Plus, most of the people who knew his dad are long dead. đŠ
And now you made it extra rude
NOT COOL, PEOPLE- NOT COOL!
On the 12th July 2065, the Knight Bus pulled up outside a special street in London. Not many people used it anymoreâ not since the new Wizarding Taxi Service had been set up a good forty years before, promising all of the convenience of the Knight Bus with none of the motion sickness. But so far it had still managed to cling on to life, though now it mainly served aging witches and wizards who still remembered it from its glory days, and the odd group of young people riding it for a dare (and usually getting very sick in the processâ though that was probably mainly the fault of the large quantities of firewhisky they often brought with them).
Today, the only passenger getting off at the Diagon Alley stop was an elderly manâ though not as old as you might think, for a wizardâ with snow white hair that still never lay flat, bright green eyes that looked out through round rimmed glasses, and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead.
âG’bye Mr Potter!â the conductor called out.
âCheers Ted!â the old man called back, âAnd hey, tell your Grandad I said hi!â
âI will Mr Potter!â the young man said, grinning widely. âHeâll be right chuffed at you remembering him. He still talks about the war, y’know. Says you and him were instrumental in defeating Voldemort⊠oh, sorry.â he paused, clearly having only just remembered that you werenât supposed to say his name in front of the older generation.
âItâs fine, Ted.â Harry said. âFear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself, after all.â and he walked down the steps, only just resisting the urge to laugh. Stan Shunpike obviously hadnât changed a bit if he was going round telling people heâd been instrumental in ending the war. Harry was only surprised that he wasnât claiming to have won the whole thing single-handedly.
He waited, under the pretence of reading a poster some muggle had stuck on what they thought was a brick wallâ something about a missing catâ until the bus had hurtled off again, down the road and round the corner. Then he reached inside his bag, a new one that Hermione had bought him for Christmas last yearâ âitâs the latest one, Harry. You could hold a house in one of these things! Makes that one I took horcrux hunting look like a cupboard.â
âYeah,â Ron had added, giving Hermione an affectionate kiss on the cheek as he did so, âwho know? Maybe some day theyâll finally have invented a bag big enough to carry all your books.ââ and he pulled out his invisibility cloak.
He didnât really need it all that much nowadays. Gone were the days when he couldnât walk down a street without being begged for autographs. People who didnât know him didnât tend to recognise him much now. Sometimes he felt sure that, no matter how much he aged, in the public eye heâd always be the tall, skinny teenager who defeated Voldemort. He couldnât really blame them for choosing to stop time there. Occasionallyâ but more often when he visited Diagon Alley, where the ghosts were particularly strongâ heâd find that he started thinking of himself, not as the young man he had been, or the old man he had become, but as a boy. A small, skinny, rather undernourished boy in hand-me-down clothes and broken glasses fixed with tape.
âYou look just like your father,â he remembered someoneâ so many someonesâ saying to him, âexcept for your eyes,â an image pops into his head, of a pale man with greasy hair dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack (now the site of the Remus Lupin Werewolf Support Society, another of Hermioneâs projects, heâs still got his badge somewhere)â âyou have your motherâs eyesâ.
The eyes, at least, are the same, but nobodyâs said he looks like his father for decades. Not since his once jet black hair turned first grey, then white, and his face gained one too many wrinkles to ever again remind anyone of a man whoâd died at 22.
Besides, there was nobody left now who had known his father. The last of the Marauders had died in the war, the few teachers, classmates and Order members who might remember him were long gone. Perhaps there were a few leftâ wizards live so much longer than mugglesâ but, if so, Harry never met them, and if he did he doubted that any of them would connect the laughing boy they had known with the old man they saw before them.
It was strange to think how much the likeness had mattered to him once. He used to feel like it connected him to his father in some way, felt proud when people commented on itâ now he was almost glad theyâd stopped.
The shadows of the past hung over him far too much already.
He hestitated, making sure that he was fully covered by the cloak, and then walked through what any muggle would have seen as just an ordinary, rather grubby, brick wall with a cat poster on it, and what anybody with even a trace of magic in tgem would have clearly seen as the doorway to the Leaky Cauldron.
It was, as always, rather crowded in there, and Harry had to make quite an effort so as to avoid jostling someone and possibly causing a panic. He did end up accidentally knocking over a pint glass, so that itâs contents spilled all over the table and dripped onto the floor, but luckily the owner didnât see who did it, and so instead of panicking merely started a rather loud argument with the man standing directly behind Harry. Harry himself made his way out of the back entrance and into the alley, before he could cause any more trouble.
