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fpbAnastasio Attanasio, alias Ricky, was the youngest of five children, each born a few years after the other. Some had left home and rarely returned; and when the youngest, Maria Alba Caterina (or Ketty), boarded the Zeppelin for Beauxbatons, there was nobody to keep an eye on him when his father was at work.
Inevitably, what followed was a week of highly surprising and different homecomings. Alberico tried to talk Ricky into some sense, twice got him to promise to behave, but night after night he came home weary from work only to find things that needed fixing. His patience, though long tested (he had, after all, four other children), had a limit; and that limit was well and truly exceeded the day he came home and found all the poultry in the formal living room, legs tied together and scared out of their wits. And busy leaving reminders of their presence all over the furniture and the precious carpets.
When one found Ricky in that sort of situation, Alberico Attanasio had long since learned, there was no point in asking for an explanation. It would always be confusing, and it would never do much to prevent the next outburst. He transported the unfortunate birds back to their coop, Banished their fetters, and irritably set his son to clean the stains on the furniture. An order he promptly countermanded when the first stain to meet Ricky’s clumsy wand started giving a distinct smell of burned wood.
It had been a tough day, and Alberico Attanasio, Minister for Magic in Turin, was not prepared to try and make an eight-year-old see some sense, let alone train him in cleaning spells. He sent him to his room without any supper and fell into an armchair.
The next thing he knew it was one o’clock in the morning, the fire in the hearth had nearly burned itself out, and it was cold. And dark. The Minister got up, aware of unrested weariness in every bone in his body, threw some wood on the dying fire, and watched it slowly grow. Then he forced an Invigorating Charm into himself – he really did not want to, but he could not afford to have Ricky wake up and see the living room still uncleaned. The boy would get entirely the wrong kind of message, he felt. He got rid of all the bird-stains he could see and Transfigured the spot that Ricky had burned back into unburned mahogany. He knew he would pay for it when the Charm wore out in the morning, but then, chi se ne fregava? Who cared? He could always have a nap in his office. He was in a mood to tell everyone to get lost. And then it occurred to him that if he did and it became known, that damned man Caragiorgio would certainly make a fuss in the Council.
This could not go on. This just could not go on.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
When morning came, Ricky came downstairs rather nervously. He was worried about his father’s anger, but he knew that staying in his room would not improve it, and besides, he was ravenously hungry. A large breakfast spread out on the kitchen table, with a slice of cake to go with the usual caffelatte and biscuits, made his spirits rise – his father would not have ordered their house-elf to abound if he were still furious with him. Unable to wait a moment more, he sat down and started eating – actually, the proper word is scarfing – without waiting for anyone.
It was only when he had got to the bottom of the whole biscuit tin – and the cake was no more than a distant memory – that Ricky became aware that he had been hearing his father’s voice all along. He was in his studio, next door, speaking with someone – this was clear – through the house fire. Ricky had seen him do it hundreds of times. Ricky carefully cleaned his mouth with a napkin (it would not do to get Dad started on cleanliness just now) and went over, leaving the breakfast remains to the house-elf.
As he walked into his father’s studio, the voice got clearer. “…So if you think it can be done without too much trouble, I would consider it a favour.”
“Of course,” answered the voice from the hearth, “and quite frankly I don’t think there is any problem.” And now Ricky knew the speaker: he was the neighbourhood Healer, a middle-aged wizard called Cassio Quinto Giraudo, who had a few children of roughly his own age. “Do you, dear?” said Healer Giraudo, turning to someone unseen.
“That’s good then,” he went on, turning back to his father. “Shall we say in an hour?” Alberico just nodded. “In an hour, then.”
“Many thanks, Healer Giraudo.”
“Please, Minister, it’s nothing.” And the head disappeared from the flames.
“All right,” said Alberico, turning to Ricky as if he had always known he was there, “you heard that. In an hour, Maria Cassia Giraudo and Lapo d’Amalfi will come pick you up and take you with them to spend the day at the Aleramo’s. And from now on, that is what will happen every week day.”
Ricky was horrified and near tears. “But DADDY!!”
“Daddy what?”
“Maria Cassia is awful! And you said yourself that the d’Amalfis are all one big bad mob! I don’t WANNA go with them!”
“There is an alternative, of course.” Ricky looked up: this sounded hopeful. “I can always lock you up in a steel cage before I leave home, order the house-elf to feed you through the bars, and only release you when I come back.”
Now Ricky was shaken to his core. He took this seriously, and his eyes filled with tears; he did not manage to speak.
“Oh, good God! Listen, Ricky, I did not mean that. It was a joke. I wasn’t being serious!” The boy stopped blubbing. “But you have to understand that I can’t spend my days at work wondering whether I shall come back to find the farm burned down or a plague of giant pandas galumphing through it. This really cannot go on. The Aleramos will look after you, and you will find children your own age among them.” This clearly was the last word.
“Now, march! Go upstairs, get washed, get changed. Maria Cassia is coming here in an hour to pick you up.”
