I rise!
For those of you not on the f-lock, I haven't dropped off of the face of the earth--but it feels like I did in some ways. Everything's not better--I'm not convinced they can ever be better entirely--but there's a new equilibrium, and I'm okay right now.
But either way, the point is, I'm so bored. I'm heading off on Saturday for my Summer Commitment At Which My Friends And Family Are Convinced I'm Going To Be Sold Into The Pan-Asian Sex Trade, which is...theoretically likely, given the nature of my Summer Commitment, but hey! What's life without a few risks? But in the meantime, I figure I ought to spam your f-lists with--you guessed it!--bits and pieces of fanfiction!
And gives the background for this.
Apparently, they contacted the parents, too.
"What the sod is all this stuff?" James remarked with some wonderment, pulling article after article out of the enormous corrugated cardboard box that had arrived by way of four extraordinarily put-out owls earlier that morning.
The Marauders had only had a moment's notice to throw themselves away from their section of the table before the crate had come down with an enormous din, shattering plates, with flatware flying like shrapnel and food going to every corner of the Great Hall, glasses cracked, spilling pumpkin juice in sickly puddles all over the floor.
It was later, after Remus had stuttered a surprised apology to a surprisingly tolerant McGonagall, that they'd been allowed to collect the now orange-stained box and take it to Gryffindor commons. They were sprawled out across the rug in front of the fireplace, rifling through its contents with good-natured bemusement, and Remus was vowing to do something terrible -- utterly terrible -- to his father's shoes come summer.
Sirius was unearthing books, books and notebooks and scrawled notes and what seemed like a thousand boxes of red pens. There were rulers and curious brassy items for which Remus had no explanation and never remembered seeing anywhere and bookends, and still more books. Everything from practical guides like The Art of Shape: Geometry and Limits and Derivatives and newer books, with titles like The History of Wizarding Culture in Medieval Europe and The Magical Tradition. Remus was starting to get a headache.
"Good God, Lupin," Sirius said, hushed, "are your parents throwing you out?"
Remus glared at him, and the expression deepened into a scowl when Sirius did not appear to be at all sorry of that hypothetical state of things.
Peter stuck his hand into the bottom of the box and retrieved an envelope, dog-eared and ruffed from being stuck underneath so many books and sharp corners. He whistled, and then tossed it at Remus; catching it in his long fingers, Remus thanked Peter as he torn the flap, feeling a rising wave of nausea.
Sirius pressed in close to him, jostling around Peter and the various stacks of things until his cheek was pressed into Remus' shoulder.
"What's it say?" he demanded.
"It says," Remus said tartly, folding over the top third of the paper with his index finger to obscure it from Sirius' view, "that my parents find you atrocious. And think that you should go far, far away from their son, who is obviously out of his bloody mind to be consorting with such a hooligan."
Sirius narrowed his blue eyes. "I'll have you know that you started the consorting, Lupin."
True, Remus conceded, but before he was able to throw back a witty rejoinder, James snatched the letter from his hands and cleared his throat, reading aloud:
"'Remus, we were thrilled to hear word from Professor McGonagall about your acceptance into the Gild Program' -- what the hell is that, Lupin?"
Peter's face brightened, and he turned to Remus. "You, too?" he cried, smiling. "I got accepted into the Magical Properties Gild! -- well, sort of," he finished. An expression of concentration came over his face as Sirius and James stared on in confusion. "It's on a trial basis, isn't it?"
Remus sighed and leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He hadn't been planning on saying anything about the heavy letter with the scrolling script McGonagall had presented to him the first day of classes that year, nor had he any intention of expressing how truly terrifying it had been to have McGonagall beaming at him with a watery smile, as if she was about to burst into tears of joy as she commended his choice of future vocation.
"Yes," he said finally. "It's a trial basis. But likely that you'll get a permanent position, if you've got the Gild stamp on your graduation papers, Professor McGonagall explained."
