FIC: Fenland Frolics
Title: Fenland Frolics
Rating: G
Warnings: Extreme Mary-Sueing of my own hobbies...
Word Count: 1823
Summary: Tonks is having a hard week, but Remus knows a perfect antidote.
Author's notes: This is an embarassingly late birthday present for the lovely gilpin25, so late in fact that it's almost time for her next birthday. *cringes* I hope the fact that it's a bit longer than a drabble goes some way to compensate for the delay...
Anyway, she gave me the prompts 'R/T' and 'dance'.
“Ugh!” said Tonks, flopping down onto the library sofa next to Remus. “I’ve had it. I’ve really had it this time.”
It was past midnight on what had to be the most miserable January night in the history of the world and she was cold, tired and soaked to the skin. Given how utterly exhausted she felt, going home to bed would probably have been the most sensible option, but tonight she needed to vent, and so she’d come back to number twelve after her shift and sought out Remus.
“What’s Dawlish done this time?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s not just Dawlish, though admittedly he’s being a massive arse as usual.” She bent to unlace her boots, kicking them off and stretching her feet towards the fire. “I’ve spent the evening on a pointless wild goose chase for a certain escaped convict. Three hours of interviewing witnesses, all of whom were one or two Beaters short of a Quiddich team, and then four hours traipsing round derelict barns in South Wales, where, if you can believe it, it’s raining even harder than it is here, pretending to look for someone who I know for a fact was relaxing in his own warm kitchen with a bottle of Ogden’s.”
She yawned. “And then, when I finally managed to report back to the office, Dawlish pounced on me and started spewing some guff about a new protocol for paperwork and how blue ink is no longer acceptable in reports. He insists he sent a memo ‘round, but I certainly haven’t seen it - I wouldn’t put it past him to have missed me out deliberately. So anyway, the long and the short of it is that I have a weeks worth of reports to re-write tomorrow, as well as the one from tonight.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Honestly, I could scream!”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Remus with a wry grin. “Molly’s on the warpath. The twins were creating havoc this afternoon, manufacturing something that requires explosions and copious amounts of talcum powder, Ron and Hermione have had a blazing row and Arthur hasn’t come home from the hospital after all, so she’s gone to bed with a migraine. Things have been a bit fraught, which is why I’m hiding in here.”
“I’d still trade you,” she said with a smile. “Rather Weasleys than Dawlish any day.”
He chuckled. “I think we could both do with some time away from here. When’s your next day off?”
“Saturday, thank Merlin. Only two days to go.”
Remus was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. “What’s this Saturday, the eleventh?” She nodded. “I think I know exactly where I should take you, then,” he said, a smile spreading across his face.
“Where are we going?”
“Ah,” he said, closing his book and getting to his feet, “that would be telling. Just meet me here on Saturday, and dress warmly.”
* * * *
The weather, as the two of them materialised behind some bins in what looked to be a pub car park, was bright and crisp - a stark contrast to the storms of Wednesday evening. Tonks was glad she had taken Remus’ advice to wrap up warm, since the wind was bitter, and frost still lay on the ground despite the fact that it was nearly lunchtime.
“So,” she said, as they headed towards the road, “where have you brought me?”
“Whittlesey.”
“Right,” she said, still none the wiser, “and where’s that?”
Remus smirked slightly, no doubt amused by the confusion on her face. “Cambridgeshire. Near Peterborough.”
Merlin, this was like getting blood out of a stone. “And we’re here for what exactly?”
Remus looked at her. “What makes you think we’re here for something specific?”
“Well, you seemed very concerned about the date, when we arranged this, so it’s obviously because there’s something going on today. I’m not an Auror for nothing you know.”
He smiled. “So what else have you deduced, Auror Tonks?”
“Well, not much” she admitted. “I thought at first we were going somewhere wizarding, since you didn’t specify Muggle clothes, but there’re no wizards in Whittlesey, as far as I can remember, and we didn’t Apparate in the open, so now I’m confused.”
They’d been walking for a few minutes now, weaving their way along narrow back streets lined with parked cars and houses of every conceivable style, from thatched cottages to modern flats, and as they neared what must be the centre of town Tonks could hear the rhythmic boom of a drum, and occasional snatches of music.
“We must be going to see some sort of band,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt, “or maybe a parade?”
“You’ll see, soon enough.”
“Is that all the answer I get?” she said in mock indignation. “You’re infuriating.”
“I aim to please.”