At first glance, Diagon Alley was the same as it had been that first magical day that Hagrid had taken him to buy his school supplies.
There was still the same atmosphere of freedom and excitementâ it would have reminded Harry of the end of term, if that time hadnât always been associated in his own mind with grim despair and a longing to go back to schoolâ that you always got in those few places where witches and wizards were free to use magic without worrying about running into muggles. Still the same tempting but (Harry had to remind himself even now) totally unecessary magical objects placed tantalisingly in the windows of shopsâ including a solid gold and silver chess set, and a globe that not only rotated in midair, orbited by a miniature moon, but also appeared to change cloud formations depending on what the weather was like in different parts of the world.
Hell, since wizarding fashions seldom changed dramatically, instead cycling through endless variations on the theme âcloak and pointy hatâ, it could even have been the same people passing by him now as had passed by him all those years ago, if it werenât for the fact that they would all be much older now, and a lot of them were probably dead.
But there had been changes as well.
Olivanderâs was still there, only now it was not run by an Olivander, but by somebody elseâ Harry couldnât remember the name now, but thereâd been a thing about it in the âProphet a few years ago. Some ex-Durmstrang student had decided to reopen it under the old name. There had been complaints at the time, but they had since died down. Apparently she made very good wands.
Madame Malkinâs was gone though, replaced by Wizwitch, a shop that according to the sign, sold âall the latest fashions, at all the lowest pricesâ.
Weasleyâs Wizard Wheezes was still doing good businessâ nobody had even heard of Zonkoâs Jokeshop nowadaysâ but the site of Flourish and Blotts was now home to Longbottomâs Garden supplies (young Frank Longbottom had inherited his fatherâs love of Herbology, if not his talent for teaching).
And, of course, the space that had once been set aside for Florean Fortescueâs Ice Cream Parlour (and now had a small plaque mounted outside it to commemorate that fact) was now occupied by a great stone building, with a mural of a golden bird painted over the doorway, flapping its wings in the flames, and below it the words: ORDER OF THE PHEONIX MUSEUM.
As always, Harry had to pause for a moment upon entering the museum (it was free admission, of course, Hermione had been very insistent about that). No matter how many times he visited, he never got used to it.
In front of him, behind a wall of glass not disimilar to the one he had one vanished to free the python at the zoo, stood sixth plinths. On them, in order, stood an old diary with a hole through the middle; a ring with a cracked stone (a replicaâ Harry had never told anyone where the real one was); a broken locket with a serpentine âSâ engraved on it; a golden goblet; a silver tiara set with a blue gem in the middle, and, on the last and largest plinth, the reconstructed skeleton of a simly enormous snake.
In front of the display, an eager looking museum attendant was talking excitedly to a group of children and their parents, telling them about the origins of each horcrux and how it had been destroyed.
These attendants were the reason Harry was wearing the cloak. They tended to be Wizarding War enthusiasts, and tended to be knowledgeable enough about it that they might just be able to recognise him even if he didnât look much like the pictures on the Chocolate Frog Cards anymore (did they even still do Chocolate Frog Cards? Now he came to think about it, he hadnât seen a Chocolate Frog on sale for years).
He didnât mind them too much, but he knew that if they knew he was here then they would insist on making a fuss, dragging him around all the displays and showering him with questions about the old days.
Ron had refused to set foot in the place since the first visit, and nothing he, Hermione and Ginny could say had been able to persuade him otherwise. âTheykept following me around,â he complained, âasking what it was like. So I told them: it was bloody awful and we kept nearly getting killedâ and they laughed, like they thought I was joking.â
âWell,â Hermione had said, âyou canât expect them to take it as seriously as we do. Most of that lot werenât even born when You-Knowâ when Voldemort was defeated. Itâs all ancient history to them.â
âItâs payback, Ron,â Ginny had said, âfor all those times you didnât pay attention during Binnsâ history classes. Somewhere, up there,â she pointed at the sky, âa thousand goblin rebels are laughing at you.â
âWhatever.â Ron had been adamant, âIâm not going back in there again.â
Hermione and Ginny didnât visit much now, either.
âYouâve got to let go.â Ginny always told him, whenever he suggested it. âYes it happened, and yes it was dreadful and important and we mustnât ever forget itâ but itâs over. And it was all such a long time ago. At some point, you just have to accept that, or youâll go mad.â
âIâve managed to avoid insanity so far.â heâd said the last time, trying to lighten the mood.
âYes.â Sheâd replied, but sheâd looked doubtful.
