When We That Wore the Myrtle (contd...)
For some reason, I've been writing MWPP fic like mad. Here's some more of it. This attaches directly to the end of this part of the DWYS backstory.
more backstory from first year -- DWYS-verse:
"Yet here was one who had no need to die
To be remembered. Every word [he] said,
The lively malice of the hazel eye,
Scanning the thumbnail close -- oh, dazzling dead!
How like a comet through the darkening sky
You raced!...Would your return were heralded."
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
james:
It turns out that Black, when he's not in the middle of a flaming row with you, is actually a fairly decent bloke, if a bit mad. James puts it down to being the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Complete Nutters, but doesn't say so, as Sirius is working on a hex that makes people's hair fall out and has taken to experimenting on anyone who irritates him. It's a variant of the color-changing hex he used on James once, so there are several Gryffindors - and an increasing number of Slytherins - with brilliantly-colored hair.
At the moment, he's experimenting on Gideon Prewett's rat, which wandered into their dormitory room about half an hour ago. So far, the rat has been red, green, gold, and a horrible yellow-green color that reminded James strongly of vomit.
"Capillus descendere!" Sirius says, for the third time. The rat is suddenly three times as hairy as it was before. And still a horrible yellow-green color that reminds James strongly of vomit.
"Gideon's going to hex you into next week," James warns him idly, turning over the pages of the latest Quidditch Weekly. "That rat's going to die of starvation. It won't be able to eat for the hair."
"Shut it, Potter," Sirius says amiably. James hits him with a pillow. Sirius ignores it, and turns his attention back to the unfortunate rat.
"Capillus decide!"
Prewett's rat is now in possession of a crew cut. This is an improvement, James decides, but not much of one. He can see its weird wrinkly rat skin through the disgusting yellow fur.
" Capillus mori!" Sirius says, and suddenly the last remaining yellow fuzz falls from the rat and lands on James' bedspread in a sort of vomit-colored cloud. The rat is if possible even more disgusting now that it's bald. Sirius takes it and deposits it in the hallway, then closes the door.
"Oh, no you don't," James tells him, before Sirius even turns around. He knows well enough by now how Sirius' mind works, and the next logical step - for him, anyway - will be to test the spell on the nearest human being. James is not eager to volunteer. "Go find Lucius Malfoy or something," he suggests.
***
remus:
"Potter! Black!" Professor McGonagall's shriek cuts through the din of the Gryffindor common room like a knife. "This war against Mr. Malfoy's hair must stop!"
Remus can't help but agree with her. Over the course of the past four days, Malfoy has been bald, blue-haired, curly-haired, and crew-cut, and the entire thing is getting old.
"Professor?" Sirius looks up at her with an expression of innocence that is guaranteed to drive any right-thinking person insane.
The true genius of this particular series of pranks is that neither Sirius nor James has been within three feet of Malfoy since it began. Even Remus isn't entirely sure how they're doing it; in fact, after listening to Sirius' explanation (which was composed mostly of wild hand gestures and only a few lines of actual dialogue) he suspects that Sirius isn't entirely sure how they're doing it. The sheer instinctive quality of his and James' magic is a wall that Remus knows he'll never be able to cross no matter how much he studies, and he tries not to envy them their abilities.
He certainly doesn't envy them Professor McGonagall, who is looming over their sprawled forms with narrowed eyes.
"We haven't been anywhere near Malfoy, Professor," Sirius protests.
"He's right, Professor," James chimes in. "We've left the Slytherins alone all week."
"Why do you think I am so suspicious, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall asks dryly. "I have no way of proving it, nor am I particularly interested in doing so; but it stops, gentlemen. It stops now."
After she has stalked away, James turns to Sirius and Remus.
"What d'you think? Do as we're told, or let things run their course and claim innocence?"
"Oh, no," Remus says. "I have no part in this."
"Lighten up, Remus," Sirius says. "And of course we'll let the spell play out," he adds, kicking James in the leg.
"Ow! Black, you bastard," James says lazily.
"Excuse me?" Sirius raises one aristocratic eyebrow, suddenly haughty and reserved. "I'll have you know --"
"Oh, stuff it," James tells him, reinforcing the command by smacking him in the face with a handy pillow. "No-one cares."
"He's right, you know," Peter says. "We like you, not a dozen generations of Ancient and Most Noble whoever-they-were."