Inevitably, what followed was a week of highly surprising and different homecomings. Alberico tried to talk Ricky into some sense, twice got him to promise to behave, but night after night he came home weary from work only to find things that needed fixing. His patience, though long tested (he had, after all, four other children), had a limit; and that limit was well and truly exceeded the day he came home and found all the poultry in the formal living room, legs tied together and scared out of their wits. And busy leaving reminders of their presence all over the furniture and the precious carpets.
When one found Ricky in that sort of situation, Alberico Attanasio had long since learned, there was no point in asking for an explanation. It would always be confusing, and it would never do much to prevent the next outburst. He transported the unfortunate birds back to their coop, Banished their fetters, and irritably set his son to clean the stains on the furniture. An order he promptly countermanded when the first stain to meet Ricky’s clumsy wand started giving a distinct smell of burned wood.
It had been a tough day, and Alberico Attanasio, Minister for Magic in Turin, was not prepared to try and make an eight-year-old see some sense, let alone train him in cleaning spells. He sent him to his room without any supper and fell into an armchair.
The next thing he knew it was one o’clock in the morning, the fire in the hearth had nearly burned itself out, and it was cold. And dark. The Minister got up, aware of unrested weariness in every bone in his body, threw some wood on the dying fire, and watched it slowly grow. Then he forced an Invigorating Charm into himself – he really did not want to, but he could not afford to have Ricky wake up and see the living room still uncleaned. The boy would get entirely the wrong kind of message, he felt. He got rid of all the bird-stains he could see and Transfigured the spot that Ricky had burned back into unburned mahogany. He knew he would pay for it when the Charm wore out in the morning, but then, chi se ne fregava? Who cared? He could always have a nap in his office. He was in a mood to tell everyone to get lost. And then it occurred to him that if he did and it became known, that damned man Caragiorgio would certainly make a fuss in the Council.
This could not go on. This just could not go on.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
When morning came, Ricky came downstairs rather nervously. He was worried about his father’s anger, but he knew that staying in his room would not improve it, and besides, he was ravenously hungry. A large breakfast spread out on the kitchen table, with a slice of cake to go with the usual caffelatte and biscuits, made his spirits rise – his father would not have ordered their house-elf to abound if he were still furious with him. Unable to wait a moment more, he sat down and started eating – actually, the proper word is scarfing – without waiting for anyone.
It was only when he had got to the bottom of the whole biscuit tin – and the cake was no more than a distant memory – that Ricky became aware that he had been hearing his father’s voice all along. He was in his studio, next door, speaking with someone – this was clear – through the house fire. Ricky had seen him do it hundreds of times. Ricky carefully cleaned his mouth with a napkin (it would not do to get Dad started on cleanliness just now) and went over, leaving the breakfast remains to the house-elf.
As he walked into his father’s studio, the voice got clearer. “…So if you think it can be done without too much trouble, I would consider it a favour.”
“Of course,” answered the voice from the hearth, “and quite frankly I don’t think there is any problem.” And now Ricky knew the speaker: he was the neighbourhood Healer, a middle-aged wizard called Cassio Quinto Giraudo, who had a few children of roughly his own age. “Do you, dear?” said Healer Giraudo, turning to someone unseen.
“That’s good then,” he went on, turning back to his father. “Shall we say in an hour?” Alberico just nodded. “In an hour, then.”
“Many thanks, Healer Giraudo.”
“Please, Minister, it’s nothing.” And the head disappeared from the flames.
“All right,” said Alberico, turning to Ricky as if he had always known he was there, “you heard that. In an hour, Maria Cassia Giraudo and Lapo d’Amalfi will come pick you up and take you with them to spend the day at the Aleramo’s. And from now on, that is what will happen every week day.”
Ricky was horrified and near tears. “But DADDY!!”
“Daddy what?”
“Maria Cassia is awful! And you said yourself that the d’Amalfis are all one big bad mob! I don’t WANNA go with them!”
“There is an alternative, of course.” Ricky looked up: this sounded hopeful. “I can always lock you up in a steel cage before I leave home, order the house-elf to feed you through the bars, and only release you when I come back.”
Now Ricky was shaken to his core. He took this seriously, and his eyes filled with tears; he did not manage to speak.
“Oh, good God! Listen, Ricky, I did not mean that. It was a joke. I wasn’t being serious!” The boy stopped blubbing. “But you have to understand that I can’t spend my days at work wondering whether I shall come back to find the farm burned down or a plague of giant pandas galumphing through it. This really cannot go on. The Aleramos will look after you, and you will find children your own age among them.” This clearly was the last word.
“Now, march! Go upstairs, get washed, get changed. Maria Cassia is coming here in an hour to pick you up.”
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Attanasios, wizards extraordinaire
Date: 2010-03-24 08:33 pm (UTC)Beauxbatons is such a ptretty name! I'm sorry it's canonical, I thought at first that you invented it.
Important points: is Alberico Minister for all Italy or just Turin?
What if any is the Attansio family connection with the House Of Savoy?
With American SF wrtter AA Attansio?
What the hell is the family name of the Savoyard dynasty anyway?