It wasnât a question of forgetting it, he thought as he walked by Gryffindorâs sword in its glass case, and the portrait of Albus Dumbledore mounted on the wall (he could have sworn it winked at him as he walked past). There was no chance of him ever forgetting it. He still had the scars, for Godâs sake. He still woke up screaming sometimes, convinced that it was all happening again and that this time he wasnât going to be able to stop it, clutching his forehead against phantom pains in his scar.
Heâd walked past quite a few exhibits by nowâ including reconstructions of the DA room and the Chamber of Secrets, and a gruesome replica of Mad-Eye Moodyâs enchanted glass eye, swivelling round to glare at the small children who came to gawk at it. Harry occasionally thought about complaining about thatâ it didnât seem quite respectful enough, somehowâ but, on reflection, he thought as he watched a little girl tap the glass of the case and squeal as the eye turned and fixed upon her, he couldnât really think of anything Moody would have liked better.
âKeep them on their guard!â heâd have said, what remained of his mouth smiling in approval. âConstant vigilance!â
Harry almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat when he caught sight of the next exhibit.
âIn Memoriamâ the black banner read, over the wall of framed photographs of everybody who had fought and died in the first and second wars against Voldemort. Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Snape, Dumbledore, Colin Creevey⊠all the people he couldnât save.
Was it worth it?
That was the question he kept asking himself, the question that always drive him here, searching the past for answers.
Was it worth all the death, all the pain, all the fighting? Standing here, invisible, with a crowd of the dead waving at him happily from their frames, Harry wasnât so sure.
They all looked so young.
Then, in the centre, was photo that was different to all the others. A group photo, rather than one with only one or two subjects, a photo that reminded Harry of standing in the house that had become his godfatherâs prison, in the conpany of a man who had seen so many terrible things that his sense of perspective had been skewed to the extent that showing a boy the faces of his dead parents and their dead friends could be seen as a treat.
There they all were, still smiling. Lily and James, Frank and Alice, Sirius, Remus, Wormtail, Mad-Eye and all the others. âThe Original Order of the Pheonixâ, the label underneath read, followed by a list of names and birth and death dates. A lot of death dates.
For a moment Harry envied them their frozen moment of happiness. There were horrors in their future just like there were horrors in his past, but at least they didnât have to remember them. The woman who had his eyes, and the man who looked so much like he had looked that it was as if he was looking at his 21 year old self again, had no idea that their son would be an orphan mere months after the photo was taken.
Suddenly, he heard a patter of feet behind him, and only just managed to leap out of the way before their ownerâ a small boy, about four years old, wearing a bright green cloak and clutching a toy wandâ barged right into him. As it was, the boy ran past him, eager to get a closer look at the pictures.
He was young, probably much too young to know what he was looking at, andHarry watched him as he peered into the frames, waving back at all the funny little people inside.
âPhineas!â Ah, and here were the parents. âPhineas! Wait for Mummy and Daddy!â a flustered looking woman in a pale purple cloak was running after him, followed by a dark grey cloaked man who must have been her husband.
The boy continued studying the pictures, when suddenly simething seemed to catch his eye. âMummy! Daddy! Look!â he said, jabbing a finger at the photo in the centre.
âYes, sweetheart.â the woman said, âthatâs the Order of the Pheonix. Remember, we told you about them? They helped defeat Voldemort.â
The child nodded, and Harry looked down in amazement at this child who would never know what it was the flinch at the name âVoldemortâ. Who would never be told that his value was reduced down to his blood status. Who would never need to cling to photographs and stories and likenesses to feel a connection to the oarents who were now standing in front of him.
Yes. It had been worth it.
But the child wasnât finished. âI know itâs the Order of the Pheonix.â he said, âbut look!â he pointed again, more urgently, and Harry realised that he had singled out one of the figures in particular. âThat man looks just like Harry Potter!â
An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.
It isnât uncommon for this particular demon to be summonedâfrom
exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more
exhausting) ceremonies in forestsâbut it has to admit, this is the first time
itâs been called forth from its realm into a claustrophobic living room bathed
in the dull orange-pink glow of old glass lamps and a multitude of wide-eyed,
creepy antique porcelain dolls that could give Chucky a run for his money with
all of their silent, seething stares combined. Accompanying those oddities are
tea cup and saucer sets on shelves atop frilly doilies crocheted with the
utmost care, and cross-stitched, colorful âHome Sweet Homeâs hung across the wood-paneled
walls.
Itâs a mistakeâa wrong number, per se. No witch itâs ever
known has lived in such an, ah, dated,
home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if
theyâd up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didnât work that way. Not at all.