Sometimes, Peter surprises Remus with both his tact and his perception. He seems to have surprised Sirius, too: he blinks twice, visibly startled, then gets to his feet and dashes out the portrait hole.
"Nice one, Pete," James says. Deprived of its former target, the pillow seeks vengeance on the back of Peter's head. In the resultant scuffle, Remus is able to slip out after Sirius unnoticed.
Sirius is under the stands on the Quidditch pitch. It's rapidly becoming his favourite place to sulk, which is just fine, in Remus' opinion, as it makes him easier to find. He's lying on his back when Remus comes up to him, which means it's not terribly serious. When he's really upset, he sits cross-legged with his face in his hands.
"Wotcher, Remus," he says. He's got dried grass in his hair and a stalk of it in his mouth, and there's a smudge of dirt on his chin.
"Wotcher, Sirius," Remus answers gravely, and sits down. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Sirius tells the underside of the stands, then meets Remus' eyes. "I just needed to think, you know?"
"Do you want me to go away?" Remus asks, because if there's one thing he understands it is needing time to think.
"No, don't," Sirius says, surprising Remus and apparently himself, from the look on his face. After a moment, he says: "I don't mind if you stay."
"All right," Remus says, and leans back onto his elbows next to Sirius. He's already learned that 'I don't mind if you stay' is Sirius-speak for 'please don't go', and besides, when Sirius is in an introspective mood his company is surprisingly restful. After a minute or two, Sirius reaches up and tugs him down, then turns himself sideways and puts his head on Remus' shoulder.
"You're not much of a pillow," he says critically.
"I'll remember to steal your dessert tonight, then," Remus tells him calmly. Sirius grins.
"Remus Lupin, dessert thief. Your mum'll be so proud."
"My mum supports anything that deprives you of sugar."
"Vile, cruel woman that she is," Sirius says. "If I run away from home, you can bet I'm going to James' house."
"Run away -- Sirius, do you mean that?"
"Maybe. I don't know. I mean, I didn't realize how awful it was there until I came here, you know?"
Remus remembers an endless, aching loneliness, and nods. "Yeah. I do." Both of them heave identical sighs, and fall silent by mutual consent, glad to be where they are.
***
Author's Notes: As always, feedback is love. The title is from an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem.
more backstory from first year -- DWYS-verse:
"Yet here was one who had no need to die
To be remembered. Every word [he] said,
The lively malice of the hazel eye,
Scanning the thumbnail close -- oh, dazzling dead!
How like a comet through the darkening sky
You raced!...Would your return were heralded."
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
james:
It turns out that Black, when he's not in the middle of a flaming row with you, is actually a fairly decent bloke, if a bit mad. James puts it down to being the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Complete Nutters, but doesn't say so, as Sirius is working on a hex that makes people's hair fall out and has taken to experimenting on anyone who irritates him. It's a variant of the color-changing hex he used on James once, so there are several Gryffindors - and an increasing number of Slytherins - with brilliantly-colored hair.
At the moment, he's experimenting on Gideon Prewett's rat, which wandered into their dormitory room about half an hour ago. So far, the rat has been red, green, gold, and a horrible yellow-green color that reminded James strongly of vomit.
"Capillus descendere!" Sirius says, for the third time. The rat is suddenly three times as hairy as it was before. And still a horrible yellow-green color that reminds James strongly of vomit.
"Gideon's going to hex you into next week," James warns him idly, turning over the pages of the latest Quidditch Weekly. "That rat's going to die of starvation. It won't be able to eat for the hair."
"Shut it, Potter," Sirius says amiably. James hits him with a pillow. Sirius ignores it, and turns his attention back to the unfortunate rat.
"Capillus decide!"
Prewett's rat is now in possession of a crew cut. This is an improvement, James decides, but not much of one. He can see its weird wrinkly rat skin through the disgusting yellow fur.
" Capillus mori!" Sirius says, and suddenly the last remaining yellow fuzz falls from the rat and lands on James' bedspread in a sort of vomit-colored cloud. The rat is if possible even more disgusting now that it's bald. Sirius takes it and deposits it in the hallway, then closes the door.
"Oh, no you don't," James tells him, before Sirius even turns around. He knows well enough by now how Sirius' mind works, and the next logical step - for him, anyway - will be to test the spell on the nearest human being. James is not eager to volunteer. "Go find Lucius Malfoy or something," he suggests.
