Fic - Your Father's Son - Harry Potter - PG
Title: Your Father’s Son
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Teddy Lupin, Remus Lupin
Summary: A 2nd-person character study of Teddy Lupin and his relationship with his father.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~750
You were named for men you never knew. Ted after your grandfather, Remus after your father and Lupin for a string of men you never met, know little about.
You know, from photographs, that you look like your father when you’re not concentrating, when you’re not trying to look like anyone other than yourself. Your nose is long, your hair slightly curly, your eyes hazel and kind. You are thin, with big hands, and though your jaw and your adam’s apple give you an angular quality there is a softness to you that is very like your father as well.
You have his wand, given to you by your grandmother on your eleventh birthday. You’d waved it and it had felt right, it had felt good, and it is his wand that you’ve always, always used. Sixteen inches - he had been so tall - unicorn tail hair, ash, symbolising sacrifice and sensitivity. You feel his wand was entirely appropriate to him, from the little you know.
You are sixteen when you find a picture of your dad at the age you are now. It is one you’ve never seen before, of him staring out of a window on the Hogwarts Express, that sad, kind look in his eyes. His light brown hair curls around his ears and before you know it you are willing your hair brown too, stretching up to become taller, imagining scars onto your face and dark circles under your eyes, the smallest patch of grey at your temples. You change into a shirt and tank top and a pair of grey trousers and look at yourself in the mirror, and you are him, you are your father despite never feeling very much like him at all. Your grandmother walks in and sees you and nearly faints dead away. You don’t let her catch you after that.
It becomes a new game for you. Sirius is your favourite: all angles and long, harsh lines, sharp silver eyes and cheekbones and smirking and thick black hair. James is fun too - gangly and scruffy and good-natured. Of course, you could never show Harry, or your grandmother.
Sometimes you hate your father. You hate him for dying, for not leaving enough of himself behind, for being private and guarded. You ask Harry about him and the word he comes up with is ‘kind.’ Ron thought he was cool. Hermione, clever. Your grandmother doesn’t like it when you ask questions about him and you suspect that she knows much more about him or what he did while your mother was still a child than she ever lets on.
‘How many sugars did my dad take in his tea?’ you ask your grandmother. ‘What was his favourite book?’ ‘Could he sing?’ ‘Did he sing?’ ‘What was his voice like?’
She replies: ‘I don’t know, Teddy.’ ‘I don’t know, Teddy.’ ‘I don’t know, Teddy.’ ‘Not while I knew him, Teddy,’ and ‘Quiet, gentle, slightly hoarse.’
You asked Harry every question about him that you could think of when you were younger. You wish he’d have made something up so that it didn’t become glaringly obvious how very little anyone knew about your father, about your dad.
You are sixteen when Professor McGonagall hauls you into her office for smoking out of your dormitory window. She talks to you sternly, tells you she is disappointed, and, duly chastised, you apologise, only managing to meet her eyes for a moment. ‘So like your father,’ she sighs, looking at you intently as if she can’t quite believe it.
Something in your chest clenches and your stomach sours and your long, thin nose becomes small and soft, you drop a few inches, your face becomes rounder, your eyes shift from Lupine hazel to the classic Black grey and your light brown hair turns the brightest blue. You are your mother’s son now, your mum whom you know so much about, not your father of whom you know so little in comparison, apart from that he was kind and cool and clever and that you look like him when you’re not concentrating and that you both have a possible shared affinity for cigarettes.
Professor McGonagall sighs and straightens her back, her mouth softening around the corners. ‘You may leave, now, Mr. Lupin,’ she says, and his name, your name is forever a reminder of the man you never knew.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Teddy Lupin, Remus Lupin
Summary: A 2nd-person character study of Teddy Lupin and his relationship with his father.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~750
You were named for men you never knew. Ted after your grandfather, Remus after your father and Lupin for a string of men you never met, know little about.
You know, from photographs, that you look like your father when you’re not concentrating, when you’re not trying to look like anyone other than yourself. Your nose is long, your hair slightly curly, your eyes hazel and kind. You are thin, with big hands, and though your jaw and your adam’s apple give you an angular quality there is a softness to you that is very like your father as well.
You have his wand, given to you by your grandmother on your eleventh birthday. You’d waved it and it had felt right, it had felt good, and it is his wand that you’ve always, always used. Sixteen inches - he had been so tall - unicorn tail hair, ash, symbolising sacrifice and sensitivity. You feel his wand was entirely appropriate to him, from the little you know.
You are sixteen when you find a picture of your dad at the age you are now. It is one you’ve never seen before, of him staring out of a window on the Hogwarts Express, that sad, kind look in his eyes. His light brown hair curls around his ears and before you know it you are willing your hair brown too, stretching up to become taller, imagining scars onto your face and dark circles under your eyes, the smallest patch of grey at your temples. You change into a shirt and tank top and a pair of grey trousers and look at yourself in the mirror, and you are him, you are your father despite never feeling very much like him at all. Your grandmother walks in and sees you and nearly faints dead away. You don’t let her catch you after that.
It becomes a new game for you. Sirius is your favourite: all angles and long, harsh lines, sharp silver eyes and cheekbones and smirking and thick black hair. James is fun too - gangly and scruffy and good-natured. Of course, you could never show Harry, or your grandmother.
Sometimes you hate your father. You hate him for dying, for not leaving enough of himself behind, for being private and guarded. You ask Harry about him and the word he comes up with is ‘kind.’ Ron thought he was cool. Hermione, clever. Your grandmother doesn’t like it when you ask questions about him and you suspect that she knows much more about him or what he did while your mother was still a child than she ever lets on.
‘How many sugars did my dad take in his tea?’ you ask your grandmother. ‘What was his favourite book?’ ‘Could he sing?’ ‘Did he sing?’ ‘What was his voice like?’
She replies: ‘I don’t know, Teddy.’ ‘I don’t know, Teddy.’ ‘I don’t know, Teddy.’ ‘Not while I knew him, Teddy,’ and ‘Quiet, gentle, slightly hoarse.’
You asked Harry every question about him that you could think of when you were younger. You wish he’d have made something up so that it didn’t become glaringly obvious how very little anyone knew about your father, about your dad.
You are sixteen when Professor McGonagall hauls you into her office for smoking out of your dormitory window. She talks to you sternly, tells you she is disappointed, and, duly chastised, you apologise, only managing to meet her eyes for a moment. ‘So like your father,’ she sighs, looking at you intently as if she can’t quite believe it.
Something in your chest clenches and your stomach sours and your long, thin nose becomes small and soft, you drop a few inches, your face becomes rounder, your eyes shift from Lupine hazel to the classic Black grey and your light brown hair turns the brightest blue. You are your mother’s son now, your mum whom you know so much about, not your father of whom you know so little in comparison, apart from that he was kind and cool and clever and that you look like him when you’re not concentrating and that you both have a possible shared affinity for cigarettes.
Professor McGonagall sighs and straightens her back, her mouth softening around the corners. ‘You may leave, now, Mr. Lupin,’ she says, and his name, your name is forever a reminder of the man you never knew.