I love me some prompts!
Title: The Autumn Years
Author:
carminablue
Rating: PG
Written for Prompt 2 of
barefootboys
Disclaimer: Own not.
Summary: Autumn is not always a season. I basically used each section of the poem as a prompt for each section of the fic. It all ties in together at the end.
I am really behind on these prompts. I blame school for being an ass. Comments would bring me much joy.
1.
It is almost too warm for our sweaters.
The trees are ablaze in gold, their leaves glinting defiantly in the breezy sunlight, rustling in laughter as they spend their last warm days in the sun together. I wonder if they knew they were going to die. I wonder if they know that in a few short weeks they will have fallen, scattered by the wind, forced to leave their leave friends behind. It’s a ridiculously depressing thought, and a strange one for a thirteen year old boy to be having, especially when his friends are have a snowball fight of leaves.
James has gathered the leaves into a pile of jewels. He is rustling them indiscriminately with his fingers, crunching them between his fingers like sand. He tosses a pile experimentally in the air, and they fall to the ground, laughing as they land, as if sharing in his unexplained autumn joy. We are infecting the dying world with life.
James tosses a pile of leaves experimentally at Peter, who moves to protect his face, his coordination a foil to the lithe movements of the leaves as they slip through the air. James laughs and splashes the leaves at him again. Peter stands quickly, tripping over the laces of his trainers, grabbing a wad of leaves between his chubby fingers, throwing them in James’s direction. James smiles, and runs, Peter chasing behind him in pursuit.
I smile, and pause for a moment, expecting to see Sirius follow, but I find I have somehow lost track of him. I turn, somehow desperate to find a friend I know hasn’t gone far.
It is raining leaves, and Sirius is spinning, his hands in the air, his face glowing with aristocratic awe. He is not making a sound, but his open mouthed smile causes the air to echo with the sound of life. I remember knowing, even at the naïve age of thirteen, that this was the most beautiful sight I would see in my natural life. I remember realizing, though not quite understanding, that Sirius Black inexplicably was life, and was somehow about to change the unwritten laws of nature. His arms raised, he was nature’s last hope, the one who would turn back time and keep time from causing the leaves to drift away, friends scattered by the cold winds of winter.
2.
Of all of us, Remus always had been the one least likely to be noticed.
James and I announced our presence to the world with every footstep. Our shouts would echo undeniably through long corridors, our gestures exaggerated in the minds of our peers, who regarded us in a perfect mixture of disdain and awe. Every word we spoke seemed to be repeated. Every deliciously mischievous thought talked about for weeks. We were the stuff of legend. We were Hogwarts chosen two. As much as we liked to pretend to include Remus and Peter in our spotlight, it was obvious that it would never work. It was obvious that without us, they would be unknown.
Peter, it seemed, could manage to create a bit of fame of his own, though it was always stolen or the result of unplanned embarrassment. It was known that he was not the sharpest boy in our year, and there always was a good amount of fun had at his expense, whether he was aware of it or not. I never really tried to hard to stop it, unless it got too much out of hand. Peter’s purpose seemed to be to contrast the brilliance that was James’s and mine. His friendship was a useful one. He was one of us, of course, and he definitely was invited to share in our brotherhood, but everyone knew that his real purpose was to make James and I seem better than we were.
Remus was different. He was always different. He was more than content to just disappear into the background, leaving James and I to our glory and Peter to his mistakes. I suppose his contentment at being overlooked had everything to do with his secret, but that didn’t change the fact that I hated it.
Remus did not deserve to be overlooked. Remus deserved to be flaunted to the world. Being flaunted was not in his way, and most of his perfection lay in that very fact. Remus was almost like a hidden treasure, left only for our Maraudery eyes.
And sometimes, on late autumn nights, for reasons that I never truly understood, Remus slipped out of bed and back into the common room. There he would sit, patiently staring at the dying fire, undoubtedly thinking of something mysterious and oh-so Remus-like.
On nights like those, when he’d let me sit beside him, my arms wrapped around him and my nose in his hair, I’d breathe in the sweet smell of Remus and know that he was mine to appreciate, and no one else’s.
3.
1980 would be the beginning of autumn.
Everything would be slipping away, inevitably preparing to drift away like autumn leaves, already turned too brown to cling to life. Everything will dissolve into funerals, the Prophet headlines melting into one long obituary.
The Order will be losing. Hope of victory will be impossible.
There will be, like always, a few joyous occasions and births that will set the long autumn days aglow with hope. These small celebrations will be necessary but always an unintentional disrespect to the funerals that will continue.
The Order will grow listless, and they will fight more for survival than they will for the cause.
It will be morning, and Sirius Black will sit, his ink-stained fingers thumbing the pages of his newspaper. His tea will turn cold by his elbow, and he will blink his eyes mechanically, watching the black and white print blur as the pages flip. This will be third morning this week that he will not have any breakfast.
He will remember the days long before, when he thought that he was invincible. He will remember the nights, spent warm in another’s arms, when he truly believed that no harm would come to them. He will forget the naïve days of Spring, and they will not be able to bring him solace.
He will feel as if autumn has stolen the music from the world.
Evening will fall, and will follow an afternoon that will have been bleaker than the morning. He will sit, alone, like the undead, his eyes rimmed with frustration and fear.
Then Remus will come, his scar-lined face painted in worry, and he will kiss Sirius’s fears away, and he will sing to him of Spring.
