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+------ Thread: Mind your own business | Open (/showthread.php?tid=1205)
Mind your own business | Open - Cai Blackwood - 08-20-2026
Spoiler
When Father had asked him at supper to come along with him the next day, he'd nearly jumped for joy. The thing about going out with his Father was that it hardly ever happened, so when it did he had to make it count.
The night before, he had it all worked out in his head. First they'd go to Quality Quidditch Supplies and Father would say pick one thing, and Cai would take ages picking because there were at least a dozen things he wanted. Then they'd have scones and tea and Father would tell him about The Family Secret. What’s that? Well it wouldn’t be much of a secret if he knew, would it? But he was sure there was one. Next, Father would need his help with something and Cai would be right there and would be very useful indeed, and later Father would say to Mam, “he was very useful, that boy” and Mam would look up from what she was doing and say, “there's lovely” and bake him a chocolate cake.
They arrived in Diagon Alley at dawn. Dew and morning cold had frosted the window panes and behind them the small army of mannequins stood frozen. Creepy they looked, like they might come alive at any moment. Further back into the shop coats hung shoulder to shoulder on a brass railing, a ghostly queue of faceless men.
His father unlocked the door and went in ahead of him, taking off his gloves finger by finger before he put his hat on the stand. Cai entered dutifully after him, carefully stepping over the creaky floorboard by the entrance so as not to rouse any bad spirits. Bad spirits? Sometimes notions entered his head unbidden which was why Mam called him imaginative and Elowen called him a nutter. He'd learned not to tell her his stories anymore.
Father took out his wand and with a casual flick of his wrist, turned on the lights. In an instant the eerie atmosphere was dispelled and the shop interior flooded with pleasant, warm lights.
“Counter needs clearing,” said Father and Cai knew better than to complain. The convenience of magic was not one he had earned yet and Wesley Blackwood did not tolerate idle hands in his shop.
The morning was spent clearing the counter, sorting the paperwork, counting the gleaming coins in the register. After that, he worked on the drawers: collars stiff and collars soft, and studs and links, all neatly labeled in Grandad’s handwriting on their little brass frames. Cai would deftly count them, “forty collar stiff, twenty white, seven blue, thirteen red.”
For a while, Cai didn’t mind counting collars because he was thinking that after this, they’d go out, and the going out would be better for the counting. You’ve got to earn going out, you’ve got to put your best foot forward. He carried parcels up from the basement two at a time when one at a time would have done. Father said, “steady” but he said, “I’ve got it,” and he had got it. “Good lad,” Father said, and Cai felt very pleased.
Light was coming through the window panes when Cai set the last parcel down on the counter. Father looked at his watch.
“Right, Cai, I’ve business over the way.” He got up and did his cuffs, left first, then the right one - as if they needed doing. “Mind the shop for me, there’s a good lad.”
“Mind it?” He must’ve sounded very put out, because Father was arching an eyebrow at him.
“Yes, mind it. You seemed very keen on being here yesterday.”
Aye he’d been keen for the treats, keen for going to Quality Quidditch Supplies, keen on eating scones and drinking tea and being told secrets and-
“I won’t be long,” said Father. He was putting his gloves back on. “An hour, maybe two. If anyone comes in, be polite and tell them Mr Blackwood will be back by noon.”
Cai was stood very still behind the counter. “How many are coming in, like?”
“There are no appointments,” his father answered simply as if that settled it. Then he went to the door, put on his hat and said, "Good boy,” like he was some pet dog specially trained to guard the shop.
Nobody’s coming in… That was the thing of it. Not the minding, mind a shop he could, he could mind a shop brilliantly, and if a wizard came in wanting a coat he’d sell him two coats and a scarf besides and the man would go away saying "what a marvel that boy is, what a miracle, what a dwtty1 boy". But nobody would be coming in, and if nobody was coming in, then what did the shop need minding for?
Sighing, he sat down on a velvet stool by the fitting mirrors, elbows on his knees, chin resting in the cup of his hands while he stared listlessly at his reflection. What was he supposed to do for two whole hours all by himself, then? The three mirrors gave him three of himself, so he supposed he wasn’t alone, but all three of him were eleven and bored stiff after he’d watched the clock on the wall tick miserably for five whole minutes. Agony, this was!
