[Untitled (letter)] Remus, G {spoiler free}
Title: Untitled (letter)
Summary: Remus writes Sirius his first letter after arriving home for the summer after their fourth year at Hogwarts. Marauder-Era.
Prompt(s): tamingthemuse #52: Lockpick // 100quills 100.3 #88: Lonely
Warnings: NO SPOILERS DH Spoilers, if you squint and tip your head to the side and hold one hand in front of your nose.
Rating: G
Word Count: 832
Disclaimer: Remus Lupin isn't mine, the Harry Potter world isn't mine, either. I'm not getting anything out of this but virtual cookies the pleasure of writing it.
Author's Note: Please, refrain from leaving spoilers in the comments :)
Dear Sirius Champion of the Great Exploding Snap Tournament of 1974;
I've put a charm on this so that it reads like a very boring letter from a very boring person, just in case one of your family members decides to read it before letting you have a go. My sincere apologies if it appears as though the charm can't recognize you.
My parents are fine, though they continue to fuss as they did in their letters to Hogwarts about their worries that I trust too easily. It's very difficult to try to explain to one's own parents that you know for a fact that you can trust your closest friends because they are the sort of chaps who would duel each other in the halls if they thought it would get them detention with the friend already in trouble. Considering that I'm a complete angel at home (shut up, Sirius, I can hear you thinking sarcastic insults from half-way across the country), I'm not even sure that they would focus on the point of what I'm saying by the time I've said the word 'duel.' I believe I have you and James to thank for the corruption of my character--and I must say, I'm enjoying it, damn you.
Do you like the way I've addressed your letter? I wrote to James and made the nearly unforgivable mistake of beginning it with 'Dear James.' I'm sure you'll sympathize with me when I tell you that nearly half of his response was indignation, and I hardly got any news of his trip to see the Harpies play. I decided not to remind him that I'd been lax in writing letters almost entirely last summer, lest I end up with ten pages' worth of complaints and a severe hand injury from our old family owl's indignation. I'm sure you've noticed that our James doesn't really take into account the travel weight of his correspondence. In any case, I strongly suggest that you take my advice and come up with something suitably sycophantic grandiose to lead off with, when you write him.
Oh, and while you're at it, see what you can find out about the Quidditch game he went to--the game mind, not the players.
I'm sure I'll sound terribly mawkish, but home is dreadfully boring without you lot. You've all ruined me for solitude and silence, I think--even at night. Peter's snoring is only topped by your incoherent mumblings in your sleep, though I can't say that I miss them as much as I find the quiet out here in the country a bit hard to readjust to. Is it any better, in the city? I suppose I could look it up but it just occurred to me that there are sound-muffling charms that can be put on windows and the like. No need to do that where I am, of course, though I can't help but wonder, morbidly, whether there's a need for them 'round the full moon. Ironic, isn't it, that I long for some sort of break to the nightly silence, but I'm likely to be the only one who isn't in a position to remember it when there is.
Before I forget, and while we're on the subject of my Furry Little Problem (did I tell you that mum found some sort of rodent in the kitchen the day before they got me from the train station? Dad went on and on about a potential pest problem and all I could think about was how ridiculous of a reaction I would have if he managed to hit on your particular phrase), I haven't forgotten the question you asked me on the train--but I think you ought to ask James or Peter about it, not me. I'll admit to having some particular talent with charms, but given the frailty of my containment at home, I really don't think I should be focusing on charms to break seals, or anything similar. I know I don't talk about it very much, but it's very difficult, containing the desire to run away or escape, every month--and the thought that I might...
I just can't, Sirius. If they lock you up again--even if it's only for a day, like last summer--I'll come up with nuisance charms, I'll work out a way to send anonymous Howlers, whatever you ask (within reason, Sirius, so wipe that grin off of your face).
Well, I'm sure this is probably longer than your attention span allows for, given your behavior in History of Magic, so I'll finish this off shortly and send it to you. Please remember that Demeter (our owl, in case you've forgotten, which I'm sure you have) is getting on in years and doesn't appreciate it when you don't give her time to land properly before you grab for the letter.
Your friend,
Remus.
ps. Did the Permanent Sticking Charms work? I'd love to see the look on your mum's face when she sees your room.
