(no subject)
Title: The Man with The Big Black Dog
Author: Me, nellie_darlin
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jo's.
Pairing/Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius-as-Padfoot, OFC as the narrator
Rating: G
Length: 1,530 words
Genre: genfic
Summary: Dog owners have a bond, of sorts.
A/N: I haven't been able to write one-shots for ages (I've been concentrating on a chaptered Remus-centric fic), but a bunny just came to me out of nowhere. One of those fics that writes itself. Un-beta'd, so concrit is welcome. Set post-Hogwarts, pre-Azkaban. Sad. If you're curious about the places I describe (they're all real, of course!), look here.
A/N2: The lovely and glamorous reallycorking has done a fab illustration of this. Check it out here, and show her how much you love it...
NB: I have changed the title.
Dog owners have a bond, of sorts.
Tramping along in the half-light, collar turned up, hands buried in pockets, a tatty lead clutched in their hand, while their dog darts and plays and runs circles around them, they are part of a brotherhood. Passing another dog owner, especially in the grey light of dawn when there is no one else around, there will a small smile, a nod of acknowledgement, maybe even a “Good morning,” if the bond is especially strong.
I remember one man particularly well. He was young, early twenties at most, but he was grave and reserved, his eyes were tired, and his brown hair was already greying at the temples. His coat was shabby, although his scarf was a vibrant red and gold, and he looked like a librarian or a teacher. What set him apart from the other walkers crisscrossing Hampstead Heath, their furry companions working off their night-time stiffness and barking at the rising sun, was his smile - a warm, slightly crooked, shy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. I thought he seemed kind, and I was not wary of him as I was of other men, holding my keys in my pocket and sticking to the well-frequented paths. He certainly treated his dog well, letting him run and run and run, but firm when he needed to be. I’ve never seen so much love in a dog owner, and I’ve seen some pretty crazy types, I tell you. When the dog bounded up to him, barking excitedly, he would smile that smile, and he would look younger, happier. He never minded the mud on the paws, the dog-breath, the raspy licks of the tongue - in fact, he seemed to welcome them, crouching down and laughing delightedly as his cheek was bathed in dog-spit.
I’d see him pretty much every morning. I was working in the City then, and like most London dog-owners, had to walk my spaniel, Toby, in the early morning before catching the tube to the office. Every morning I’d walk up South Hill Park from my flat in South End Green, onto the path beneath the dripping plane trees, then up to the top of Parliament Hill. I saw him there first, on a chilly October day, a hunched shape against the grey sky, looking out over London, his huge black dog pawing at his leg, begging him to play. As I approached, he looked down at the dog and smiled, saying, “Give me a minute, Pads. I’ve never seen this view before.”
I could have sworn the dog understood him, because he flopped down with a huff and rested his head on his paws. I wish Toby was that obedient. I called him ten times that morning, feeling more and more foolish, as he ran up to the man and greeted his dog, steadfastly ignoring me in favour of this exciting newcomer.
“Hello, boy,” the man said, crouching down and scratching Toby behind the ears, exactly where Toby liked it. His voice was soft, slightly hoarse, and with a Northern lilt. “What’s your name, then?”
“Toby,” I replied, drawing near.
“He’s a lovely dog,” the man said, smiling at me. “Spaniel, right?”
“Yes.”
His dog was getting impatient now, rising to his feet and wagging his tail. He gave a sharp bark, once, twice, and growled at Toby when he came too close.
“Ssh, Pads,” the man said, and miraculously, the dog was quiet. Then to me: “I’m sorry. He’s not normally like that, but he’s just come to London, and he’s a bit on edge.” The dog barked again. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, Pads,” his owner said, then to me, he said, “Good bye. Nice to meet you, Toby.” And with a wry smile at me, he turned and started to walk down Parliament Hill towards the ponds.
Over the following year, I’d see him at least once a week, plodding along, hands in pockets, the large black dog bounding around him, barking at pigeons. I think I fancied him a bit, to be honest, always looking out for him, and feeling a glow when we passed and he gave me that smile. I liked his floppy brown hair, his tired, kind eyes, his shabby winter coat, the love he showed for his dog. He looked good in whatever he was wearing - at least, to me - either that coat with the scarf, or the soft wool jumpers and brown cords, or jeans and a t-shirt in summer, and his dog was always glossy and well-groomed, if a bit spattered with mud.
According to the etiquette of dog owners, we never spoke at first, merely nodded and smiled. After a few months, we graduated to a “Good morning”, and by summer we had even managed a “nice day, isn’t it?” It was this that gave me courage to approach him that November, that day when his dog was missing.
It was November 2nd, a cold, blustery day that threatened to rain. The ground was slick with wet leaves, and the branches were almost bare. Gone were the beautiful summer mornings, the sky a vivid blue, the sun warm even at six o’clock; gone was the autumn blaze of red and gold, the crisp mornings that brought colour to the cheeks, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath your feet. Days were short and mornings were dark and cold, and you had to watch your footing on the steep slopes of the hill. I hated those mornings, but the possibility of seeing the man with the big black dog, coupled with Toby’s plaintive whining, managed to drag me from my warm bed. I was a reluctant but conscientious dog walker during the winter months.
