Harry & The Foxtail

o1 | promissum

(Dedicated to the wonderful @cubanpetes for the beautiful cover!)

o1

p r o m i s s u m

A declaration or assurance that one will do a particular thing or that a particular thing will happen.

HARRY LOVED HIS sister, he really did. However, times like this made him want to clamp his hands to her shoulders and shake the foolishness from her system. Hearing her speaking of such things like different coloured skies, multiple moons and whatnot was okay (because scientifically it can be explained, other planets for example exhibit these attributes) —but; warlocks, fairies, werewolves and giants well that was a bit farfetched...

"— and there were tales that people had disappeared from a certain area of the island (which is obviously restricted because people go missing!), and I was bloody lucky enough to buy some stuff from that area, from the stalls at the beaches! The natives believe people are taken by—"

As he watched her bubbly and bright- eyed-ly talk of her adventures for the past seventeen minutes, he had grown bored, his pale, jade eyes flickered (when she wasn't looking) to the bookcase—her bookcase and began to think of thoughts he's thought about for—it seems like for him at least—as long as time itself.

The bookcase stood tall, wide and full with mostly Sofia's books. Harry had a few there too. It was surprising it even fit in the small, London living room of their two bedroom flat.

Harry's eyes zoned in on one area; in particular, the third shelf from the bottom, that had all of her re-readable books and he wanted to shake his head, at the pain in the arse they all are.

He didn't much care for books, only a few good Dan Brown's or a good John Le Carré, but fantasy no way. Yet that was Sofia's life obsession since she could read full-length books.

He knew she was quick to believe fairy tales and novels alike. Oh, how she had cried when her acceptance letter to Hogwarts didn't arrive when he was a fresh-faced nine and she was a four foot-something eleven. A mere eleven-year-old Sofia, pouring her heart, mind and soul into the tear stained rug of their shared bedroom (at the time).

Sometimes it was hard to believe she was the oldest, but she was and there was no changing that. Time can never change—ever—once it's done, it's done. Like toothpaste, once it's out the tube it's not going back in.

Over the years though she had matured. She rarely showed signs of going over the edge with endless talks of things that didn't exist. It bothered him, it really bothered him. Ever since he found out Father Christmas wasn't real when he was seven, he never believed in anything else again. He was just another child forever traumatised by the believing in something false, which then seeded a plant of "if science can't prove it, it doesn't exist".

He'd tried over the many years of them living together, to tell her, to make her understand reality, but no matter what he told her or how many times he did, Sofia's belief in childish nonsense never stammered, not once, if anything they stood firmer and made her more delusional. At one point, Harry was close to calling his GP (who was on his favourites, second to Sofia) when he found ripped pages from textbooks, torn notebook pages (with almost unreadable writings and quite disturbing—for lack of a better word—ball point pen drawings) and post-it notes all over the living room wall. It almost looked like a detective wall for the mythological, with sightings, and "fake" points and connections.