***
remus:
"Potter! Black!" Professor McGonagall's shriek cuts through the din of the Gryffindor common room like a knife. "This war against Mr. Malfoy's hair must stop!"
Remus can't help but agree with her. Over the course of the past four days, Malfoy has been bald, blue-haired, curly-haired, and crew-cut, and the entire thing is getting old.
"Professor?" Sirius looks up at her with an expression of innocence that is guaranteed to drive any right-thinking person insane.
The true genius of this particular series of pranks is that neither Sirius nor James has been within three feet of Malfoy since it began. Even Remus isn't entirely sure how they're doing it; in fact, after listening to Sirius' explanation (which was composed mostly of wild hand gestures and only a few lines of actual dialogue) he suspects that Sirius isn't entirely sure how they're doing it. The sheer instinctive quality of his and James' magic is a wall that Remus knows he'll never be able to cross no matter how much he studies, and he tries not to envy them their abilities.
He certainly doesn't envy them Professor McGonagall, who is looming over their sprawled forms with narrowed eyes.
"We haven't been anywhere near Malfoy, Professor," Sirius protests.
"He's right, Professor," James chimes in. "We've left the Slytherins alone all week."
"Why do you think I am so suspicious, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall asks dryly. "I have no way of proving it, nor am I particularly interested in doing so; but it stops, gentlemen. It stops now."
After she has stalked away, James turns to Sirius and Remus.
"What d'you think? Do as we're told, or let things run their course and claim innocence?"
"Oh, no," Remus says. "I have no part in this."
"Lighten up, Remus," Sirius says. "And of course we'll let the spell play out," he adds, kicking James in the leg.
"Ow! Black, you bastard," James says lazily.
"Excuse me?" Sirius raises one aristocratic eyebrow, suddenly haughty and reserved. "I'll have you know --"
"Oh, stuff it," James tells him, reinforcing the command by smacking him in the face with a handy pillow. "No-one cares."
"He's right, you know," Peter says. "We like you, not a dozen generations of Ancient and Most Noble whoever-they-were."
Sometimes, Peter surprises Remus with both his tact and his perception. He seems to have surprised Sirius, too: he blinks twice, visibly startled, then gets to his feet and dashes out the portrait hole.
"Nice one, Pete," James says. Deprived of its former target, the pillow seeks vengeance on the back of Peter's head. In the resultant scuffle, Remus is able to slip out after Sirius unnoticed.
Sirius is under the stands on the Quidditch pitch. It's rapidly becoming his favourite place to sulk, which is just fine, in Remus' opinion, as it makes him easier to find. He's lying on his back when Remus comes up to him, which means it's not terribly serious. When he's really upset, he sits cross-legged with his face in his hands.
"Wotcher, Remus," he says. He's got dried grass in his hair and a stalk of it in his mouth, and there's a smudge of dirt on his chin.
"Wotcher, Sirius," Remus answers gravely, and sits down. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Sirius tells the underside of the stands, then meets Remus' eyes. "I just needed to think, you know?"
"Do you want me to go away?" Remus asks, because if there's one thing he understands it is needing time to think.
"No, don't," Sirius says, surprising Remus and apparently himself, from the look on his face. After a moment, he says: "I don't mind if you stay."
"All right," Remus says, and leans back onto his elbows next to Sirius. He's already learned that 'I don't mind if you stay' is Sirius-speak for 'please don't go', and besides, when Sirius is in an introspective mood his company is surprisingly restful. After a minute or two, Sirius reaches up and tugs him down, then turns himself sideways and puts his head on Remus' shoulder.
"You're not much of a pillow," he says critically.
"I'll remember to steal your dessert tonight, then," Remus tells him calmly. Sirius grins.
"Remus Lupin, dessert thief. Your mum'll be so proud."
"My mum supports anything that deprives you of sugar."
"Vile, cruel woman that she is," Sirius says. "If I run away from home, you can bet I'm going to James' house."
"Run away -- Sirius, do you mean that?"
"Maybe. I don't know. I mean, I didn't realize how awful it was there until I came here, you know?"
Remus remembers an endless, aching loneliness, and nods. "Yeah. I do." Both of them heave identical sighs, and fall silent by mutual consent, glad to be where they are.
***
Author's Notes: As always, feedback is love. The title is from an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem.