Poptart was grumbly, growly, gloriously grouchy... a master of moans, groans and muttered misery.

If you asked him how his day was going, he'd say "Dreadful" even if it wasn't.

 

Yet underneath all that huff and puffiness lay a heart as warm as freshly toasted marshmallow.

He'd stomp into danger, scowling the whole way but protecting Olivia with every stitch of his scruffy stuffing.

 

Poptart didn't believe in sparkles, spells or "positive thinking nonsense."  

He believed in standing your ground, planting your feet and refusing.... absolutely refusing to budge.

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Poptart's magic didn't shine or shimmer.... It held.

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Grit magic...

Grounded magic...

The magic of refusing to give up, even when you'd rather have a nap.