Summary: Remus writes Sirius his first letter after arriving home for the summer after their fourth year at Hogwarts. Marauder-Era.
Prompt(s): tamingthemuse #52: Lockpick // 100quills 100.3 #88: Lonely
Warnings: NO SPOILERS DH Spoilers, if you squint and tip your head to the side and hold one hand in front of your nose.
Rating: G
Word Count: 832
Disclaimer: Remus Lupin isn't mine, the Harry Potter world isn't mine, either. I'm not getting anything out of this but virtual cookies the pleasure of writing it.
Author's Note: Please, refrain from leaving spoilers in the comments :)
Dear Sirius Champion of the Great Exploding Snap Tournament of 1974;
I've put a charm on this so that it reads like a very boring letter from a very boring person, just in case one of your family members decides to read it before letting you have a go. My sincere apologies if it appears as though the charm can't recognize you.
My parents are fine, though they continue to fuss as they did in their letters to Hogwarts about their worries that I trust too easily. It's very difficult to try to explain to one's own parents that you know for a fact that you can trust your closest friends because they are the sort of chaps who would duel each other in the halls if they thought it would get them detention with the friend already in trouble. Considering that I'm a complete angel at home (shut up, Sirius, I can hear you thinking sarcastic insults from half-way across the country), I'm not even sure that they would focus on the point of what I'm saying by the time I've said the word 'duel.' I believe I have you and James to thank for the corruption of my character--and I must say, I'm enjoying it, damn you.
Do you like the way I've addressed your letter? I wrote to James and made the nearly unforgivable mistake of beginning it with 'Dear James.' I'm sure you'll sympathize with me when I tell you that nearly half of his response was indignation, and I hardly got any news of his trip to see the Harpies play. I decided not to remind him that I'd been lax in writing letters almost entirely last summer, lest I end up with ten pages' worth of complaints and a severe hand injury from our old family owl's indignation. I'm sure you've noticed that our James doesn't really take into account the travel weight of his correspondence. In any case, I strongly suggest that you take my advice and come up with something suitably sycophantic grandiose to lead off with, when you write him.
Oh, and while you're at it, see what you can find out about the Quidditch game he went to--the game mind, not the players.
I'm sure I'll sound terribly mawkish, but home is dreadfully boring without you lot. You've all ruined me for solitude and silence, I think--even at night. Peter's snoring is only topped by your incoherent mumblings in your sleep, though I can't say that I miss them as much as I find the quiet out here in the country a bit hard to readjust to. Is it any better, in the city? I suppose I could look it up but it just occurred to me that there are sound-muffling charms that can be put on windows and the like. No need to do that where I am, of course, though I can't help but wonder, morbidly, whether there's a need for them 'round the full moon. Ironic, isn't it, that I long for some sort of break to the nightly silence, but I'm likely to be the only one who isn't in a position to remember it when there is.
Before I forget, and while we're on the subject of my Furry Little Problem (did I tell you that mum found some sort of rodent in the kitchen the day before they got me from the train station? Dad went on and on about a potential pest problem and all I could think about was how ridiculous of a reaction I would have if he managed to hit on your particular phrase), I haven't forgotten the question you asked me on the train--but I think you ought to ask James or Peter about it, not me. I'll admit to having some particular talent with charms, but given the frailty of my containment at home, I really don't think I should be focusing on charms to break seals, or anything similar. I know I don't talk about it very much, but it's very difficult, containing the desire to run away or escape, every month--and the thought that I might...
I just can't, Sirius. If they lock you up again--even if it's only for a day, like last summer--I'll come up with nuisance charms, I'll work out a way to send anonymous Howlers, whatever you ask (within reason, Sirius, so wipe that grin off of your face).
Well, I'm sure this is probably longer than your attention span allows for, given your behavior in History of Magic, so I'll finish this off shortly and send it to you. Please remember that Demeter (our owl, in case you've forgotten, which I'm sure you have) is getting on in years and doesn't appreciate it when you don't give her time to land properly before you grab for the letter.
Your friend,
Remus.
ps. Did the Permanent Sticking Charms work? I'd love to see the look on your mum's face when she sees your room.