The street lights were still on as I left my flat and began the walk up past the sleeping houses of South Hill Park, and the sky was lightening in the east as I stepped onto the Heath. As I began the climb up Parliament Hill, I was grateful for my thick socks and welly-boots, however unglamorous they made me look. At six o’clock in the morning, on a dank November day, vanity is forgotten in favour of warmth and comfort. I didn’t even mind that the man might see me like that. The rules for dog walkers were different.
As I reached the top of the hill that morning, I noticed a hunched figure sitting on a bench, one of those that offered the spectacular views of London. It was my friend with the big black dog.
Except the dog was nowhere to be seen.
It was very unusual to see anyone on the Heath at this time unless they had a dog with them, and it was especially unusual to see a familiar dog walker without their dog. It could only mean something had happened. Compelled by God-knows-what stupid impulse, I went over.
“Hello,” I said, softly, and the man jumped and his hand jerked towards his pocket. When he saw it was me, he relaxed, and smiled, but today the smile was not warm, merely a polite formality. Today, the man seemed older than ever; he seemed crushed, overwhelmed with great sadness. When I met his eyes, they were alive as his face was not, alive with a horror and an indescribable, wild sorrow. I nearly left then, my London instincts recoiling from the intrusion. But I couldn’t do it. I had to know.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but may I ask where your dog is?”
The man looked at me, and his whole body sagged. His face was grey in the early morning light, and the shadows under his eyes were like bruises. I’d never seen anyone look so lost, so broken.
“He’s gone,” he replied, his voice dead, and he looked away again, out over the grey, uncaring city.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, filled with compassion. I knew how much that man loved his dog, and I knew how much he must be suffering. Any other person would have scoffed that a dog’s death could cause such grief, but not a fellow dog owner, not someone who also got up at stupidly early hours to ensure a London dog got the exercise it needed. “I liked him,” I added, lamely.
The man stood up, and I guessed I had gone too far, broken too many dog walker rules. But I didn’t care. I wanted to be part of him for a moment, wanted to convey my sympathy, wanted to - if possible - ease some of the grief that radiated off him like heat from a fire. He walked a few yards in the direction of the ponds before answering. Then he stopped, looked back at me with his haunted eyes, and said in a voice that was cracked and unsteady, “So did I.” And then he turned and walked away. I watched him as he tramped along in the half-light, collar turned up, hands buried in the pockets of his shabby winter coat, a tatty lead still clutched in his hand - but no big black dog bounding around him, begging him to play.
Author: Me, nellie_darlin
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jo's.
Pairing/Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius-as-Padfoot, OFC as the narrator
Rating: G
Length: 1,530 words
Genre: genfic
Summary: Dog owners have a bond, of sorts.
A/N: I haven't been able to write one-shots for ages (I've been concentrating on a chaptered Remus-centric fic), but a bunny just came to me out of nowhere. One of those fics that writes itself. Un-beta'd, so concrit is welcome. Set post-Hogwarts, pre-Azkaban. Sad. If you're curious about the places I describe (they're all real, of course!), look here.
A/N2: The lovely and glamorous reallycorking has done a fab illustration of this. Check it out here, and show her how much you love it...
NB: I have changed the title.
Dog owners have a bond, of sorts.
Tramping along in the half-light, collar turned up, hands buried in pockets, a tatty lead clutched in their hand, while their dog darts and plays and runs circles around them, they are part of a brotherhood. Passing another dog owner, especially in the grey light of dawn when there is no one else around, there will a small smile, a nod of acknowledgement, maybe even a “Good morning,” if the bond is especially strong.
I remember one man particularly well. He was young, early twenties at most, but he was grave and reserved, his eyes were tired, and his brown hair was already greying at the temples. His coat was shabby, although his scarf was a vibrant red and gold, and he looked like a librarian or a teacher. What set him apart from the other walkers crisscrossing Hampstead Heath, their furry companions working off their night-time stiffness and barking at the rising sun, was his smile - a warm, slightly crooked, shy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. I thought he seemed kind, and I was not wary of him as I was of other men, holding my keys in my pocket and sticking to the well-frequented paths. He certainly treated his dog well, letting him run and run and run, but firm when he needed to be. I’ve never seen so much love in a dog owner, and I’ve seen some pretty crazy types, I tell you. When the dog bounded up to him, barking excitedly, he would smile that smile, and he would look younger, happier. He never minded the mud on the paws, the dog-breath, the raspy licks of the tongue - in fact, he seemed to welcome them, crouching down and laughing delightedly as his cheek was bathed in dog-spit.
I’d see him pretty much every morning. I was working in the City then, and like most London dog-owners, had to walk my spaniel, Toby, in the early morning before catching the tube to the office. Every morning I’d walk up South Hill Park from my flat in South End Green, onto the path beneath the dripping plane trees, then up to the top of Parliament Hill. I saw him there first, on a chilly October day, a hunched shape against the grey sky, looking out over London, his huge black dog pawing at his leg, begging him to play. As I approached, he looked down at the dog and smiled, saying, “Give me a minute, Pads. I’ve never seen this view before.”
