Four More Queerditch Pub Ficlets
Evening round. Still on the mythology theme. The stories remain very gen. Two are pure gen, one is genslash (the couple is clearly a couple, but nothing graphic is described), and there's one homosexual kiss.
***
Sirius, Regulus used to say with envy, had the Midas Touch. All that he wished to do, he could do; all those he wished to enchant with his smile and his touch stayed enchanted, even after he had grown bored and had gone on to something new.
Perhaps that was why he valued so little of what he had. He scattered Sickles and Galleons like water, scarcely thinking of where the money came from. He learned as easily as he breathed, barely needing to study, and grew impatient with those who had to work harder. He feared little and never doubted, and considered others less fearless to be cowards. Finding it embarrassing to be hero-worshipped by Regulus, he cast aside the love of his younger brother, sure that it would still be there when he wanted it again. He betrayed the love of his life in a sudden, cruel, unthinking moment, and was bewildered that this made a difference.
He had it all, and didn't know how valuable it was.
Bellatrix showed him.
For Bellatrix gleamed and glittered, just as he did--his parallel in looks, intellect, temper. She was the perfect Black, cold and impervious to decay. She was the family golden girl. Yet her mind was hard and unchanging, and her heart was pure metal. There was nothing soft or human about Bella.
And soon enough Sirius realised that Bella had not valued her golden gifts, and that all she was had transformed into something curiously inhuman that remained a valuable gift for another.
He fled his family, and tried to build a life around those he loved. He tried to wash away the curse of the Midas Touch. He strove to remain human, as Bellatrix had not.
He often regretted that decision in Azkaban.
He struggled with despair and grief and guilt, minute by minute, hour by hour, until he could feel them like a weight crushing his chest. He tried not to remember all he had had, and all he might have still had, had he not been criminally stupid.
Above all, he tried to be glad that he was still human enough to care. But when he heard Bellatrix's golden laughter echoing from her cell next door...it was difficult indeed.
***
Severus knows that Lucius does not love him--perhaps is not even capable of loving another. Lucius is satisfied with himself. He pampers himself, dresses in the finest of garb to enhance his beauty, commands worship by his very presence. He loves himself as no one else can. In fucking--or being fucked by--Severus, Lucius is giving himself enormous pleasure. He is, in a sense, making love to himself.
Severus does not deceive himself that this relationship, if that's what it can be called, will, in any way, end in blissful happiness. Some day, either at the instruction of the Dark Lord or out of fear and distrust, Lucius will send him a missive that is equivalent to a sword through the heart. And on that day, he will be obliged to die. To do less would be dishonourable. It would betray the Order as he has already betrayed the Death Eaters.
But Severus will not go into that good night gently.
He has already prepared the potion that will transform his force of will--the will of a Legilimens--into a curse that will strike Lucius like a ghastly blow. Lucius will pay, in grief and pain and anguish, before he dies. And he will die in exactly the manner that Severus dies.
It gives Severus no pleasure to know that Lucius will suffer in this way, but he remains adamant. Lucius may consider him expedient; perhaps he is. But he will not be dismissed out of hand by a vain, handsome pureblood who thinks he knows so much and who understands so little. After his death, he will be seen and valued for the human being whom he was...despite the terrible cost.
It is a matter of honour.
***
There was always a price to bringing someone back from the dead, but Remus didn't mind paying it.
There were runes of protection, invocations of power, pledges he never would have dreamed he'd make before he could step through the Veil and still remain alive. But he did it.
Eternities passed before he reached the rulers of the dead and implored them to give Sirius back to him.
There would be a cost, they reminded him.
And whatever it is, I'll pay it, he answered.
A psychopomp with the head of a black jackal showed him the path he would have to take to return to the living world. Once he started, he must not stop or slow, speak to Sirius or even look him in the eye.
Do you agree? The psychopomp asked him.
Yes, he said. I agree.