Peter looked enraptured. James looked bored and abandoned the letter. Sirius had an expression on his face that made him seem vaguely lost, as if he'd gotten turned around somewhere in one of the many mired passageways of the castle without the Marauder's Map.
"What did you put, Remus?" Peter asked excitedly. "I mean -- what did you put down?"
Toward the end of sixth year, it was mandatory for one of the required classes to be interrupted for a day by an overly-enthusiastic woman from the Ministry of Magic. The Marauders' sixth year, it'd been Murielle Burns, who wore her nails long, squared off, and painted crimson. Her dress had been serge green, and Sirius and James had been forced to put their heads down laughing every time she rushed with joy and excitement from one part of the room to another, her generous bosom bouncing.
She'd exclaimed about the many thrilling professions that awaited students once they emerged from the halls of Hogwarts, and how many wonderful opportunities there were. Professor McGonagall, from a corner where she'd been nearly-sulking for the vast majority of the lesson had only rolled her eyes at that.
And much later, as she'd passed out long forms magically copied onto sheets of eight and a half by eleven inch parchment, she'd told them to think long and hard about their decisions, and what they filled out onto their papers -- but to have them done in twenty minutes when she'd collect one stack and head off to harass a group of waiting sixth years in Potions.
Then, with Sirius tight at his side, penitent and tender despite the forgiveness that had still eluded him toward the end of the year, Remus had thought over what he'd put in those boxes and lines. He'd never given much thought to a career after school; as a younger boy, he'd mostly assumed he'd follow his parents into academia, finishing secondary school and going to university and fiddling with his CV until he was gray. Then at Hogwarts, he'd been too preoccupied with staying out of and in detention and eventually keeping Sirius and James out of and in detention to worry much about what would come after seven years of utter wildness.
But the idea of teaching had always lingered in the back of his mind, and he remembered the flush of triumph that had come over him when younger-years had grinned at their Prefect and said what a wonderful tutor he was after he'd talked them through a particularly complicated Arithmancy derivative, how they smiled when they'd discovered the key to writing a Defence paper. There was something to be had there, at least, Remus had conceded, and penned in, "Education."
"Teaching," he said finally, watching Sirius' eyes widen and Peter beam. "My parents are both professors," he explained. "I suppose it's in the blood."
Peter said "You would be a wonderful teacher, Remus," the same time as James yelled, "What? You traitor!" and Sirius blinked and said lightly, "Oh."
Three Marauders turned to look at one another in surprise.
"You're happy about this?" James demanded at Peter, who wilted a little.
"Remus would be a bloody fantastic professor," Sirius said loyally, glaring at James.
"Thanks, Sirius," Peter said gratefully, shifting to move further from James.
James rolled his eyes dramatically. "Go on, side with your shagtoy," he said sullenly at Sirius.
Remus flopped down onto his back, realizing that his participation in the argument was officially over. James, ever since the Terrible, Horrible, Unspeakable Events Of Fifth Year, and his realization that maybe Remus and Sirius weren't just going through some bizarre phase, had made it a habit to express his acceptance of the fact by making inelegant jabs. Sirius, largely because he was stupid but also possibly because he was inordinately protective had a tendency to shout things and occasionally one or both of them threw a punch.
And while James and Sirius squabbled, Peter crawled over to the box again, rifling through the books and papers and examining all with surprising interest.
Remus turned over onto his stomach, propping himself back on his elbows. "I didn't know you were so interested in teaching, Peter," he said.
Beside them, Sirius and James had moved into phase two of their argument, going from a volley of personal insults to pointing fingers about whose relationship had led to the inactivity of the Marauders more, Sirius' or James' and then the weighing of moral and comparative values of said relationships considering that at least Sirius was dating within the group and James saying, oh, yeah, that was moral all right.
Peter smiled shyly, fingers absently turning a few pages in one of the many books on Arithmancy that had been stuffed into the box. "Well," he started. "When you've been tutored by as many people as I have -- " he grinned ruefully as Remus made understanding noises " -- you gain a vested interest in how people teach." Peter's grin widened and he handed Remus the book he had been playing with. "And you're really quite good at it, Remus. I'm glad."