I could have sworn the dog understood him, because he flopped down with a huff and rested his head on his paws. I wish Toby was that obedient. I called him ten times that morning, feeling more and more foolish, as he ran up to the man and greeted his dog, steadfastly ignoring me in favour of this exciting newcomer.
“Hello, boy,” the man said, crouching down and scratching Toby behind the ears, exactly where Toby liked it. His voice was soft, slightly hoarse, and with a Northern lilt. “What’s your name, then?”
“Toby,” I replied, drawing near.
“He’s a lovely dog,” the man said, smiling at me. “Spaniel, right?”
“Yes.”
His dog was getting impatient now, rising to his feet and wagging his tail. He gave a sharp bark, once, twice, and growled at Toby when he came too close.
“Ssh, Pads,” the man said, and miraculously, the dog was quiet. Then to me: “I’m sorry. He’s not normally like that, but he’s just come to London, and he’s a bit on edge.” The dog barked again. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, Pads,” his owner said, then to me, he said, “Good bye. Nice to meet you, Toby.” And with a wry smile at me, he turned and started to walk down Parliament Hill towards the ponds.
Over the following year, I’d see him at least once a week, plodding along, hands in pockets, the large black dog bounding around him, barking at pigeons. I think I fancied him a bit, to be honest, always looking out for him, and feeling a glow when we passed and he gave me that smile. I liked his floppy brown hair, his tired, kind eyes, his shabby winter coat, the love he showed for his dog. He looked good in whatever he was wearing - at least, to me - either that coat with the scarf, or the soft wool jumpers and brown cords, or jeans and a t-shirt in summer, and his dog was always glossy and well-groomed, if a bit spattered with mud.
According to the etiquette of dog owners, we never spoke at first, merely nodded and smiled. After a few months, we graduated to a “Good morning”, and by summer we had even managed a “nice day, isn’t it?” It was this that gave me courage to approach him that November, that day when his dog was missing.
It was November 2nd, a cold, blustery day that threatened to rain. The ground was slick with wet leaves, and the branches were almost bare. Gone were the beautiful summer mornings, the sky a vivid blue, the sun warm even at six o’clock; gone was the autumn blaze of red and gold, the crisp mornings that brought colour to the cheeks, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath your feet. Days were short and mornings were dark and cold, and you had to watch your footing on the steep slopes of the hill. I hated those mornings, but the possibility of seeing the man with the big black dog, coupled with Toby’s plaintive whining, managed to drag me from my warm bed. I was a reluctant but conscientious dog walker during the winter months.
The street lights were still on as I left my flat and began the walk up past the sleeping houses of South Hill Park, and the sky was lightening in the east as I stepped onto the Heath. As I began the climb up Parliament Hill, I was grateful for my thick socks and welly-boots, however unglamorous they made me look. At six o’clock in the morning, on a dank November day, vanity is forgotten in favour of warmth and comfort. I didn’t even mind that the man might see me like that. The rules for dog walkers were different.
As I reached the top of the hill that morning, I noticed a hunched figure sitting on a bench, one of those that offered the spectacular views of London. It was my friend with the big black dog.
Except the dog was nowhere to be seen.
It was very unusual to see anyone on the Heath at this time unless they had a dog with them, and it was especially unusual to see a familiar dog walker without their dog. It could only mean something had happened. Compelled by God-knows-what stupid impulse, I went over.
“Hello,” I said, softly, and the man jumped and his hand jerked towards his pocket. When he saw it was me, he relaxed, and smiled, but today the smile was not warm, merely a polite formality. Today, the man seemed older than ever; he seemed crushed, overwhelmed with great sadness. When I met his eyes, they were alive as his face was not, alive with a horror and an indescribable, wild sorrow. I nearly left then, my London instincts recoiling from the intrusion. But I couldn’t do it. I had to know.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but may I ask where your dog is?”
The man looked at me, and his whole body sagged. His face was grey in the early morning light, and the shadows under his eyes were like bruises. I’d never seen anyone look so lost, so broken.
“He’s gone,” he replied, his voice dead, and he looked away again, out over the grey, uncaring city.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, filled with compassion. I knew how much that man loved his dog, and I knew how much he must be suffering. Any other person would have scoffed that a dog’s death could cause such grief, but not a fellow dog owner, not someone who also got up at stupidly early hours to ensure a London dog got the exercise it needed. “I liked him,” I added, lamely.
The man stood up, and I guessed I had gone too far, broken too many dog walker rules. But I didn’t care. I wanted to be part of him for a moment, wanted to convey my sympathy, wanted to - if possible - ease some of the grief that radiated off him like heat from a fire. He walked a few yards in the direction of the ponds before answering. Then he stopped, looked back at me with his haunted eyes, and said in a voice that was cracked and unsteady, “So did I.” And then he turned and walked away. I watched him as he tramped along in the half-light, collar turned up, hands buried in the pockets of his shabby winter coat, a tatty lead still clutched in his hand - but no big black dog bounding around him, begging him to play.