And oh, it was a cold and terrible journey, bleak and filled with the chill presence of Dementors, and the swift, nightmarish appearance of Lethifolds, ready to envelope all travellers in their suffocating embrace. It was torture not to scream, not to turn around and beg to know if Sirius was all right.
Then the monsters vanished, and other nightmares appeared--all the nameless, faceless people who had hated him for his bloodline, for his lycanthropy. He heard their mockery, their shrieks of terror. And he heard Sirius crying out in pain, as if each word were a blow from a carefully aimed rock.
Then the bigots vanished, and he was alone with Peter. A thousand different Peters. Peter, jeering. Peter attacking him with that damnable silver hand. Peter grovelling in terror, begging for his miserable life. Peter, weeping in shame, self-hatred and guilt. The last was the hardest of all. How he got past that Peter to the stairs leading to the upper world was something he never knew.
Up the stairs. Up and up and up. Up until time itself failed to have any meaning, and Remus was sure he had blundered into a nightmare.
And finally, the Veil. And Sirius had gone silent. Remus was not even sure he was behind him any longer.
He stepped through the Veil, resisting the temptation to look back.
And he was back in the Ministry once again, and all was silent. Of Sirius, there was no sign.
Remus bowed his head in frustration.
Warm arms encircled him tightly. "Moony..."
Remus closed his eyes. Now, now surely the gods would strike him down in payment for Sirius's resurrection. It stood to reason.
"Remus." Sirius turned him around toward the Ministry windows. "Remus, look."
Remus looked, but not out the window. He was far too busy looking at, and then kissing, Sirius.
He would not find out until the next day that he had been kissing Sirius in the light of a full moon.
***
They didn't plan to do so, but after each one transformed for the first time, the other two named the third--at least, in two of the cases. Peter dubbed James Pronghead, which Sirius shortened to Prongs. Sirius came up with Wormtail for Peter, which James, unable to think of anything better, supported.
Sirius's name was quite different.
Unlike James and Peter, he didn't transform when the other two were watching. James and Sirius were alone in their dorm, Remus being in the infirmary again for wounds garnered at the full moon, and Peter having beetled off to Hufflepuff to see Agatha Treves. And they weren't thinking about transforming. They were merely sitting on the floor, talking, drinking extremely illegal vodka (which would have given Professor McGonagall fits if she had known) and laughing for no other reason than because the entire world seemed marvellously funny.
Sirius was never very clear on why transforming seemed like a good idea at that point. He always said that something inside him seemed to unclench at that precise moment, freeing something that had been painfully knotted up for so long that he hadn't even known it was hurting.
And relaxing, he changed.
James stared at the bear-like black dog sitting where Sirius had been two seconds before, and paled. To Sirius's surprise, James stood and, still staring at the dog, backed away.
Sirius focused, and slowly shifted back to human form.
"James?" he said softly. "Is everything all right?"
"Sirius," James said--and his Yorkshire accent had never been more audible--"you turned into a Padfoot."
"A what?"
"A Padfoot. A black dog, like a Grim. Supposed to be an omen of death, or at least bad luck." James shivered. "There are a fair lot of them down where I live."
Sirius thought quickly. "Well, then, that's appropriate. It's an omen of the death of Remus's curse. He'll never be alone again. And he'll always have friends. Maybe he won't even suffer from lycanthropy after a while."
"I don't think it's something you outgrow," said James tensely. "And anyway, black dogs are supposed to be ill omens to the one who sees them."
"James. Do you honestly believe that I would ever do anything to hurt you? Or Remus? Or Peter?"
James put his hand on Sirius's shoulder, leaning forward so far that he nearly banged his forehead into Sirius's. "No. I don't. I can't believe it. It's too ridiculous."
But there was still a glimmer of fear in those hazel eyes.
"Then prove it. Scare away any bad luck that might be stupid enough to hang about. Call me after the black dog. Call me Padfoot."