The admission made Remus feel a prickling warmth at the tips of his ears. "Thanks, Peter."
Grinning, Peter picked up another book and began to page through it, eyebrows raising.
"This looks like complicated stuff, Remus," he said, mildly concerned.
In the background, James shouted, "Oh, like sodomy is the hallmark of moral integrity!" while Sirius waved his arms about and yelled, "At least Remus doesn't pretend not to know me in public, you miserable bastard!" Remus, distantly, figured that the argument had about five minutes of steam left before both Sirius and James glared, called it silently quits, and sulked off to their respective partners to complain about their lives. Remus only wished he wasn't one of the respective partners, and thought sometimes about hefting Sirius off onto somebody else, but decided he rather liked the way that Sirius was pretty and very inventive with his tongue, so generally decided against it.
Pursing his lips, Remus admitted, "That's true. I'm hoping that my parents are overshooting."
He glanced at the Arithmancy problem Peter was staring at in the book and realized that the question itself was half a page long. He winced at the thought of trying to dissect it; despite the fact that he liked Arithmancy, he held no fondness for relearning the complex nature of the basics when he'd already reached far beyond it.
"Either way," Peter said lightly, "I'm glad I'm not in Arithmancy."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Peter," Remus said dryly.
"Always glad to help," Peter replied earnestly.
At that precise moment, James stomped off and Sirius flopped over so that his head was pillowed by the small of Remus' back, face contorted into an expression of pain even as he clawed at the flaps of Remus' robes, toying with the cloth and moaning, "I should have hexed him when I had the chance." He kicked miserably at a few of the books by his feet, shuffling as if he were a disenchanted five year old. "Stupid bloody berk."
"Mister Wormtail," Remus said loudly, touching one finger to the corner of his mouth. "Does it ever occur to you that certain Messrs Padfoot and Prongs seem a bit -- well, married when they argue?"
Delighted, Peter said beaming, "Mister Moony, I'm terribly pleasantly surprised to find that I am not alone in this assessment." Still grinning, he added, "It must be dreadful for you, sir, to be having it off with someone whose heart is obviously somewhere else entirely."
Sirius scowled at them.
Remus nodded seriously. "It's really quite sad." He brightened. "Perhaps we ought to run away together, Mister Wormtail. I make wonderful omelets."
"Why, Mister Moony, I do believe that I shall take you up on that -- "
"All right!" Sirius interrupted, pushing himself to his feet rapidly and glaring down at where Remus and Peter had surrendered to gales of laughter, faces buried in their arms, lost in a sea of books. "Peter, you have another thing coming if you think that Remus will be making you omelets." Sirius paused. "He's a rotten cook, anyhow," he added tartly.
Wiping at his eyes, Remus just smiled stupidly and said nothing, feeling slightly better about the entire situation.
Remus released a deep breath; he'd probably just be grading papers, he'd been overreacting.
Really, he reasoned, how terrible could it be?
-----
"And these will be your quarters."
McGonagall was nearly twittering in joy as she threw open the door to the room at the end of the corridor. It had lovely large windows that looked over the lake, and the height from the third floor lent a fantastic view of the rolling hills beyond the dark green forest that bordered the Hogwarts properties.
Remus had never been so terrified in his life.
He clutched his canvas bag in his hands, fingers digging into the fabric and wishing desperately to be back in the seventh year boys' dorm, class, home, anywhere at all. He had three pairs of trousers, some books, and a quill, all things Professor McGonagall had tossed into his bag when she'd burst into the room ten minutes ago and rushed him out, shouting about how it'd taken him so long to be ready to go anywhere, anyhow? Remus tried to banish the image of her digging through his clothes; it was probably some sort of divine retribution for…the past seven years worth of trauma the Marauders had inflicted upon the faculty and staff of Hogwarts.
Suddenly, Remus got a sinking feeling: planning, evil-doer, or even active participant or not, he had at least partially conspired and carried out unspeakable evils upon the staff of Hogwarts for a very long time.