It was at that moment that they rounded a corner into what seemed to be the marketplace, and Tonks could not help but gasp at the scene that met them. The road was packed with the oddest looking people she had ever seen. Some of them bore a striking resemblance to wizards trying unsuccessfully to dress as Muggles, since they were sporting odd combinations of brightly coloured clothes in mismatched patterns (Tonks spotted a woman of about her own age wearing a straw sun hat, a knitted scarf in all the colours of the rainbow, a red and yellow patchwork jumper, tie-dyed shorts, turquoise tights and odd socks), while others were wearing jackets which seemed to be covered entirely in tattered strips of fabric. Many had painted faces, and nearly all of them seemed to be wearing bells somewhere on their person, the sound of which could be heard above the music being played by a number of the strangely dressed people. Those not playing were either milling about with tankards in their hands, or enthusiastically performing dances, the like of which she had never seen, with sticks and coloured handkerchiefs and whoops of delight.
“Who are these people?” she asked, feeling rather dowdy, despite her pink hair and purple cloak.
“Morris dancers,” said Remus. “This is Whittlesey Straw Bear Festival, which is some kind of Muggle tradition to do with Plough Monday. Anyway, every year, lots of Muggles come and dance here to celebrate it, which, as you can see, is quite a spectacle.”
“Cool. So what’s a straw bear then?”
“A person covered in straw. You’ll see him later when they have the procession. I know,” he said, spotting her bewildered expression, “I don’t really get it either, but it’s good fun.”
This turned out to be true. The two of them spent quite some time wandering along the road, stopping after every few steps to watch a different team dance. Tonks was amazed by the variety; there was a group who, with their black and white painted faces, seemed like a cross between Goths and New Romantics, a team of women who, looking very chilly in their thin green dresses, danced a very precise sort of dance in wooden soled shoes, a group of men with swords, who wove in and out of each other in close formation and many, many groups who wore the strange ragged coats that Tonks had first seen, and danced loud, boisterous dances in groups of six.
Despite the utterly freezing weather, which was slowly chilling her to the bone, Tonks had not felt this content for quite some time. This was partly due to the infectious enthusiasm of the dancers, and the chance to forget the worries of the wizarding world, but also, she had to admit, it was the pleasure of Remus’ company. Tonks felt so at ease with him, as they walked and talked, that it seemed as if they’d been friends for years, rather than acquaintances of a few months.
They bought lunch from a stall that proudly proclaimed that it sold only ‘real sausages’ (Remus made her laugh by wondering what a pretend sausage might be like) and nibbled their hot dogs while watching an entertaining but rather silly play where the main plot seemed to revolve around the characters, which included St. George and a dragon, entering, falling down dead and then being revived. Remus had insisted, despite Tonks protests, on paying for their meal, but she managed to convince him to let her buy pudding and was pleased to discover that their coffee and crepes cost significantly more than the real sausages had.
“So how did you know about this, then?” she asked as they headed up the road to watch the procession.
“Oh,” he said, surprised, “I grew up near here. About seven miles that way, in fact, as the owl flies” he pointed to the north-east. “Didn’t I ever mention it?”
He hadn’t. In fact, Tonks thought, as they found a space to stand by a baker’s shop, Remus had actually revealed very little about himself in the time she’d known him, despite the hours they’d spent talking. Secrecy was clearly a deeply ingrained habit for him, which, she supposed, was hardly surprising given how much he had had to hide over the years, but it was interesting to discover that he was unaware of quite how much he kept people at a distance. And reassuring, in a way, she thought, since if it wasn’t conscious, it was unlikely to be personal.
They watched the dancers pass, Tonks marvelling at the ease with which they managed to adapt their routines so that they moved forward along the road, and soon enough the Straw Bear came in to view. He was, quite literally, a man covered in straw, just as Remus had described. Bundles of it had been bound around his arms, legs, body and even his head to give the impression of a figure fashioned entirely from the stuff. He was led by several men in bright, ragged coats and bowler hats, and danced and skipped his way along the road, despite his cumbersome costume.
By the time the procession had finished, the evening was drawing in and the light beginning to fade, so the two of them, reluctant to end their day so soon, decided to return to Tonks’ flat for hot chocolate.
As they sat in front of the fire, faces glowing and steaming mugs in their hands, she reflected on the day they’d spent, and how good a friend the man next to her was becoming. It was he that she turned to when she wanted to laugh, or cry, or moan, it was he that always knew exactly haw to lift her mood, it was he that she regularly talked into the night with, and yet in some ways she still did not know all that much about him. This was someone she wanted to get to know a great deal better, she decided, and she would make it her mission to do so.
Author's Notes II: This plot bunny has been lurking in the back of my mind ever since I selected a location for Remus' childhood home, and when I got those prompts I just knew it had to be written. Whittlesey Straw Bear Festival (or Whittlesea - there seems to be some disagreement over the spelling) is a real event that happens every year, though I've never actually been since when Chelmsford Morris went I was in Cardiff. However, I've been to enough folk festivals that I feel confident that I've managed to extrapolate from the pictures, You Tube clips, etc. reasonably accurately.
This fic is remarkably self-indulgent for a birthday fic, which I hope you'll forgive, and to prove it see if you can spot the cameo from my own dance team. ;)
Rating: G
Warnings: Extreme Mary-Sueing of my own hobbies...
