𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝑨𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑, peter pevensie

𝒙𝒙𝒙𝒊𝒊 . . . lover boy

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 the day she was going to London with the Professor. Not only would she be leaving the country side for a city, she was going to be staying in an old terraced house with an old woman she'd never met before, but seeing the Pevensies for the first time in months, and meeting their parents.

William Pevensie had unexpectedly returned home in the middle of the night at some point in July, bloodied and bruised, but still in one piece. He somehow managed to secure a job at the War Office and judging by how highly his children spoke of her ( a certain blonde seventeen year old shall go unnamed ) he had a proposition he was fairly confident that Charlotte could not refuse, even though it came with a heavy price. He just had to play his cards right to get her on board.

It would all start with a crossword puzzle she had to answer in twelve minutes, under strict test conditions. And considering her fastest time for finishing a crossword was six minutes and thirty two seconds ( more information remembered by his eldest son ) he thought it would be a breeze.

The third day of Charlotte having to stay in an old house, having to sleep in a room with a bed that never stopped squeaking, and having to force down another round of toast made from dry bread placed before her by a cook that made Mrs Macready see like an absolute angel, was the one that turned out to be the most unexpected.

The first thing she noticed was a framed canvas painting hung over the fireplace, depicting a scene of a lamp post, flickering its light away under the gaze of the low autumn sun. Charlotte wasn't sure if Polly knew of Narnia, because if it turned out she did not, then it would be a highly amusing coincidence either way.

After twelve months of waiting, Charlotte, like Susan, had focused all of her attention on telling herself that England was her home.

Even if she knew Narnia practically ran through her veins.

Clearly, she had been staring at the painting a tad bit too much, because she was scared out of her wits when an unexpected voice said from behind her,

"To be young again, and get lost in the many wonders offered by the mind." Polly had appeared by her side seemingly out of nowhere, and she too, began to stare at the canvas.

"Oh. Um, good morning, Ms Plummer." The red head didn't know what to say to a woman she only saw at meal times and when they were in passing on the stairs.

"Enough of the Ms child, it makes me feel old, the one thing I wish not to feel. Polly will do just fine."

"Sorry, Ms Plummer- oh god," Charlotte shook her head and tried again, inwardly cringing, "-Polly."

"Does the lamp post feel like home for you, child?"

The question had formed so far out of the blue, so far in fact, Charlotte was beginning to think she was skating on thin ice - though she could not balance on ice to save her life - so spoke slowly, "Well, not a home, per se, but . . . familiar. As if its from a dream of a dream." 'Oh the irony' Charlotte thought to herself.