves, bored.
With so much hair gone, the child’s face looks quite different, and the likeness to her mother, and indeed to Miss Augusta is suddenly pronounced. Mrs Wheatley’s grasp on the towel tightens. She doubts the child will realise it, but the master will.
“You must go to bed now,” she says. Miss Leonora slides off her seat, stepping over the hair, her chin up, pretending she is someone else again, her notion of a lioness, perhaps. Mrs Wheatley sighs.
They’re crouched beside a staircase that moved into place several minutes ago, and of course Luna has no watch and it’s a cloudy night, so she can’t be going by how high her namesake has risen, but rather seems to have heard whatever she was listening out for when she murmurs, “I think it’s time.” Ginny, who has been stewing over all the cruelties she’s witnessed here in Hogwarts only today, squeezes both her companions’ arms and reaches for her wand. Neville takes the first step up the stairs, because they agreed he would go first as he’s the tallest, but he doesn’t mind admitting that his resolve is stronger from knowing that Ginny and Luna are right behind him.
Title: Cub
Fandom: Sanditon
Rating: Universal
Characters: Leonora Colbourne, Mrs Wheatley, Alexander Colbourne, Augusta Markham.
Summary: How Leonora came to have short hair.
Author's Note: Set before season 2, assume season 2 spoilers. Young lions are called cubs, regardless of gender. 2,284 words.
Of course it happens between governesses, because Miss Colbourne and Miss Markham are more often without one than with. The latest had made the error of talking too much about Miss Leonora’s appearance, although for once the topic hadn’t been the state of her clothes as much as her hair. Miss Whatever-her-name-had-been had suggested ringlets, as her previous pupils had had. Well, Miss Perhaps It Had Started With A “J” had had little to say when she departed, never to return, and Miss Leo had been in an exultant, strange mood since then.
Mrs Wheatley chides herself as she takes in the sight before her now. She had meant to keep an eye on Miss Leo, sensing that the child was not done even after routing her latest governess, but there had been household matters to attend to. In the thick of it, she had had to hope that the two girls were still allies. It had been a case of hope triumphing over experience to think that Miss Markham would suddenly mind the younger girl, and keep her in order without riling her.
Now here Miss Leonora is standing in the kitchen, but not Miss Leonora as Mrs Wheatley last saw her. The housekeeper is used to torn skirts, muddy boots and cuts and scrapes, but the half-shorn girl in front of her, with battle in her eyes, is quite something new.
Mrs Wheatley stares, words still beyond her. Miss Leonora’s hair is an unkempt mess, all different lengths, but apart from a very few strands, cut short. Perhaps hacked off would be a fitter description.
It’s beyond her, she realises.
“Your father will have to deal with this,” is what comes out of her mouth. She is not surprised that those words don’t douse the martial light in Miss Leonora’s eyes. After announcing their latest governess’s departure, Mr Colbourne had had little to say to the girls. Miss Jamieson, that was her name, used to young ladies, had not been too difficult for the cousins to thwart. They had not needed to be at their most outrageous.
In the main, the girls listened to Mrs Wheatley herself, and part of that was because she knew her limits. She now raises her hand in a gesture indicating that the girl should be the first to leave the kitchen, and Leo obeys, walking as tall as she can with no slouch about her out into the hallway.
It is a shame that they pass Miss Augusta on the way to the master’s study. Although she holds a book, she is not reading it intently enough to miss them walking past her through the open door.
“What on earth have you done?” she cries out at the sight of Leo. The younger girl turns and gives the older a scornful look.
“Isn’t it quite obvious what I’ve done?” Her tone makes clear what she thinks of the bigger girl for asking the question.
Miss Augusta flushes, preferring to be the one delivering put-downs to being at the receiving end.
“Come along,” Mrs Wheatley interjects, gently pushing Miss Leonora’s back. The sooner the master sees what has been done, the sooner it is over. Yet another quarrel between the two girls will only cause delay and bad tempers.
Miss Leonora resumes walking, not picking up her pace, not dragging her feet either. Like Mrs Wheatey, she ignores Miss Augusta’s rather loud, “Well.”