James looked repulsed. "I couldn't!"
"Sure you can," coaxed Sirius. "Drain it of all the superstition and fear. Make it an everyday name. Come on, James. It's not as if I can change my Animagus form, after all."
"We could call you something simpler," said James, taking a large swig of vodka before passing the bottle over to Sirius. "Bear, maybe. Or Blackie."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Or Doggie? Honestly, James."
"I don't like naming you after a creature that brings a curse."
Sirius gave James a look of complete innocence mixed with earnestness.
James threw up his hands. "Fine. Fine." He walked over to Sirius, took the bottle of vodka from Sirius's hands and tapped him on either shoulder with the bottle. "There. I, James Matthew Potter, do hereby dub thee Padfoot."
Sirius squinted. James was getting a bit blurry around the edges, and he wished that James would stop. "Aren't you supposed to give me an oath of erring knightery or something?"
"That's knight errantry, and no. I just have to tell you to be a good knight. And a good dog. And--that's enough, I think."
"You have no romance in your soul, Prongs."
"You have enough for both of us, Padfoot."
And so the name of Yorkshire's black dog was given to a boy of fifteen. In time, he and Remus and Peter forgot what it meant. Even James didn't remember that often. It simply became another nonsensical nickname, as silly as Remus's nickname of Moony, or Peter's nickname of Wormtail.
It was not until the morning of 1 November 1981 when, while staring at the charred and smoking ruins of James' and Lily's cottage, Sirius wondered if there might not be something to the notion of Padfoot as an omen of death, after all.
***
ETA: Words written so far this month. 10,584 words written as of May 10th + 524 (ficlet written for Queerditch Pub on the 15th) + 947 ("True Colours") + 452 (Ron and Harry ficlet for Queerditch on the 21st) + 205 (Sirius and Regulus) + 233 (Regulus and Bellatrix) + 314 (Peter and Bellatrix) + 375 (Sirius and Bellatrix) + 290 (Severus/Lucius) + 472 (Remus/Sirius) + 743 (James and Sirius) + 200 (two drabbles for hp100) = 15,339 words.
***
Sirius, Regulus used to say with envy, had the Midas Touch. All that he wished to do, he could do; all those he wished to enchant with his smile and his touch stayed enchanted, even after he had grown bored and had gone on to something new.
Perhaps that was why he valued so little of what he had. He scattered Sickles and Galleons like water, scarcely thinking of where the money came from. He learned as easily as he breathed, barely needing to study, and grew impatient with those who had to work harder. He feared little and never doubted, and considered others less fearless to be cowards. Finding it embarrassing to be hero-worshipped by Regulus, he cast aside the love of his younger brother, sure that it would still be there when he wanted it again. He betrayed the love of his life in a sudden, cruel, unthinking moment, and was bewildered that this made a difference.
He had it all, and didn't know how valuable it was.
Bellatrix showed him.
For Bellatrix gleamed and glittered, just as he did--his parallel in looks, intellect, temper. She was the perfect Black, cold and impervious to decay. She was the family golden girl. Yet her mind was hard and unchanging, and her heart was pure metal. There was nothing soft or human about Bella.
And soon enough Sirius realised that Bella had not valued her golden gifts, and that all she was had transformed into something curiously inhuman that remained a valuable gift for another.
He fled his family, and tried to build a life around those he loved. He tried to wash away the curse of the Midas Touch. He strove to remain human, as Bellatrix had not.
He often regretted that decision in Azkaban.
He struggled with despair and grief and guilt, minute by minute, hour by hour, until he could feel them like a weight crushing his chest. He tried not to remember all he had had, and all he might have still had, had he not been criminally stupid.
Above all, he tried to be glad that he was still human enough to care. But when he heard Bellatrix's golden laughter echoing from her cell next door...it was difficult indeed.