Not if they want to survive the encounter.
It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacentâthe kitchen,
going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge
cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It movesâfeels something slip
beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys
and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash
of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top,
as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger.
It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into
this strange place.
As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of
the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish
towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her
neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.
Now, to be fair, the demon wouldnât ordinarily second guess
being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and
a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but
there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets
her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless)
grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.
âTodd! Todd, dear, I didnât know you were visiting this year!
You didnât call, you didnât writeâbut, oh, Iâm so happy youâre here, dear!
Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a
heart attack. And donât worry about the blood, hereâI had an accident. My favorite
figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didnât go as expected. But I seem
to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and âedgyâ stuff these days, so I
donât suppose you mind.â She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isnât
mocking, itâs sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or
maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a
few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. âImagine if it leaves a scar! Itâd be a
bit âbadass,â as you teenagers say, wouldnât it?â
She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear,
because the demon is by no means a âToddâ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded
in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only
because it had been caught off guard.
The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and
shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. âBe a dear
and make some more coffee, would you please? Iâll be back in a jiffy.â
Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record
books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues,
while others discuss how many souls theyâd swindled in exchange for peanuts, or
how many first-borns theyâd been pledged for things idiot humans could have
gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic
that little detours like this were a blessingâhappy accidents, as the humans
would say.
Thatâs why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into
the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. Thatâs why
it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully,
so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine
with fresh grounds. Itâs as the hot water is percolating that the old woman
returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.
âIâm surprised youâre so tall, Todd! I havenât seen you
since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the timeâyou do love
wearing all black, donât you?â She takes a seat at the small round table in the
corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. âI was starting to think youâd never visit. Your father and I have
had our disagreements, butâŠI am glad youâre here, dear. Would you like some
cake?â Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a
generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It
smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated
with icing.
It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesnât
seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that
smells like an antique garage that hadnât had its dust stirred in years.
Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.
The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two
small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the
rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some
difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite âthank
you,â but it doesnât suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners
regardless.
âOh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so
deep, just like your grandfatherâs was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity
for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? Itâs alright,
dear, Iâll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.â
The demon merely nodsâsome communication can be understood
without failâand drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. Itâs
ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love
that must have gone into its creation.
When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning
circle is bundled in her arms. Â
âI found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the
library. I thought youâd like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the
winter chillâI hope you do like it.â With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket
over the demonâs broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders
and patting its arms affectionately. âHappy birthday, Todd, dear.â
Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, heâs
clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.
this is so sweet. it made me want to hug someone.
i had to
I WOULD WATCH SIX SEASONS AND A MOVIE
Okay but she takes him to the little cafe and all of the people in her town are like âWhat is that thing, what the hell, Anette?â and sheâs like âDonât you remember my grandson Todd?â and the entire town just has to play along because no one will tell little old Nettie that her grandson is an actual demon because this is the happiest sheâs been since her husband died.
Bonus: In season 4 she makes him run for mayor and he wins
I just want to watch âToddâ help her with groceries, and help her with cooking, and help her clean up the dust around the house and air it out, and fill it with spring flowers because Anette mentioned she loved hyacinth and daffodils.  Over the seasons her eyesight worsens, so âToddâ brings a hellhound into the house to act as her seeing eye dog, and people in town are kinda terrified of this massive black brute with fur that drips like thick oil, and a mouth that can open all the way back to its chest, but âHoneyâ likes her hard candies, and doesnât get oil on the carpet, and when âToddâ has to go back to Hell for errands, Honey will snuggle up to Anette and rest his giant head on her lap, and whuff at her pockets for butterscotch.Â
Anette never gives âToddâ her soul, but she gives him her heart
In season six, Anette gets sick. She spends most of the season bedridden and it becomes obvious by about midway through the season that sheâs not going to make it to the end of the season. Todd spends the season travelling back and forth between the human realm and his home plane, trying hard to find something, anything that will help Anette get better, to prolong her life. Heâs tried getting her to sell him her soul, but sheâs just laughed, told him that he shouldnât talk like that.