He groaned softly; they were going to eat him, tear him limb from limb.
I swore up and down that I wouldn't write this, partially because it's heart-wrenching in a differt way than writing the actual sequel--or should I say, the parallel--to "And Still," but I got caught up in the fit of Women's Studies and the word primogenature was dancing through my head, I couldn't stop myself! Before I knew it, I was in for the penny, in for the pound.
Sirius was deeply fond of the United Kingdom, in love with England and her primogeniture rules. His name had been literally burned off of the family tree but trust his mother to will it to any last surviving offspring, bastard and disowned or otherwise, before letting a cent of her money and holdings slip in to the hands of her best friends and arch rivals.
He'd always been wealthy but now it was bordering on ridiculous, and Sirius was grateful for every cent that came his way.
-----
Remus had once asked if Sirius was ever frightened by how much he loved.
At the time, Sirius had only looked up at Remus, hair mussed and golden-auburn in the early morning sun, with dark, rosy bruises bearing the curves of Sirius' mouth all over his chest, draped in the white sheets of their bed. There was an easy and obvious answer, which Sirius had murmured, reverent and guileless, smoothing his brown hands across Remus' white skin.
It was easy to love Remus, the easiest thing Sirius had ever come across in his wide spectrum of talents. Being in love with Remus was nearly second-nature, as simple as breathing, extraordinary as the way that Remus arched his back and made that gasping, groaning sound when he came in Sirius' mouth. It was uncomplicated for Sirius in a way it had never been for James, and where James came away from Lily frustrated and bemused, incensed and completely floored by turns, Sirius knew Remus, and their silence spoke volumes.
"There's something wrong with the two of you," James had accused once. "You never fight about anything that matters. It's always the superficial things that throw a wrench."
"You're just jealous," Sirius had said lightly, tossing the man an extra pillow and blanket.
James, throwing himself onto Sirius and Remus' battered couch had frowned at the ceiling. "That's part of it," he admitted. "But there's something wrong with that--don't you two ever talk about the important things?"
And before Sirius had time to counter that with some stunning but ultimately flawed logic, Remus had walked through the door, dripping from the evening's downpour, and raising his eyebrows when he spied James on the couch--again. He'd only rolled his eyes, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Sirius' mouth, and wandered off into the bedroom, where through the half-closed door the thump of wet clothing had been heard.
James, scowling from his vantage point, said, "You two are vile and unnatural."
And Sirius, grinning, had flicked off the lightswitch of the living room, commenting easily, "I wager you'd stop fighting with Lily so often if you know just how vile and unnatural we are--especially on that couch."
Padfoot had hollered bloody murder and flipped himself onto the floor, where he presumably spent the night. Sirius was then divesting himself of his pants and following Remus into the bath, and had no patience for narrow-minded acquaintances that were being traumatized the next room over.
Then--even then--with the Dark Wars on the cusp, men being deployed, their entire lives tremulous and unbalanced, Sirius had never been afraid of loving Remus. And that night, when he'd slid into the hot water, felt his damp skin flush and slick against Remus' chest, he hadn't been thinking, "This can't last," he was thinking of very little save for the way that Remus moaned into his mouth.
-----
It was too late to be wary, to hold away parts of himself as Remus must have.
As Sirius hoped he had.
There was only rocking, terrifying nausea as he watched Mad Eye Moody pull strings--or perhaps just terrify nurses and doctors into submission--and mutter something boarding schools while waving him into Remus' hospital room. The first time, Sirius had asked if it was really all right; Moody had asked, "Will you be all right?" which had effectively ended the conversation in a standstill, like any other time Sirius had attempted to communicate with the man.
The last time that Moody had asked if Sirius was all right was after a large herd of merhags and their cuckholded husbands had swarmed him in a spirited attempt to kill him. Sirius found it especially disconcerting that Moody was repeating the phrase; what exactly did that mean?
