I suppose it's somewhat AU now
I'm back! Enjoyed the last book immensely, although I'm still rather undecided about the ending. :/ Mind you, it does open a door of endless possibilty as far as fandom is concerned. I'm still trying to decide who to ship Teddy with. ;) Anyways, a random little snippet:
Title: A Certain Slant of Light (Title stolen from the poem by Emily Dickinson)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Regulus, Remus, references to others
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG, with a couple of swear words
Era: First war
Disclaimer: Not mine. No Deathly Hallows spoilers - the original idea for the fic came about before I read the book.
Summary: Remus and Regulus meet during the First Wizarding World in silent reflection of their personal sufferings.
His footsteps are silent as he steps through the gate and into the filtered light. The grass is tall and damp as it clings to his bare ankles, desperate for a stronghold in the bitter wind. There is no reason for it to be this cold, thinks Regulus, and yet he seems apathetic to the matter, forgetting to flinch as his dark cloak flaps against his legs in angry sighs.
After about half an hour, he stops to rest at the side of a nearby riverbed, and the air goes still as he sits down. A few feet away, his shadow muffles its distinct rustle as it comes to a halt, and Regulus looks up. He stares tiredly ahead at the water as he speaks.
“You’ve been following me.”
Remus Lupin steps out from the underbrush, plucking thistles from his battered jacket. “It wasn’t difficult. You should be more careful.”
Regulus laughs at this - a sharp, barking edge of a laugh, and oh, how he sounds like his brother. “Piss off, Lupin.”
“They’re getting closer,” Remus says, and he might have just as easily been talking about the trickle of ants by his foot. “The Lestranges were in Bath yesterday. Oxford isn’t much safer.”
Regulus hates the way Remus speaks - his short, clipped sentences tell him nothing he doesn’t already know, and he’s hardly in the mood for sympathy. “I know,” he says instead, and reaches into his pocket for and old crisp packet. Ducks gather at his boots.
The sun pours down onto the water, rays melting into scattered luminescence as they push the remaining ducks out of the riverbed and onto the grassy shore.
“It’s a college, not a castle,” Remus says simply, but there is an inhuman rasp to his voice, molded from too many days in earthy darkness.
“I don’t need your help,” he bites back. It sounds strangely calm to his ears. Perhaps it’s because it’s true. No one can help him now.
“You know, he never really gave up on you.”
Regulus doesn’t need to ask.
“I don’t care what that fucking prick thinks of me anymore,” he snaps, and Remus stiffens in response. Suddenly, Regulus whips his head of stringy black hair around to face the other young man, his eyes hollowed and straining. “Did you tell him I was here?”
“No.”
Regulus smirks. “Turned his back on you too, eh?”
Remus says nothing. He pulls out the remains of his lunch, breaks off a piece of his croissant, and watches calmly as the mallards squabble for the first proper human meal he’s had in days.
“He doesn’t know where I am either,” he says quietly. “There are a lot of things he doesn’t know.”
Regulus scoffs audibly at this with all that’s left of his faded aristocratic airs. “If you’ve come for a bonding session over the blood-traitor, you can fuck off already.”
Remus takes this as his cue to sit down beside the sixteen year-old boy and lean back against the tainted, yellowing bark. They both watch as the brown ducks, little black birds and even an approaching swan scramble towards the last few crumbs of the crisp packet, tripping over each other in pursuit of a common goal.
Regulus pulls at the grass distractedly. “Why are you here, anyway?” he mumbles, and despite all his efforts it comes out sounding much more tired than irate or threatening. “I’m the bad guy, remember?” He laughs his harsh, humorless laugh again, and pulls up his shirtsleeve in sarcastic emphasis of his point. The mark is black burning flesh branded deep, deep into his skin, and his pale forearm seems ghostly in comparison.
He is surprised, however, when Remus mimics the action, revealing an impossible etching of scars, scabbing blood and the raw marks of frantic human fingernails.
“So I’ve been told.”
They sit in silence for a while, listening to the summer crickets and the crunch of red ants under their hands. A drunkard stumbles by on the path behind them, and both men are surprised to recognize the song spilling unevenly from his lips, even though the notes of “Rule Britannia” are drastically out of tune.
“I’m going to die,” Regulus states suddenly, and Remus doesn’t argue.
“I stole it, and he’s going to kill me,” he says, more decisive this time, and Remus doesn’t ask.
“He’s going to kill me,” Regulus repeats once again, as if it took repetition to verify the validity of his statement. He’s far from frightened, and it scares him.
“Probably,” says Remus. “He could kill us all. But, you see, it takes longer to do so when people insist on putting up a fight.”
He gets up and turns away. “You should know that he would have loved you, if only he had known how,” Remus says finally, and for a moment, they are both unclear as to who is referring to. A second later, a small cracking noise leaves Regulus with nothing but the treacherous breeze for company, knees curled up tight to his chest.