With only a few episodes left in the season Anette passes away, Todd is by her side. When the reaper comes for her Todd asks about the fate of her soul. In a dispassionate voice the reaper informs Todd that Anette spent the last few years of her life cavorting with creatures of darkness, that there can be only one fate for her. Todd refuses to accept this and he fights the reaper, eventually injuring the creature and driving it off. Knowing that Anette cannot stay in the Human Realm, and refusing to allow her spirit to be taken by another reaper, so he takes her soul in his arms. Heâs done this before, when mortals have sold themselves to him. This time the soul cradled against his chest does not snuggle and fight. This time the soul held tight against him reaches out, pats him on the cheek tells him he was a good boy, and so handsome, just like his grandfather.Â
Todd takes Anette back to the demon realm, holding her tight against him as he travels across the bleak and forebidding landscape; such a sharp contrast to the rosy warmth of Anetteâs home. Eventually, in a far corner of his home plane, Todd finds what he is looking for. It is a place where other demons do not tread; a large boulder cracked and broken, with a gap just barely large enough for Todd to fit through. This crack, of all things, gives him pause, but Anetteâs soul makes a comment about needing to get home in time to feed Honey, and Todd forces himself to pass through it. He travels in darkness for a while, before he emerges into into a light so bright that itâs blinding. His eyes adjust slowly, and he finds himself face to face with two creatures, each of them at least twice his size one of them has six wings and the head of a lion, one of them is an amorphous creature within several rings. The lion-headed one snarls at Todd, and demands that he turn back, that he has no business here.Â
Todd looks down, holding Anetteâs soul against his chest, he takes a deep breath, and speaks a single word, âPlease.â
The two larger beings are taken aback by this. They are too used to Toddâs kind being belligerent, they consult with each other, they argue. The amorphous one seems to want to be lenient, the lion-headed one insists on being stricter. While theyâre arguing Todd sneaks by them and runs as fast as he can, deeper into the brightly lit expanse. The path on which he travels begins to slope upwards, and eventually becomes a staircase. It becomes evident that each step further up the stair is more and more difficult for Todd, that itâs physically paining him to climb these stairs, but he keeps going.
They dedicate a full episode to this climb; interspersing the climb with scenes they werenât able to show in previous seasons, Anette and Honey coming to visit Todd in the Mayorâs office, Anette and Todd playing bingo together for the first time, Anette and Todd watching their stories together in the mid afternoon, Anette falling asleep in her chair and Todd gently carrying her to bed. Anette making Todd lemonade in the summer while heâs up on the roof fixing that leak and cleaning out the rain gutters. Eventually Todd reaches the top, and all but collapses, he falls to a knee and for the first time his grip on Anetteâs soul slips, and she falls away from him. Landing on the ground.
He reaches out for her, but someone gets there first. Another hand reaches out, and helps this elderly woman off the ground, helps her get to her feet. Anette gasps, itâs Charles. The pair of them throw their arms around each other. Anette tells Charles that sheâs missed him so much, and she has so much to tell him. Charles nods. Todd watches a soft smile on his face. A delicate hand touches Toddâs shoulder, and pulls him easily to his feet. A figure; we never see exactly what it looks like, leans down, whispering in Toddâs ear that heâs done well, and that Anette will be well taken care of here. That she will spend an eternity with her loved ones. Todd looks back over to her, sheâs surrounded by a sea of people. Todd nods, and smiles. The figure behind him tells him that while he has done good in bringing Anette here, this is not his place, and he must leave. Todd nods, he knew this would be the case.
Todd gets about six steps down the stairway before he is stopped by someone grabbing his shoulder again. He turns around, and Anette is standing behind him. She gives him a big hug and leads him back up the stairs, he should stay, she says. Get to know the family. Todd tries to tell her that he canât stay, but she wonât hear it. She leads him up into the crowd of people and begins introducing him to long dead relatives of hers, all of whom give him skeptical looks when she introduces him as her grandson.
The mysterious figure appears next to Todd again and tells him once more he must leave, Todd opens his mouth to answer but Anette cuts him off. Nonsense, she tells the figure. IF sheâs gonna stay here forever her grandson will be welcome to visit her. She and the figure stare at each other for a moment. The figure eventually sighs and looks away, the figure asks Todd if sheâs always like this. Todd just shrugs and smiles, allowing Anette to lead him through a pair of pearly gates, sheâs already talking about how much cake theyâll need to feed all of these relatives.Â
P.S. Honey is a Good Dog and gets to go, too.
the last lines of the show:
demon: youâre not blind here â but youâre not surprised. whenâŠ?
anette: oh, toddy, donât be silly, my biological grandsonâs not twelve feet tall and doesnât scorch the furniture when he sneezes. iâve known for ages.
demon: then why?
anette: you wouldnât have stayed if you werenât lonely too.
demon: you⊠you donât have to keep calling me your grandson.
anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and letâs go bake a cake. honey, heel!
konekorambles 