There was an obvious answer to that obvious question, but Sirius refused to entertain it, planning two funerals in one go was annoying enough, he'd off himself just to be contrary before he had to phone mum and dad Lupin and explain to them their son was dead.
Sirius nodded his thanks to Moody, and ducked into the hospital room, slumping into his customary chair by Remus' side, feeling--if not numb, exactly, then disconnected, removed from the situation. It was wonderful and infuriating by turns: it turned all of Sirius' words earlier into a film of lies, in a way, that he could sit there watching Remus hooked to beeping boxes and pale as death and be all right with that.
The next morning, he called mum and dad Lupin anyway, cursing himself.
"Will you stay with him--until we get there?" Mrs. Lupin asked.
"You will, won't you, Sirius?" Mr. Lupin interjected, stealing the phone receiver. "We'll be there in an hour or so--but you will meet us at the hospital?"
Sirius reflected, upon ending the phone call with dozens of promises, was that Remus' parents seemed to like him so well. Through the years, Remus had always maintained that his parents possessed no knowledge of his and Sirius' carnal relations, and Sirius had always maintained that Athena and John Lupin were clever enough that they had to notice something was a bit off.
From an ocean of white sheets only a shade paler than his cheek, Sirius saw Remus' eyelids flutter, as if he'd wake, or as if he'd only been dreaming something particularly unpleasant. For a moment, Sirius held his breath, waiting, expectant, for Remus to simply blink sleep out of his hazel eyes and ask Sirius if there was any tea on. In a way, it'd be hilarious if it came to pass: for Remus to finally admit--or, verify--his particular preferences under present circumstances.
"For as often as you told me to be more realistic," Sirius muttered at Remus' prone figure, "you were bloody awful at being realistic about us."
After a long pause, Sirius corrected, "You are."
In my own defense, this file on my harddrive is literally titled "omgwhy."
"Oh, this is hilarious," Ron muttered under his breath.
Harry picked up a soft-boiled egg and hazarded a glance to the front of the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall was wavering between titters and scowling, shoving piles of pink paper and hearts back toward her left. The stacks of valentines and elaborate gifts had grown to such a ridiculous portion that only a few tufts of sleep-mussed hair could be seen over all the envelopes and swirling signatures; even from a distance, Harry could smell a wave of perfume.
"It is actually rather funny," Harry said, grinning at Ron, who scowled, eyes narrowing on Hermione as she rushed to the front of the room, carrying her own contribution. She, however, circumnavigated the stack and presented it smiling, to large, brown hands.
Ron slammed the table, throwing down his teaspoon. "This is preposterous!" he hissed.
Harry really thought that after five years of the same thing, Ron would have learned simply to accept what could not be changed. February fourteenth at Hogwarts was tradition: morning dawned, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher would be badgered by love struck girls throughout the school, each of whom he smiled at dashingly and sent along on their merry way, thanking them profusely for their gifts.
"It's not as if he's stealing off with any of them to Filch's supply closet," Harry contended.
Ron's eyes widened in horror. "D'you think he'd do that?" He gasped. "He could do that."
Mentally kicking himself, Harry quickly recovered, "And if he was, Hermione's much too clever for anything like that. Don't you think?"
Ron seemed to consider it for a moment before relaxing, a smile creeping across his face again as Hermione rushed back to the table, jittery and red-cheeked, enormously pleased with herself.
Honestly, Harry thought, this whole problem would be sorted out if Ron would just say something to her; then again, the last time he'd proposed it Ron had simply flushed eight shades of red and been useless for the rest of the day. He cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was already a deep shade of crimson, rolled his eyes, and returned to eating his soft-boiled egg.
Enjoy, and be gentle, none of these have seen the light of a beta-reader's flame yet.
But either way, the point is, I'm so bored. I'm heading off on Saturday for my Summer Commitment At Which My Friends And Family Are Convinced I'm Going To Be Sold Into The Pan-Asian Sex Trade, which is...theoretically likely, given the nature of my Summer Commitment, but hey! What's life without a few risks? But in the meantime, I figure I ought to spam your f-lists with--you guessed it!--bits and pieces of fanfiction!