It took two more minutes of silent torture before he slid off the stool and went wandering around the shop. That’s when he saw the stack of old newspapers near the plush chairs of the front waiting area. With nothing better to do, he sank into one of the chairs and picked up an old copy.
BREAKING! Merrow Found Guilty
His interest was stirred a bit by the mention of Hogwarts, then doubled when he saw his uncle’s name in the paper. He wasn’t sure about any of the other people in the story, but what had his uncle to do with any of this?
1: dwtty - Something or someone that is cute or sweet.
RE: Mind your own business | Open - Brooks Garren - 08-20-2026
Coin jingled in his pocket, muffled by the crumpled piece of parchment containing a list of things he absolutely, positively DID NOT NEED. He'd told his mum that three times before breakfast. Five times while walking through Diagon Alley. And another three standing in front of the shop.
Apparently, none of it mattered.
At sixteen years old, Elizabeth Garren had decided her only son, the light of her life, required a proper suit. He tugged at the sleeves of his perfectly serviceable jumper. "Still don't see what's wrong with this."
His mum didn't even look up. "Three holes." Brooks looked down. "...They're ventilation."
"They're elbows." He frowned. "What are you saying? You don’t like my elbows? They're stylish elbows!"
Brooks continued to disagree. Loudly. Repeatedly.
His mother had listened patiently until he'd finished his speech before replying with a smile.
"Wonderful. Now we're getting you two." The woman was completely diabolical.
It had been a trap from the beginning.
He sighed dramatically, staring through the front windows of Blackwood & Son's. He stared at the front door as though it were the entrance to Azkaban. His mother, naturally, had abandoned him to his fate. She'd disappeared across the street with Granny for tea, leaving him to face whatever horrors waited inside alone.
Rows of impeccably tailored jackets in every color and pattern of fabric. Warm lights illuminated the displays that would haunt his nightmares.
Waistcoats. Walking coats. Smoking jackets. Silk ties. Vest. Strange tiny pieces of fabric that had a price tag higher than most of his Hogwarts supplies combined. Hats that probably cost more than the little farmhouse outside Boston where he'd grown up.
And ascots… At least, he assumed there were ascots. He had no idea what they were, or what they did, or where they were worn. The only thing he knew for certain was that it contained the word ass, which made him curious. If nothing else, he hoped he’d learn about the mystery piece of clothing.
Brooks shoved his hands into his pockets with the theatrics only achievable by a teenager and stomped toward the entrance. The little brass bell chimed overhead as the door swung open.
The place smelled of cedar, pressed wool, expensive soap, and men's cologne.
It was suffocating.
Brooks stood as close to the door as possible, without actually being outside. Looking around at the displays he was shocked at the vast array of colors and textures. Unable to stop his curiosity, Brooks walked towards a garish orange plaid set of robes that hurt his eyes.
Brooks squinted at it.
"...Merlin."
He leaned in another inch.
"You'd have t'pay me t'wear that."
He looked up at the little brass sign.
CLEARANCE
"...Aye." He nodded solemnly.
"That tracks."
Hands still tucked in his pockets, Brooks turned and walked towards another display. Then movement caught his eye causing him to stop in his tracks. A young kid, maybe ten or eleven years old, was sitting in a plush armchair reading a newspaper.
Even the kids in this place were high class. No adult in sight, Brooks took a chance on the kid.
”I’m here for a suit.” He said, getting to the point, walking up to the boy with a sigh. ”If you can make it fast and still make me look good I’ll toss in a nice tip for ya.”
RE: Mind your own business | Open - Cai Blackwood - 08-21-2026
"You'd have t'pay me t'wear that."
The voice came from over by the clearance section. Cai had heard the bell, he had definitely heard the bell. He was minding the shop after all and he was very good at minding the shop. Brilliant, really. It just wasn't gentlemanly to immediately respond to a bell, you had to wait a bit first and seem unbothered, that was class, that was, and had nothing to do with not having heard the bell.