***
Severus knows that Lucius does not love him--perhaps is not even capable of loving another. Lucius is satisfied with himself. He pampers himself, dresses in the finest of garb to enhance his beauty, commands worship by his very presence. He loves himself as no one else can. In fucking--or being fucked by--Severus, Lucius is giving himself enormous pleasure. He is, in a sense, making love to himself.
Severus does not deceive himself that this relationship, if that's what it can be called, will, in any way, end in blissful happiness. Some day, either at the instruction of the Dark Lord or out of fear and distrust, Lucius will send him a missive that is equivalent to a sword through the heart. And on that day, he will be obliged to die. To do less would be dishonourable. It would betray the Order as he has already betrayed the Death Eaters.
But Severus will not go into that good night gently.
He has already prepared the potion that will transform his force of will--the will of a Legilimens--into a curse that will strike Lucius like a ghastly blow. Lucius will pay, in grief and pain and anguish, before he dies. And he will die in exactly the manner that Severus dies.
It gives Severus no pleasure to know that Lucius will suffer in this way, but he remains adamant. Lucius may consider him expedient; perhaps he is. But he will not be dismissed out of hand by a vain, handsome pureblood who thinks he knows so much and who understands so little. After his death, he will be seen and valued for the human being whom he was...despite the terrible cost.
It is a matter of honour.
***
There was always a price to bringing someone back from the dead, but Remus didn't mind paying it.
There were runes of protection, invocations of power, pledges he never would have dreamed he'd make before he could step through the Veil and still remain alive. But he did it.
Eternities passed before he reached the rulers of the dead and implored them to give Sirius back to him.
There would be a cost, they reminded him.
And whatever it is, I'll pay it, he answered.
A psychopomp with the head of a black jackal showed him the path he would have to take to return to the living world. Once he started, he must not stop or slow, speak to Sirius or even look him in the eye.
Do you agree? The psychopomp asked him.
Yes, he said. I agree.
And oh, it was a cold and terrible journey, bleak and filled with the chill presence of Dementors, and the swift, nightmarish appearance of Lethifolds, ready to envelope all travellers in their suffocating embrace. It was torture not to scream, not to turn around and beg to know if Sirius was all right.
Then the monsters vanished, and other nightmares appeared--all the nameless, faceless people who had hated him for his bloodline, for his lycanthropy. He heard their mockery, their shrieks of terror. And he heard Sirius crying out in pain, as if each word were a blow from a carefully aimed rock.
Then the bigots vanished, and he was alone with Peter. A thousand different Peters. Peter, jeering. Peter attacking him with that damnable silver hand. Peter grovelling in terror, begging for his miserable life. Peter, weeping in shame, self-hatred and guilt. The last was the hardest of all. How he got past that Peter to the stairs leading to the upper world was something he never knew.
Up the stairs. Up and up and up. Up until time itself failed to have any meaning, and Remus was sure he had blundered into a nightmare.
And finally, the Veil. And Sirius had gone silent. Remus was not even sure he was behind him any longer.
He stepped through the Veil, resisting the temptation to look back.
And he was back in the Ministry once again, and all was silent. Of Sirius, there was no sign.
Remus bowed his head in frustration.
Warm arms encircled him tightly. "Moony..."
Remus closed his eyes. Now, now surely the gods would strike him down in payment for Sirius's resurrection. It stood to reason.
"Remus." Sirius turned him around toward the Ministry windows. "Remus, look."
Remus looked, but not out the window. He was far too busy looking at, and then kissing, Sirius.
He would not find out until the next day that he had been kissing Sirius in the light of a full moon.
***
They didn't plan to do so, but after each one transformed for the first time, the other two named the third--at least, in two of the cases. Peter dubbed James Pronghead, which Sirius shortened to Prongs. Sirius came up with Wormtail for Peter, which James, unable to think of anything better, supported.
Sirius's name was quite different.