And gives the background for this.
Apparently, they contacted the parents, too.
"What the sod is all this stuff?" James remarked with some wonderment, pulling article after article out of the enormous corrugated cardboard box that had arrived by way of four extraordinarily put-out owls earlier that morning.
The Marauders had only had a moment's notice to throw themselves away from their section of the table before the crate had come down with an enormous din, shattering plates, with flatware flying like shrapnel and food going to every corner of the Great Hall, glasses cracked, spilling pumpkin juice in sickly puddles all over the floor.
It was later, after Remus had stuttered a surprised apology to a surprisingly tolerant McGonagall, that they'd been allowed to collect the now orange-stained box and take it to Gryffindor commons. They were sprawled out across the rug in front of the fireplace, rifling through its contents with good-natured bemusement, and Remus was vowing to do something terrible -- utterly terrible -- to his father's shoes come summer.
Sirius was unearthing books, books and notebooks and scrawled notes and what seemed like a thousand boxes of red pens. There were rulers and curious brassy items for which Remus had no explanation and never remembered seeing anywhere and bookends, and still more books. Everything from practical guides like The Art of Shape: Geometry and Limits and Derivatives and newer books, with titles like The History of Wizarding Culture in Medieval Europe and The Magical Tradition. Remus was starting to get a headache.
"Good God, Lupin," Sirius said, hushed, "are your parents throwing you out?"
Remus glared at him, and the expression deepened into a scowl when Sirius did not appear to be at all sorry of that hypothetical state of things.
Peter stuck his hand into the bottom of the box and retrieved an envelope, dog-eared and ruffed from being stuck underneath so many books and sharp corners. He whistled, and then tossed it at Remus; catching it in his long fingers, Remus thanked Peter as he torn the flap, feeling a rising wave of nausea.
Sirius pressed in close to him, jostling around Peter and the various stacks of things until his cheek was pressed into Remus' shoulder.
"What's it say?" he demanded.
"It says," Remus said tartly, folding over the top third of the paper with his index finger to obscure it from Sirius' view, "that my parents find you atrocious. And think that you should go far, far away from their son, who is obviously out of his bloody mind to be consorting with such a hooligan."
Sirius narrowed his blue eyes. "I'll have you know that you started the consorting, Lupin."
True, Remus conceded, but before he was able to throw back a witty rejoinder, James snatched the letter from his hands and cleared his throat, reading aloud:
"'Remus, we were thrilled to hear word from Professor McGonagall about your acceptance into the Gild Program' -- what the hell is that, Lupin?"
Peter's face brightened, and he turned to Remus. "You, too?" he cried, smiling. "I got accepted into the Magical Properties Gild! -- well, sort of," he finished. An expression of concentration came over his face as Sirius and James stared on in confusion. "It's on a trial basis, isn't it?"
Remus sighed and leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He hadn't been planning on saying anything about the heavy letter with the scrolling script McGonagall had presented to him the first day of classes that year, nor had he any intention of expressing how truly terrifying it had been to have McGonagall beaming at him with a watery smile, as if she was about to burst into tears of joy as she commended his choice of future vocation.
"Yes," he said finally. "It's a trial basis. But likely that you'll get a permanent position, if you've got the Gild stamp on your graduation papers, Professor McGonagall explained."
Peter looked enraptured. James looked bored and abandoned the letter. Sirius had an expression on his face that made him seem vaguely lost, as if he'd gotten turned around somewhere in one of the many mired passageways of the castle without the Marauder's Map.
"What did you put, Remus?" Peter asked excitedly. "I mean -- what did you put down?"
Toward the end of sixth year, it was mandatory for one of the required classes to be interrupted for a day by an overly-enthusiastic woman from the Ministry of Magic. The Marauders' sixth year, it'd been Murielle Burns, who wore her nails long, squared off, and painted crimson. Her dress had been serge green, and Sirius and James had been forced to put their heads down laughing every time she rushed with joy and excitement from one part of the room to another, her generous bosom bouncing.
