Ā a personal comic about haircuts and being queer and not realising your body isnāt really yours until you buy a pair of hair clippers Ā Thatās my experience anyway
I trained the neural network to generate superhero names, based on the list from this site. Ā I thought the database was going to be way too small, but the network proved me wrong.
Speet Stank Red Fart Mister Man Rad Food Sapgirl Woop Ann Man Boomss Boark II Supperman Superbore Slonk Lid Man Green Hooter II Starm Surper Shartar Goons Nana Rider Farm Captain In Redink Wolver Man Wizler
Supperman!
Iām not sure if he is a good cook, or if his powers increase through eatingā¦
Nana. I guess sheās just this little old granny? Pinching criminalsā ears and lecturing them all the way to jail?
ā¦actually, I might read that. Iād at least pick up Issue 1 to see what was going on.
I totally want comics about a supergrandma now.
Like, superheroes have kids, right? So where are the older generations of people with powers? How does aging affect them when you have them?
Like, say you have telekinesis. Well when you get to be like 80 do you occasionally miss and slam the teacup against the wall because it didnāt quite clear the door frame or something?
I want a story about this, but one where the old superhero (or supervillain!) is still effective despite occasional random aging related weirdness in their power use.
The costume shop ladies donāt age.
Tenebris, Lady of Shadows, does.
It makes for complications. Her powers flicker, the darkness which so gracefully slips in to hide her sometimes faltering, letting the light in, most recently causing her adversary of yesterday evening to get a decent look at her and gasp,Ā āyouāre a granny?ā
Sheād hit him with her handbag, but the damage was done.
āI need a mask,ā she tells the shorter, rounder lady as the taller one turns to fish plump donutlike confections out of the sizzling cast-iron skillet.
The other ladyās eyes go wide, her face displaying shock and a slight hint of otherwise well-hidden dismay. Tenebris has never bothered with disguise in her costume design, going entirely for an artful silhouette and trusting her shadows to obscure her identity.Ā āYour powers?ā she asks.
āStutter on occasion. Bastard got a look at me, the silly fucker in the green cape and tights?ā
The lady nods.Ā āIāll have a little word with him next time he comes in. Now, for your costume ā¦Ā ā
She brings out the sketchbook in which she and her wife have drawn almost fifty yearsā worth of costumes for Tenebris, and Tenebris pages through, remembering. Thereās her first one, simple and flowing, and subsequent designs that form a more elegant, tailored shape once Tenebris had gotten up the courage to ask for it; ones with integrated padding and then ones without it once she no longer needed it, her transformation over the years from an amorphous shadow to a specific shape and image. In all of them, her face is uncovered.
Sheās always had the shadows to do that.
The taller lady comes over with a plate.Ā āDonuts?ā she offers, and Tenebris takes one, biting into it happily.
They spend the next hour or so fussing over mask designs. The costume ladies bring up masks from the basement, a huge assortment, which Tenebris enjoys trying on until she realizes sheās never seen anybody wearing any of these, and the costume shop ladies never break secrecy with any of their customers, so that must mean the people these masks were created for are dead.
Before she can stop herself, she bursts into tears.
Within the space of a moment sheās surrounded on both sides, arms wrapping around her and holding her tight, letting her cry.
Itās long, and ugly, and somewhere in the middle of it she finds words and they come spilling out, telling the ladies how her powers are faltering and her knees are creaking and sheās pretty sure sheās getting arthritis in her fingers and she had trouble remembering an address last week and sheās worried sheāll get Alzheimerās like her mother did, and how bloody long agoĀ it was that first time she called the shadows to disguise her and they came and she hid inside them while she pissed all over her bossās car, back then when she could still aim, and sheās getting old and sheās going to die someday and sheās scared.
Eventually she runs out of steam and sits there, an old woman sitting in a huddle with two younger women whoāve been around far longer than she has. It occurs to her to be embarrassed; the pair of them are ageless and, she assumes, deathless as well.
The taller one speaks.Ā āYou will live,ā she says,Ā āas long as you do. All you get control over is how you live. I donāt know how dying compares to watching people die, but we all do what we can with what weāre given.ā
Tenebris draws in a deep breath, looks over the assembled pile of masks, and points.Ā āMake me one like that one.ā
When she leaves the shop most of an hour later, thereās a man just coming into the alleyway. He startles when he sets eyes on her, and recognition dawns in her just as it mirrors itself in him.Ā āHey!ā he says.Ā āYouāre theāā
She reacts with a speed sheāll crow over later. He doesnāt learn; her handbag thwacks him over the head just the same as it did last time, and she reaches out and grabs him by the ear.Ā āYes,ā she tells him,Ā āyes I am, and if you breathe a word of it to anyoneĀ I will hunt you down and drag you to the nearest police station by your ridiculous green tights and watch them make you call your motherāā instinct makes her add that last; heās definitely that young, and she isnāt sure if he even has a mother but judging by his reaction he doesāĀ āand tell her youāve been mean to old ladies.ā
Threat delivered, she whirls and dramatically exits the alley in the broad light of day, hiding a twinge from her knee, and heads back homeward, triumphant and musing over the irony of her superpower juxtaposed with the lines in her head.