Author:
carminablue
Rating: PG
Written for Prompt 2 of
barefootboys
Disclaimer: Own not.
Summary: Autumn is not always a season. I basically used each section of the poem as a prompt for each section of the fic. It all ties in together at the end.
I am really behind on these prompts. I blame school for being an ass. Comments would bring me much joy.
1.
It is almost too warm for our sweaters.
The trees are ablaze in gold, their leaves glinting defiantly in the breezy sunlight, rustling in laughter as they spend their last warm days in the sun together. I wonder if they knew they were going to die. I wonder if they know that in a few short weeks they will have fallen, scattered by the wind, forced to leave their leave friends behind. It’s a ridiculously depressing thought, and a strange one for a thirteen year old boy to be having, especially when his friends are have a snowball fight of leaves.
James has gathered the leaves into a pile of jewels. He is rustling them indiscriminately with his fingers, crunching them between his fingers like sand. He tosses a pile experimentally in the air, and they fall to the ground, laughing as they land, as if sharing in his unexplained autumn joy. We are infecting the dying world with life.
James tosses a pile of leaves experimentally at Peter, who moves to protect his face, his coordination a foil to the lithe movements of the leaves as they slip through the air. James laughs and splashes the leaves at him again. Peter stands quickly, tripping over the laces of his trainers, grabbing a wad of leaves between his chubby fingers, throwing them in James’s direction. James smiles, and runs, Peter chasing behind him in pursuit.
I smile, and pause for a moment, expecting to see Sirius follow, but I find I have somehow lost track of him. I turn, somehow desperate to find a friend I know hasn’t gone far.
It is raining leaves, and Sirius is spinning, his hands in the air, his face glowing with aristocratic awe. He is not making a sound, but his open mouthed smile causes the air to echo with the sound of life. I remember knowing, even at the naïve age of thirteen, that this was the most beautiful sight I would see in my natural life. I remember realizing, though not quite understanding, that Sirius Black inexplicably was life, and was somehow about to change the unwritten laws of nature. His arms raised, he was nature’s last hope, the one who would turn back time and keep time from causing the leaves to drift away, friends scattered by the cold winds of winter.
2.
Of all of us, Remus always had been the one least likely to be noticed.
James and I announced our presence to the world with every footstep. Our shouts would echo undeniably through long corridors, our gestures exaggerated in the minds of our peers, who regarded us in a perfect mixture of disdain and awe. Every word we spoke seemed to be repeated. Every deliciously mischievous thought talked about for weeks. We were the stuff of legend. We were Hogwarts chosen two. As much as we liked to pretend to include Remus and Peter in our spotlight, it was obvious that it would never work. It was obvious that without us, they would be unknown.
Peter, it seemed, could manage to create a bit of fame of his own, though it was always stolen or the result of unplanned embarrassment. It was known that he was not the sharpest boy in our year, and there always was a good amount of fun had at his expense, whether he was aware of it or not. I never really tried to hard to stop it, unless it got too much out of hand. Peter’s purpose seemed to be to contrast the brilliance that was James’s and mine. His friendship was a useful one. He was one of us, of course, and he definitely was invited to share in our brotherhood, but everyone knew that his real purpose was to make James and I seem better than we were.
Remus was different. He was always different. He was more than content to just disappear into the background, leaving James and I to our glory and Peter to his mistakes. I suppose his contentment at being overlooked had everything to do with his secret, but that didn’t change the fact that I hated it.
Remus did not deserve to be overlooked. Remus deserved to be flaunted to the world. Being flaunted was not in his way, and most of his perfection lay in that very fact. Remus was almost like a hidden treasure, left only for our Maraudery eyes.
And sometimes, on late autumn nights, for reasons that I never truly understood, Remus slipped out of bed and back into the common room. There he would sit, patiently staring at the dying fire, undoubtedly thinking of something mysterious and oh-so Remus-like.
On nights like those, when he’d let me sit beside him, my arms wrapped around him and my nose in his hair, I’d breathe in the sweet smell of Remus and know that he was mine to appreciate, and no one else’s.
3.
1980 would be the beginning of autumn.
Everything would be slipping away, inevitably preparing to drift away like autumn leaves, already turned too brown to cling to life. Everything will dissolve into funerals, the Prophet headlines melting into one long obituary.
The Order will be losing. Hope of victory will be impossible.
There will be, like always, a few joyous occasions and births that will set the long autumn days aglow with hope. These small celebrations will be necessary but always an unintentional disrespect to the funerals that will continue.
The Order will grow listless, and they will fight more for survival than they will for the cause.
It will be morning, and Sirius Black will sit, his ink-stained fingers thumbing the pages of his newspaper. His tea will turn cold by his elbow, and he will blink his eyes mechanically, watching the black and white print blur as the pages flip. This will be third morning this week that he will not have any breakfast.
He will remember the days long before, when he thought that he was invincible. He will remember the nights, spent warm in another’s arms, when he truly believed that no harm would come to them. He will forget the naïve days of Spring, and they will not be able to bring him solace.
He will feel as if autumn has stolen the music from the world.
Evening will fall, and will follow an afternoon that will have been bleaker than the morning. He will sit, alone, like the undead, his eyes rimmed with frustration and fear.
Then Remus will come, his scar-lined face painted in worry, and he will kiss Sirius’s fears away, and he will sing to him of Spring.