She'd exclaimed about the many thrilling professions that awaited students once they emerged from the halls of Hogwarts, and how many wonderful opportunities there were. Professor McGonagall, from a corner where she'd been nearly-sulking for the vast majority of the lesson had only rolled her eyes at that.
And much later, as she'd passed out long forms magically copied onto sheets of eight and a half by eleven inch parchment, she'd told them to think long and hard about their decisions, and what they filled out onto their papers -- but to have them done in twenty minutes when she'd collect one stack and head off to harass a group of waiting sixth years in Potions.
Then, with Sirius tight at his side, penitent and tender despite the forgiveness that had still eluded him toward the end of the year, Remus had thought over what he'd put in those boxes and lines. He'd never given much thought to a career after school; as a younger boy, he'd mostly assumed he'd follow his parents into academia, finishing secondary school and going to university and fiddling with his CV until he was gray. Then at Hogwarts, he'd been too preoccupied with staying out of and in detention and eventually keeping Sirius and James out of and in detention to worry much about what would come after seven years of utter wildness.
But the idea of teaching had always lingered in the back of his mind, and he remembered the flush of triumph that had come over him when younger-years had grinned at their Prefect and said what a wonderful tutor he was after he'd talked them through a particularly complicated Arithmancy derivative, how they smiled when they'd discovered the key to writing a Defence paper. There was something to be had there, at least, Remus had conceded, and penned in, "Education."
"Teaching," he said finally, watching Sirius' eyes widen and Peter beam. "My parents are both professors," he explained. "I suppose it's in the blood."
Peter said "You would be a wonderful teacher, Remus," the same time as James yelled, "What? You traitor!" and Sirius blinked and said lightly, "Oh."
Three Marauders turned to look at one another in surprise.
"You're happy about this?" James demanded at Peter, who wilted a little.
"Remus would be a bloody fantastic professor," Sirius said loyally, glaring at James.
"Thanks, Sirius," Peter said gratefully, shifting to move further from James.
James rolled his eyes dramatically. "Go on, side with your shagtoy," he said sullenly at Sirius.
Remus flopped down onto his back, realizing that his participation in the argument was officially over. James, ever since the Terrible, Horrible, Unspeakable Events Of Fifth Year, and his realization that maybe Remus and Sirius weren't just going through some bizarre phase, had made it a habit to express his acceptance of the fact by making inelegant jabs. Sirius, largely because he was stupid but also possibly because he was inordinately protective had a tendency to shout things and occasionally one or both of them threw a punch.
And while James and Sirius squabbled, Peter crawled over to the box again, rifling through the books and papers and examining all with surprising interest.
Remus turned over onto his stomach, propping himself back on his elbows. "I didn't know you were so interested in teaching, Peter," he said.
Beside them, Sirius and James had moved into phase two of their argument, going from a volley of personal insults to pointing fingers about whose relationship had led to the inactivity of the Marauders more, Sirius' or James' and then the weighing of moral and comparative values of said relationships considering that at least Sirius was dating within the group and James saying, oh, yeah, that was moral all right.
Peter smiled shyly, fingers absently turning a few pages in one of the many books on Arithmancy that had been stuffed into the box. "Well," he started. "When you've been tutored by as many people as I have -- " he grinned ruefully as Remus made understanding noises " -- you gain a vested interest in how people teach." Peter's grin widened and he handed Remus the book he had been playing with. "And you're really quite good at it, Remus. I'm glad."
The admission made Remus feel a prickling warmth at the tips of his ears. "Thanks, Peter."
Grinning, Peter picked up another book and began to page through it, eyebrows raising.
"This looks like complicated stuff, Remus," he said, mildly concerned.