Do not go gentle into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Number 12 Grimmauld Place is no longer hidden. It sits neatly between Number 11 and Number 13, its wrought iron polished and shiny, its windows clean of dust and grime. Muggles can see it, though they rarely give it more than a momentās glance; wizards and witches will occasionally approach cautiously to lay down a wreath of flowers, or a handwritten note addressed to The Boy Who Lives Still. Their wary respect is well-intentioned but unnecessary- Number 12 is second only to Hogwarts in the number of protective spells and wards place around it.
It is empty most of the year.
Fall winds blow and disturb no oneās slumber inside. In winter, snow gathers on the steps and railings; the windows remain dark and the curtains drawn. No flowers peek out from the windowsills to celebrate the arrival of spring.Ā
In the summer, they arrive.
From the outside, there is nothing to unite them. There are loud, boisterous teenagers and shy, quiet children no older than twelve; there are some dressed in the latest Muggle fashions and some whose jeans are patched and worn. They are of all races and ethnicities, all shapes and sizes, from all parts of the British Isles; they can be heard chattering in accents that clash and meld and somehow become harmonious. From the outside, they have nothing in common. But since when has someoneās outside reflected who they really are?
Molly Weasley was the first person Harry told about his idea. She and Arthur help him expand Number 12ā²s interior, adding bathrooms and reading nooks and bedrooms. Ginny chooses the squashiest armchairs and sturdiest furniture, tracking down bargains with a fierce glint in her eyes. When he realizes he needs an outdoor space, Hermione helps him to link his back door to an empty field. Ron helps Bill put up Quidditch hoops while Neville transplants trees and Hannah stations benches beneath their shady branches. Parvati paints the rooms in swirls of bright colors- green and red and blue and yellow mingle on the walls.Ā
In the summer, Number 12 Grimmauld Place becomes a refuge for lost children. They are the ones with no home to go to when the term ends, the ones who donāt have someone waiting to pick them up when the Hogwarts Express pulls into Platform 9 Ā¾. They are the ones whose homes are not safe, who grow anxious as June approaches and spring turns to summer. They are the ones who are no longer welcomed by those who share their blood, who have had to make family out of friends.
Harry Potter greets these students at Kings Cross and he takes them in.
In the summer, former DA members stream in and out of Number 12ā²s brightly polished door. Luna brings suitcases packed with odd creatures sheās discovered on her travels; the students sit in the sunny field as she pulls them out one by one and tells of hiking up mountains and wading through marshes. Ginny gives flying lessons and organizes Quidditch matches; the Harpies donate their old brooms when they switch sponsors (something that happens far more often than any other team in the league). There is a greenhouse where students with a green thumb can tend their own plots and assist Neville with his herbology experiments. Justin and Hermione drill them on Muggle subjects; Justin teaches algebra, geometry, and basic sciences while Hermione covers history and literature. George always spends a memorable week showing off his newest inventions while Ron drops by almost every evening to play chess. Students entering their fifth year can spend the summer shadowing people in careers that pique their interest; the Trio rarely use their fame for their own gain, but they wield it with fierce determination in the service of others.Ā
In the summer, these children are fed by Molly Weasley, hugged by Hannah Abbott, told bedtime stories by Luna Lovegood. They can spend all day reading under a tree or playing Exploding Snap in the kitchen or arguing about how best to make a phone work at Hogwarts. They can wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and make their way down to the kitchen, where Harry will meet them with a mug of hot tea and a listening ear. They can stay in bed on days when the world is too cruel and lonely, when the emptiness in their body is too heavy to bear. They can see others who struggle with it too and realize that family is not limited by blood, that being lonely doesnāt always mean being alone.
In the summer, Number 12 Grimmauld Place opens its doors wide and vibrates with life. It becomes a place where Sirius Black would be welcomed along with Severus Snape, where Harry Potter and Tom Riddle could spend their summers side by side.
In the summer, Number 12 Grimmauld Place becomes a home.
After many months of being squashed by the stresses of my last year of graduate school, my muse has come roaring back with a vengeance. No promises on when the next update will be, but I hope you enjoy this piece
This is my favourite HP headcanon in the history of ever.
Iām crying. Thank you for this. Itās so beautiful.
wupacing 