He lowered the newspaper the same way he'd seen his father do when he disapproved of something. Pity he didn't have glasses, if he'd had glasses he could've done the over-the-rim look to make sure the receiving party knew just how much he disapproved. Cai much preferred breezy clothes over tailored suits himself, but an insult to his family's prestigious business was as good as an insult to him personally.
Stood in the shop was a teenage boy at least a head-and-a-half taller with messy hair and an expression as though someone had just squirted a lemon in his face. The boy had that same gangliness that Gareth was growing into: slouching even when he stood up straight. Admittedly, this one was a bit worse for wear than Gareth, because this one had his elbows poking through his jumper, which itself looked like it had seen better days.
"I'm here for a suit."
"Suit yourself," said Cai, and shook the newspaper straight.
Some of the things on the clearance rail had been there for as long as he could remember. Only last winter had Father managed to shift two of them off to a wizard from Aberystwyth, so there, the boy wasn't entirely wrong, but Cai would never admit that. Despite not much caring himself for fancy clothes, the boy's comment had rubbed him the wrong way.
"If you can make it fast and still make me look good I'll toss in a nice tip for ya."
Cai folded up the newspaper, frowned, then came up off the chair. "You're lucky I'm on today, I'll have you look well lush."
He crossed to the counter, got the drawer open and the tape measure out of it, and gave the boy another look on the way back. How'd he get so tall? Heaps of spinach, that had to be it.
If he'd had a wand he could have tapped the tape and let it do the work itself, but alas, he'd have to do this the muggle way. In his mind he tried to remember how his father did these things. He was pretty sure it started with measuring, though he wasn't precisely sure what he ought to measure. Waist probably, and height, oh and the arms, definitely the arms, he thought to himself as he tried to remember. Aye, those seemed like sensible places to start.
"Would you mind taking that off?" he said, dipping his chin toward the boy's woolly jumper. "I've got to measure how fat you are." He made a vague, circular gesture around his own waist to clarify his intent. "And then you've got to stand with your arms out like you're being crucified." Shouldn't be much of a stretch that, considering the boy's sour mood, but Cai put out his arms to demonstrate regardless. "And then I'll have to see how tall you are." He already noted in the privacy of his mind that he'd have to stand on the very tip of his toes for that, but the promise of money eased the injury to his pride.
RE: Mind your own business | Open - Brooks Garren - 08-24-2026
Brooks blinked once. Then twice.
His eyes drifted from the tape measure... to the kid... then back to the tape measure. He was pretty sure this was not the shop manager, but the last thing he wanted to do was find his mum and tell her that no suit was purchased.
He wasn’t an idiot.
He scratched the back of his neck. "You're..." he paused, trying to be diplomatic, "...awfully small for a tailor." But failing miserably/
The words had barely left his mouth before he grimaced. "Sorry. That sounded ruder out loud." He wasn’t trying to be an ass, in fact on most days he was genuinely a nice person. It just so happened that he was doing the worst errand imaginable.
He looked around the shop expecting a proper adult to emerge from behind a rack of smoking jackets. No one appeared. Nobody. Just the kid.
Brooks sighed. "Well... my mum did say beggars can't be choosers."
With reluctance, he pulled the worn jumper over his head and revealed a simple white shirt beneath. It fit considerably better than the jumper had, though the sleeves had been rolled to his forearms.
He tossed the jumper over one shoulder.
"For the record..." he said, pointing at the holes in the elbows. "Those weren't from bein' poor."
He nodded. "One was from climbin' a tree. The other was from fallin' out of it." He chuckled at the memory.
As the kid told him to stand with his arms out like a crucified deity, Brooks wondered what in the hell his mum had gotten him into.
"Like this?" He frowned. "Feels a bit dramatic."
After a beat, he glanced down at the younger boy. "You do this often? ...Or am I your first victim?"
His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. He was barely tall enough to measure his shoulders, how in Merlin's name was he going to measure his height? "You got a ladder hiding somewhere? 'Cause I've got a few inches on ya."