Mrs Wheatley knocks on the study door, trying to gauge Mr Colbourne’s temper from the way he calls out “Come in,” out of habit. She knows full well that whatever his mood, and it is generally subdued,his daughter’s latest doings will rile him. It is merely a question of whether his fury will be scorching or icy. She guides the girl into the room by the shoulder, following her inside. Miss Leonora does not resist, but takes no further step forward of her own volition.
Mr Colbourne looks up from his papers and takes in the sight. Leonora’s dress, neat and clean first thing this morning, is a little dishevelled, but it is her hair that captures the attention. Where once there had been long brown hair falling over her shoulders, there is a ragged mess.
Mrs Wheatey takes another look at it. In some places the child cut her hair so very short that it is a mercy she hadn’t injured herself in so doing. A qualm smites Mrs Wheatley, perhaps she could have tried to do something before marching Miss Leonora here, but Mr Colbourne might as well see the worst of it.
He must be overcome with shock, as Mrs Wheatley herself was.
Miss Leonora stands ramrod straight, defiant about what she has done. Mr Colbourne breathes in through his nostrils, his lips are pursed, but not for long.
“Why did you cut your hair like this, Leonora?” he demands, voice loud and sharp. Angry, but in control. He remains seated.
“I wanted to be a spy,” she replies.
Of course the child did. She is such a one for pretendings and imaginings, as if simply being Mistress Leonora Colbourne is unbearable. This playing at being a spy is new this year. Perhaps the household staff have humoured her too much, for this is going much further than putting on a cap or breeches that can then be taken off and put away.
Mr Colbourne stares fixedly at Miss Leonora. She doesn’t flinch.
“And where did you get the scissors from?” Mrs Wheatley feels obliged to ask, suddenly curious.
“The greenhouse,” Leonora mumbles. “The door was open, I saw some shears and—“
The idea that the child could well have done herself an injury returns to Mrs Wheatley. Well, at least it wasn’t anything from the kitchen, Mrs Wheatley thinks, with a touch of self-righteousness as well as relief, but knows then and there she’ll have to get the child’s hair washed and see that she scrubs her nails.
“You are old enough to know better than to play spies,” Mr Colbourne’s voice is a gust of northern wind directed at Miss Leonora. “You knew you had no business in the greenhouse. You are a very silly infant.”
There is a slight twitch in the small frame that Mrs Wheatley only notices because Miss Leo is standing right before her.
“Mrs Wheatley, you do what you can with her hair, and then, Leonora, you are to stay indoors for the rest of the month.”
The child stares at him, a good deal of her fight gone now. As Mr Colbourne knows full well, denying Miss Leo the right to go outdoors is a better punishment than most. He has not often laid a hand on her since realising this.
“And as you are clearly not sufficiently occupied, you can write out fifty times ‘I must not cut my own hair’, in the hope that you will learn such a simple precept,” he adds.
“Yes, sir.” Leonora says, cowed now.
“Go then, I’ve had enough of the sight of you.”
Walking behind the girl, Mrs Wheatley can see that Miss Leonora’s shoulders are a little less straight, her pace is half a second slower than it was before this encounter.
She says very little other than instructions as the child is bathed by Mary, with especial attention given to her hair and nails. Mrs Wheatley tells the maid that she’ll tend to the hair herself, knowing that the whole household will have heard the story by the time she is finished.
Miss Leonora is dressed in her nightgown, a towel covering her shoulders. Mrs Wheatley has just got her seated when Miss Augusta enters the room.
The housekeeper throws the newcomer a glance. Her presence will likely be no help at all.
“You look like a drowned—“
“Miss Augusta, please be quiet!” Mrs Wheatley commands. “If you can’t, you will have to leave. I am going to neaten Miss Leonora’s hair.”
“Or what’s left of it,” Miss Augusta mumbles.
There’s a gulping sort of gasp from Miss Leonora and Mrs Wheatley spins around to see that the child is staring at herself in the mirror. Her face is pale and haunted looking, framed by uneven, damp hair.
She is both irritated at what lies before her and sympathetic. But if Miss Leonora breaks down and cries, it will only make her task more difficult.
“Not a word, Miss Augusta,” Mrs Wheatley says, giving her a glare that works on the lowliest maid and haughtiest young lady alike. She knows that if Miss Augusta stays put, Miss Leonora will refrain from tears out of pride. But if Miss Augusta continues to goad, her cousin will be impossible.