If the Duke of Aosta (1918) was a six foot giant why was his royal cousin such a shrimp?
Why do I read fanfiction just as my AM tea is beginning to kick in?
Re: Attanasios, wizards extraordinaire
Date: 2010-03-24 11:17 pm (UTC)Tha Zeppelin is a homage to my friend
Beauxbatons is such a ptretty name! I'm sorry it's canonical, I thought at first that you invented it.
The fact that Italy has no school of magic to compare to Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will become a central plot point in future stories.
Important points: is Alberico Minister for all Italy or just Turin?
All of Italy.
What if any is the Attansio family connection with the House Of Savoy?
Quite close, but they were in that part of Piedmont (Montferrat) before the Savoys came.
With American SF wrtter AA Attansio?
None. this is the first time I heard of him.
What the hell is the family name of the Savoyard dynasty anyway?
Just Savoy. The branch who became kings of Italy in 1861 was called Savoy-Carignan.
If the Duke of Aosta (1918) was a six foot giant why was his royal cousin such a shrimp?
Not just six foot - six foot six (one metre ninety-eight) and a war hero besides. An amazing man. And it happens. In fact, the House of Savoy-Carignan was apt to produce types so different from each other as to lead many people to suspect the Savoy-Carignan ladies of wandering.
Why do I read fanfiction just as my AM tea is beginning to kick in?
Sounds like I may have done something right.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-25 06:57 pm (UTC)And nothing to do with fanfic, but as a fellow book-lover you really should read this post+comments-->
http://community.livejournal.com/customers_suck/28547605.html
no subject
Date: 2010-03-25 10:44 pm (UTC)I like zeppelins, too, though I don't think they quite fit in the Harry Potter world. They seem more steampunkish to me.
There's an element to your writing style in this story that is both good and bad. It has a formal storybook kind of feel to it that is reminiscent of classic children's fairy tales, but some individual sentences become a little bit too stilted, especially in dialog.
Some other small nitpicks:
1. The first paragraph is confusing, as you first refer to Ricky as the youngest of five children, but then say "when the youngest, Maria Alba Caterina (or Ketty), boarded the Zeppelin..." I assume what you meant was the youngest among all his other siblings, but that's not clear here.
2. Ricky has a wand at age eight? You'll probably need to explain how these things are done in the Italian wizarding world. In the British wizarding world, it seems to be the norm that children don't get wands until they go off to school, so I'm wondering why on earth Ricky's father gave him a wand, and why he hasn't taken it away from him? Ricky is obviously dangerous enough unsupervised without a wand!
3. I don't recall whether Ricky's mother was mentioned in one of the earlier chapters, but I am wondering why she is completely absent here. If she's dead or otherwise gone, it should be mentioned by way of explaining why there is no one else to look after him.
4. Ricky seems like a bit of a crybaby. For such a troublemaker, surely this isn't the first time his father has threatened him with some dire punishment? Is that deliberate? If so, the impression I get is that he's quite spoiled and his father has been ineffective at instilling discipline thus far, which means his tears are probably just a tactic he's learned to effectively avoid punishment.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-26 07:46 pm (UTC)Well, but isn't a steaming red magical locomotive as steampunk as they come? Or a flying Ford Anglia, even?
Numbered points:
1) You are quite right, of course. Must clarify.
2) That is part of the institutional weakness of the Italian Ministry. Traditions and disciplines vary from place to place, almost from family to family, and enforcing a nationwide discipline is not easy. The Attanasios themselves would be the first to complain if their own ideas of when to give a child his wand were interfered with.
3) Heh... heh... heh...
4) One thing that will come out in this story is that Ricky's father is not only minister, but quite a powerful wizard in his own right. Ricky has an exaggerated idea of what he can do and of what punishments are possible in the Wizarding World, caught from storybooks. And besides, remember that children of that age have no sense of humour, and in particular no idea of irony. I well remember that at that age, the harmless city of Verona became one of my own chief terrors, because an exasperated nun (dinnertime at junior school, you do the maths) had threatened to put me in a suitcase and ship me there.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-26 04:59 pm (UTC)"Oh, good God! Listen, Ricky, I didn't mean that. It was a joke. I wasn't being serious!"
"But you have to understand that I can't spend my days at work wondering whether I'll come back to find the farm burned down or a plague of giant pandas galumphing through it. This really can't go on. The Aleramos will look after you, and you'll find children your own age among them."
no subject
Date: 2010-03-26 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-26 09:25 pm (UTC)I do still think it would be worthwhile for you to do the dialogue writer's equivalent of sketching from life: get a notepad and find some discrete corner in a busy place where you can transcribe bits of the conversations around you. Or at least close your eyes and listen mindfully.
The essential thing -- in writing just as in the visual arts -- is observation. Every aspect of that which we write or draw is either a recording of something immediately observed, or else is (largely unconsciously) pieced together from observations we have stored away for ourselves in the past. Failing any more specialized practice, I'd at least suggest finding some writers who are particularly good at writing dialogue for the sort of characters you're interested in writing, and spend extra time reading them, to round out your observational store.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-27 06:36 pm (UTC)