Word Count: 1823
Summary: Tonks is having a hard week, but Remus knows a perfect antidote.
Author's notes: This is an embarassingly late birthday present for the lovely gilpin25, so late in fact that it's almost time for her next birthday. *cringes* I hope the fact that it's a bit longer than a drabble goes some way to compensate for the delay...
Anyway, she gave me the prompts 'R/T' and 'dance'.
“Ugh!” said Tonks, flopping down onto the library sofa next to Remus. “I’ve had it. I’ve really had it this time.”
It was past midnight on what had to be the most miserable January night in the history of the world and she was cold, tired and soaked to the skin. Given how utterly exhausted she felt, going home to bed would probably have been the most sensible option, but tonight she needed to vent, and so she’d come back to number twelve after her shift and sought out Remus.
“What’s Dawlish done this time?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s not just Dawlish, though admittedly he’s being a massive arse as usual.” She bent to unlace her boots, kicking them off and stretching her feet towards the fire. “I’ve spent the evening on a pointless wild goose chase for a certain escaped convict. Three hours of interviewing witnesses, all of whom were one or two Beaters short of a Quiddich team, and then four hours traipsing round derelict barns in South Wales, where, if you can believe it, it’s raining even harder than it is here, pretending to look for someone who I know for a fact was relaxing in his own warm kitchen with a bottle of Ogden’s.”
She yawned. “And then, when I finally managed to report back to the office, Dawlish pounced on me and started spewing some guff about a new protocol for paperwork and how blue ink is no longer acceptable in reports. He insists he sent a memo ‘round, but I certainly haven’t seen it - I wouldn’t put it past him to have missed me out deliberately. So anyway, the long and the short of it is that I have a weeks worth of reports to re-write tomorrow, as well as the one from tonight.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Honestly, I could scream!”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Remus with a wry grin. “Molly’s on the warpath. The twins were creating havoc this afternoon, manufacturing something that requires explosions and copious amounts of talcum powder, Ron and Hermione have had a blazing row and Arthur hasn’t come home from the hospital after all, so she’s gone to bed with a migraine. Things have been a bit fraught, which is why I’m hiding in here.”
“I’d still trade you,” she said with a smile. “Rather Weasleys than Dawlish any day.”
He chuckled. “I think we could both do with some time away from here. When’s your next day off?”
“Saturday, thank Merlin. Only two days to go.”
Remus was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. “What’s this Saturday, the eleventh?” She nodded. “I think I know exactly where I should take you, then,” he said, a smile spreading across his face.
“Where are we going?”
“Ah,” he said, closing his book and getting to his feet, “that would be telling. Just meet me here on Saturday, and dress warmly.”
* * * *
The weather, as the two of them materialised behind some bins in what looked to be a pub car park, was bright and crisp - a stark contrast to the storms of Wednesday evening. Tonks was glad she had taken Remus’ advice to wrap up warm, since the wind was bitter, and frost still lay on the ground despite the fact that it was nearly lunchtime.
“So,” she said, as they headed towards the road, “where have you brought me?”
“Whittlesey.”
“Right,” she said, still none the wiser, “and where’s that?”
Remus smirked slightly, no doubt amused by the confusion on her face. “Cambridgeshire. Near Peterborough.”
Merlin, this was like getting blood out of a stone. “And we’re here for what exactly?”
Remus looked at her. “What makes you think we’re here for something specific?”
“Well, you seemed very concerned about the date, when we arranged this, so it’s obviously because there’s something going on today. I’m not an Auror for nothing you know.”
He smiled. “So what else have you deduced, Auror Tonks?”
“Well, not much” she admitted. “I thought at first we were going somewhere wizarding, since you didn’t specify Muggle clothes, but there’re no wizards in Whittlesey, as far as I can remember, and we didn’t Apparate in the open, so now I’m confused.”
They’d been walking for a few minutes now, weaving their way along narrow back streets lined with parked cars and houses of every conceivable style, from thatched cottages to modern flats, and as they neared what must be the centre of town Tonks could hear the rhythmic boom of a drum, and occasional snatches of music.
“We must be going to see some sort of band,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt, “or maybe a parade?”
“You’ll see, soon enough.”
“Is that all the answer I get?” she said in mock indignation. “You’re infuriating.”
“I aim to please.”