Unlike James and Peter, he didn't transform when the other two were watching. James and Sirius were alone in their dorm, Remus being in the infirmary again for wounds garnered at the full moon, and Peter having beetled off to Hufflepuff to see Agatha Treves. And they weren't thinking about transforming. They were merely sitting on the floor, talking, drinking extremely illegal vodka (which would have given Professor McGonagall fits if she had known) and laughing for no other reason than because the entire world seemed marvellously funny.
Sirius was never very clear on why transforming seemed like a good idea at that point. He always said that something inside him seemed to unclench at that precise moment, freeing something that had been painfully knotted up for so long that he hadn't even known it was hurting.
And relaxing, he changed.
James stared at the bear-like black dog sitting where Sirius had been two seconds before, and paled. To Sirius's surprise, James stood and, still staring at the dog, backed away.
Sirius focused, and slowly shifted back to human form.
"James?" he said softly. "Is everything all right?"
"Sirius," James said--and his Yorkshire accent had never been more audible--"you turned into a Padfoot."
"A what?"
"A Padfoot. A black dog, like a Grim. Supposed to be an omen of death, or at least bad luck." James shivered. "There are a fair lot of them down where I live."
Sirius thought quickly. "Well, then, that's appropriate. It's an omen of the death of Remus's curse. He'll never be alone again. And he'll always have friends. Maybe he won't even suffer from lycanthropy after a while."
"I don't think it's something you outgrow," said James tensely. "And anyway, black dogs are supposed to be ill omens to the one who sees them."
"James. Do you honestly believe that I would ever do anything to hurt you? Or Remus? Or Peter?"
James put his hand on Sirius's shoulder, leaning forward so far that he nearly banged his forehead into Sirius's. "No. I don't. I can't believe it. It's too ridiculous."
But there was still a glimmer of fear in those hazel eyes.
"Then prove it. Scare away any bad luck that might be stupid enough to hang about. Call me after the black dog. Call me Padfoot."
James looked repulsed. "I couldn't!"
"Sure you can," coaxed Sirius. "Drain it of all the superstition and fear. Make it an everyday name. Come on, James. It's not as if I can change my Animagus form, after all."
"We could call you something simpler," said James, taking a large swig of vodka before passing the bottle over to Sirius. "Bear, maybe. Or Blackie."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Or Doggie? Honestly, James."
"I don't like naming you after a creature that brings a curse."
Sirius gave James a look of complete innocence mixed with earnestness.
James threw up his hands. "Fine. Fine." He walked over to Sirius, took the bottle of vodka from Sirius's hands and tapped him on either shoulder with the bottle. "There. I, James Matthew Potter, do hereby dub thee Padfoot."
Sirius squinted. James was getting a bit blurry around the edges, and he wished that James would stop. "Aren't you supposed to give me an oath of erring knightery or something?"
"That's knight errantry, and no. I just have to tell you to be a good knight. And a good dog. And--that's enough, I think."
"You have no romance in your soul, Prongs."
"You have enough for both of us, Padfoot."
And so the name of Yorkshire's black dog was given to a boy of fifteen. In time, he and Remus and Peter forgot what it meant. Even James didn't remember that often. It simply became another nonsensical nickname, as silly as Remus's nickname of Moony, or Peter's nickname of Wormtail.
It was not until the morning of 1 November 1981 when, while staring at the charred and smoking ruins of James' and Lily's cottage, Sirius wondered if there might not be something to the notion of Padfoot as an omen of death, after all.
***
ETA: Words written so far this month. 10,584 words written as of May 10th + 524 (ficlet written for Queerditch Pub on the 15th) + 947 ("True Colours") + 452 (Ron and Harry ficlet for Queerditch on the 21st) + 205 (Sirius and Regulus) + 233 (Regulus and Bellatrix) + 314 (Peter and Bellatrix) + 375 (Sirius and Bellatrix) + 290 (Severus/Lucius) + 472 (Remus/Sirius) + 743 (James and Sirius) + 200 (two drabbles for hp100) = 15,339 words.