It only takes a minute before he starts to cry, and the tears fall down his childish features like the slanted light of ripples in the wake of webbed feet.
Title: A Certain Slant of Light (Title stolen from the poem by Emily Dickinson)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Regulus, Remus, references to others
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG, with a couple of swear words
Era: First war
Disclaimer: Not mine. No Deathly Hallows spoilers - the original idea for the fic came about before I read the book.
Summary: Remus and Regulus meet during the First Wizarding World in silent reflection of their personal sufferings.
His footsteps are silent as he steps through the gate and into the filtered light. The grass is tall and damp as it clings to his bare ankles, desperate for a stronghold in the bitter wind. There is no reason for it to be this cold, thinks Regulus, and yet he seems apathetic to the matter, forgetting to flinch as his dark cloak flaps against his legs in angry sighs.
After about half an hour, he stops to rest at the side of a nearby riverbed, and the air goes still as he sits down. A few feet away, his shadow muffles its distinct rustle as it comes to a halt, and Regulus looks up. He stares tiredly ahead at the water as he speaks.
“You’ve been following me.”
Remus Lupin steps out from the underbrush, plucking thistles from his battered jacket. “It wasn’t difficult. You should be more careful.”
Regulus laughs at this - a sharp, barking edge of a laugh, and oh, how he sounds like his brother. “Piss off, Lupin.”
“They’re getting closer,” Remus says, and he might have just as easily been talking about the trickle of ants by his foot. “The Lestranges were in Bath yesterday. Oxford isn’t much safer.”
Regulus hates the way Remus speaks - his short, clipped sentences tell him nothing he doesn’t already know, and he’s hardly in the mood for sympathy. “I know,” he says instead, and reaches into his pocket for and old crisp packet. Ducks gather at his boots.
The sun pours down onto the water, rays melting into scattered luminescence as they push the remaining ducks out of the riverbed and onto the grassy shore.
“It’s a college, not a castle,” Remus says simply, but there is an inhuman rasp to his voice, molded from too many days in earthy darkness.
“I don’t need your help,” he bites back. It sounds strangely calm to his ears. Perhaps it’s because it’s true. No one can help him now.
“You know, he never really gave up on you.”
Regulus doesn’t need to ask.
“I don’t care what that fucking prick thinks of me anymore,” he snaps, and Remus stiffens in response. Suddenly, Regulus whips his head of stringy black hair around to face the other young man, his eyes hollowed and straining. “Did you tell him I was here?”
“No.”
Regulus smirks. “Turned his back on you too, eh?”
Remus says nothing. He pulls out the remains of his lunch, breaks off a piece of his croissant, and watches calmly as the mallards squabble for the first proper human meal he’s had in days.
“He doesn’t know where I am either,” he says quietly. “There are a lot of things he doesn’t know.”
Regulus scoffs audibly at this with all that’s left of his faded aristocratic airs. “If you’ve come for a bonding session over the blood-traitor, you can fuck off already.”
Remus takes this as his cue to sit down beside the sixteen year-old boy and lean back against the tainted, yellowing bark. They both watch as the brown ducks, little black birds and even an approaching swan scramble towards the last few crumbs of the crisp packet, tripping over each other in pursuit of a common goal.
Regulus pulls at the grass distractedly. “Why are you here, anyway?” he mumbles, and despite all his efforts it comes out sounding much more tired than irate or threatening. “I’m the bad guy, remember?” He laughs his harsh, humorless laugh again, and pulls up his shirtsleeve in sarcastic emphasis of his point. The mark is black burning flesh branded deep, deep into his skin, and his pale forearm seems ghostly in comparison.
He is surprised, however, when Remus mimics the action, revealing an impossible etching of scars, scabbing blood and the raw marks of frantic human fingernails.
“So I’ve been told.”
They sit in silence for a while, listening to the summer crickets and the crunch of red ants under their hands. A drunkard stumbles by on the path behind them, and both men are surprised to recognize the song spilling unevenly from his lips, even though the notes of “Rule Britannia” are drastically out of tune.
“I’m going to die,” Regulus states suddenly, and Remus doesn’t argue.
“I stole it, and he’s going to kill me,” he says, more decisive this time, and Remus doesn’t ask.
“He’s going to kill me,” Regulus repeats once again, as if it took repetition to verify the validity of his statement. He’s far from frightened, and it scares him.
“Probably,” says Remus. “He could kill us all. But, you see, it takes longer to do so when people insist on putting up a fight.”
He gets up and turns away. “You should know that he would have loved you, if only he had known how,” Remus says finally, and for a moment, they are both unclear as to who is referring to. A second later, a small cracking noise leaves Regulus with nothing but the treacherous breeze for company, knees curled up tight to his chest.
It only takes a minute before he starts to cry, and the tears fall down his childish features like the slanted light of ripples in the wake of webbed feet.