It was at that moment that they rounded a corner into what seemed to be the marketplace, and Tonks could not help but gasp at the scene that met them. The road was packed with the oddest looking people she had ever seen. Some of them bore a striking resemblance to wizards trying unsuccessfully to dress as Muggles, since they were sporting odd combinations of brightly coloured clothes in mismatched patterns (Tonks spotted a woman of about her own age wearing a straw sun hat, a knitted scarf in all the colours of the rainbow, a red and yellow patchwork jumper, tie-dyed shorts, turquoise tights and odd socks), while others were wearing jackets which seemed to be covered entirely in tattered strips of fabric. Many had painted faces, and nearly all of them seemed to be wearing bells somewhere on their person, the sound of which could be heard above the music being played by a number of the strangely dressed people. Those not playing were either milling about with tankards in their hands, or enthusiastically performing dances, the like of which she had never seen, with sticks and coloured handkerchiefs and whoops of delight.
“Who are these people?” she asked, feeling rather dowdy, despite her pink hair and purple cloak.
“Morris dancers,” said Remus. “This is Whittlesey Straw Bear Festival, which is some kind of Muggle tradition to do with Plough Monday. Anyway, every year, lots of Muggles come and dance here to celebrate it, which, as you can see, is quite a spectacle.”
“Cool. So what’s a straw bear then?”
“A person covered in straw. You’ll see him later when they have the procession. I know,” he said, spotting her bewildered expression, “I don’t really get it either, but it’s good fun.”
This turned out to be true. The two of them spent quite some time wandering along the road, stopping after every few steps to watch a different team dance. Tonks was amazed by the variety; there was a group who, with their black and white painted faces, seemed like a cross between Goths and New Romantics, a team of women who, looking very chilly in their thin green dresses, danced a very precise sort of dance in wooden soled shoes, a group of men with swords, who wove in and out of each other in close formation and many, many groups who wore the strange ragged coats that Tonks had first seen, and danced loud, boisterous dances in groups of six.
Despite the utterly freezing weather, which was slowly chilling her to the bone, Tonks had not felt this content for quite some time. This was partly due to the infectious enthusiasm of the dancers, and the chance to forget the worries of the wizarding world, but also, she had to admit, it was the pleasure of Remus’ company. Tonks felt so at ease with him, as they walked and talked, that it seemed as if they’d been friends for years, rather than acquaintances of a few months.
They bought lunch from a stall that proudly proclaimed that it sold only ‘real sausages’ (Remus made her laugh by wondering what a pretend sausage might be like) and nibbled their hot dogs while watching an entertaining but rather silly play where the main plot seemed to revolve around the characters, which included St. George and a dragon, entering, falling down dead and then being revived. Remus had insisted, despite Tonks protests, on paying for their meal, but she managed to convince him to let her buy pudding and was pleased to discover that their coffee and crepes cost significantly more than the real sausages had.
“So how did you know about this, then?” she asked as they headed up the road to watch the procession.
“Oh,” he said, surprised, “I grew up near here. About seven miles that way, in fact, as the owl flies” he pointed to the north-east. “Didn’t I ever mention it?”
He hadn’t. In fact, Tonks thought, as they found a space to stand by a baker’s shop, Remus had actually revealed very little about himself in the time she’d known him, despite the hours they’d spent talking. Secrecy was clearly a deeply ingrained habit for him, which, she supposed, was hardly surprising given how much he had had to hide over the years, but it was interesting to discover that he was unaware of quite how much he kept people at a distance. And reassuring, in a way, she thought, since if it wasn’t conscious, it was unlikely to be personal.
They watched the dancers pass, Tonks marvelling at the ease with which they managed to adapt their routines so that they moved forward along the road, and soon enough the Straw Bear came in to view. He was, quite literally, a man covered in straw, just as Remus had described. Bundles of it had been bound around his arms, legs, body and even his head to give the impression of a figure fashioned entirely from the stuff. He was led by several men in bright, ragged coats and bowler hats, and danced and skipped his way along the road, despite his cumbersome costume.
By the time the procession had finished, the evening was drawing in and the light beginning to fade, so the two of them, reluctant to end their day so soon, decided to return to Tonks’ flat for hot chocolate.
As they sat in front of the fire, faces glowing and steaming mugs in their hands, she reflected on the day they’d spent, and how good a friend the man next to her was becoming. It was he that she turned to when she wanted to laugh, or cry, or moan, it was he that always knew exactly haw to lift her mood, it was he that she regularly talked into the night with, and yet in some ways she still did not know all that much about him. This was someone she wanted to get to know a great deal better, she decided, and she would make it her mission to do so.
Author's Notes II: This plot bunny has been lurking in the back of my mind ever since I selected a location for Remus' childhood home, and when I got those prompts I just knew it had to be written. Whittlesey Straw Bear Festival (or Whittlesea - there seems to be some disagreement over the spelling) is a real event that happens every year, though I've never actually been since when Chelmsford Morris went I was in Cardiff. However, I've been to enough folk festivals that I feel confident that I've managed to extrapolate from the pictures, You Tube clips, etc. reasonably accurately.
This fic is remarkably self-indulgent for a birthday fic, which I hope you'll forgive, and to prove it see if you can spot the cameo from my own dance team. ;)