Miss Leonora is perfectly still, her eyes closed. Perhaps it would be better not to touch her to offer comfort. His housekeeper doubts Mr Colbourne was being kind with his orders for Leonora to go to bed for the rest of the day after her hair was dealt with, it was probably meant as a period for the child to reflect on what she’d done. But she suspects that Leonora will welcome being able to hide away and cry. The best thing Mrs Wheatley can do for her is her duty.
First, she has to comb the hair. The child’s damp hair is such a different texture from her own, but she has trimmed it before. Her fingers don’t tremble at the memory of cutting another child’s much darker hair. But she concentrates her mind on how Miss Leonora’s hair has not been so short in many a year, and never in such a state.
She reaches for the scissors. She tries to be as methodical as she is about anything, starting on one side, trying to guess how much she needs to cut for it to be even. Soon, she realises it will be as short as a boy’s hair is, shorter than some. Perhaps that was what Miss Leonora had been truly aiming for, rather than playing at being a spy. She had certainly rebelled against Miss Jamieson’s notion of what a young lady should be, sweet and frilly.
“It’s not even,” Miss Augusta observes.
As Miss Leonora’s eyes snap open, Mrs Wheatley has already stepped back to ascertain for herself.
“I know, I’ll neaten it,” she says as neutrally as possible, keeping a closer eye on Miss Leonora than Miss Augusta.
“Lionesses have no mane,” Leonora declares. “Lions do, but lionesses don’t.”
“Do they now?” Mrs Wheately says absently, snipping away, glad that Miss Leonora is talking.
“Well, you won’t look like a lioness. Your hair isn’t going to be all shorn off,” Miss Augusta tells her.
Mrs Wheatley runs her fingers through the newly cut hair to check that she has got every strand. It is odd to keep finding her fingers free. No doubt Miss Leonora will keep finding it strange whenever she looks at herself in a mirror or runs a comb through her hair. Well, if they young miss is ever in a mood to do such a thing. Usually it is the maids or Mrs Whatley who comb her hair and put a ribbon in it if they are feeling venturesome. That will have to stop for now, until it all grows back. Miss Leonora will find her head colder, lighter, altogether strange.
Done, Mrs Wheatley steps away. Miss Leonora carries herself as if she does not regret what she has done, despite her father’s displeasure, despite Augusta’s mocking, despite the punishment. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees a lioness now, not a spy. Miss Leonora is quite the determined personage, despite being the youngest inhabitant of the house.
Mrs Wheatley would like to give that last governess a piece of her mind, but she clearly hadn’t been able to manage the girls from the moment she had stepped foot in the house. Mrs Wheatley hadn’t even bothered wagering how long she would last.
But it is Mrs Wheatley herself who keeps having to pick up the pieces after the young girls’ shenanigans. And yes, she can mostly get them to mind her, but here is Miss Leo doing this unthinkable thing. What will it be next? She looks down at the matted hair on the foor, notes that will have to see that that was all swept away too.
“We’re done, let me finish drying your hair,” she says, not letting any of her thoughts and worries into her voice, “and then it’s bed for you.”
“Will she be allowed supper?” Augusta asks with a ghoulish interest.
“The master didn’t say,” Mrs Wheatley replies, but catching a glimpse of Leonora’s rather forlorn face, she adds, “There’ll be some bread and butter, no doubt.”
Perhaps there could be more, but if the child has a fit of weeping, anything else might be beyond her. Miss Leonora hates to cry, and pretends she doesn’t in general. Mrs Wheatley knows that isn’t right, there is a time for weeping and a time for laughing, certainly for children. Do lions weep, she wonders. Do their cubs laugh?
The hair is soon rubbed dry – that will be an advantage, it will dry more quickly. Miss Augusta leaves, bored.
With so much hair gone, the child’s face looks quite different, and the likeness to her mother, and indeed to Miss Augusta is suddenly pronounced. Mrs Wheatley’s grasp on the towel tightens. She doubts the child will realise it, but the master will.
“You must go to bed now,” she says. Miss Leonora slides off her seat, stepping over the hair, her chin up, pretending she is someone else again, her notion of a lioness, perhaps. Mrs Wheatley sighs.