In the background, James shouted, "Oh, like sodomy is the hallmark of moral integrity!" while Sirius waved his arms about and yelled, "At least Remus doesn't pretend not to know me in public, you miserable bastard!" Remus, distantly, figured that the argument had about five minutes of steam left before both Sirius and James glared, called it silently quits, and sulked off to their respective partners to complain about their lives. Remus only wished he wasn't one of the respective partners, and thought sometimes about hefting Sirius off onto somebody else, but decided he rather liked the way that Sirius was pretty and very inventive with his tongue, so generally decided against it.
Pursing his lips, Remus admitted, "That's true. I'm hoping that my parents are overshooting."
He glanced at the Arithmancy problem Peter was staring at in the book and realized that the question itself was half a page long. He winced at the thought of trying to dissect it; despite the fact that he liked Arithmancy, he held no fondness for relearning the complex nature of the basics when he'd already reached far beyond it.
"Either way," Peter said lightly, "I'm glad I'm not in Arithmancy."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Peter," Remus said dryly.
"Always glad to help," Peter replied earnestly.
At that precise moment, James stomped off and Sirius flopped over so that his head was pillowed by the small of Remus' back, face contorted into an expression of pain even as he clawed at the flaps of Remus' robes, toying with the cloth and moaning, "I should have hexed him when I had the chance." He kicked miserably at a few of the books by his feet, shuffling as if he were a disenchanted five year old. "Stupid bloody berk."
"Mister Wormtail," Remus said loudly, touching one finger to the corner of his mouth. "Does it ever occur to you that certain Messrs Padfoot and Prongs seem a bit -- well, married when they argue?"
Delighted, Peter said beaming, "Mister Moony, I'm terribly pleasantly surprised to find that I am not alone in this assessment." Still grinning, he added, "It must be dreadful for you, sir, to be having it off with someone whose heart is obviously somewhere else entirely."
Sirius scowled at them.
Remus nodded seriously. "It's really quite sad." He brightened. "Perhaps we ought to run away together, Mister Wormtail. I make wonderful omelets."
"Why, Mister Moony, I do believe that I shall take you up on that -- "
"All right!" Sirius interrupted, pushing himself to his feet rapidly and glaring down at where Remus and Peter had surrendered to gales of laughter, faces buried in their arms, lost in a sea of books. "Peter, you have another thing coming if you think that Remus will be making you omelets." Sirius paused. "He's a rotten cook, anyhow," he added tartly.
Wiping at his eyes, Remus just smiled stupidly and said nothing, feeling slightly better about the entire situation.
Remus released a deep breath; he'd probably just be grading papers, he'd been overreacting.
Really, he reasoned, how terrible could it be?
-----
"And these will be your quarters."
McGonagall was nearly twittering in joy as she threw open the door to the room at the end of the corridor. It had lovely large windows that looked over the lake, and the height from the third floor lent a fantastic view of the rolling hills beyond the dark green forest that bordered the Hogwarts properties.
Remus had never been so terrified in his life.
He clutched his canvas bag in his hands, fingers digging into the fabric and wishing desperately to be back in the seventh year boys' dorm, class, home, anywhere at all. He had three pairs of trousers, some books, and a quill, all things Professor McGonagall had tossed into his bag when she'd burst into the room ten minutes ago and rushed him out, shouting about how it'd taken him so long to be ready to go anywhere, anyhow? Remus tried to banish the image of her digging through his clothes; it was probably some sort of divine retribution for…the past seven years worth of trauma the Marauders had inflicted upon the faculty and staff of Hogwarts.
Suddenly, Remus got a sinking feeling: planning, evil-doer, or even active participant or not, he had at least partially conspired and carried out unspeakable evils upon the staff of Hogwarts for a very long time.
He groaned softly; they were going to eat him, tear him limb from limb.
I swore up and down that I wouldn't write this, partially because it's heart-wrenching in a differt way than writing the actual sequel--or should I say, the parallel--to "And Still," but I got caught up in the fit of Women's Studies and the word primogenature was dancing through my head, I couldn't stop myself! Before I knew it, I was in for the penny, in for the pound.
Sirius was deeply fond of the United Kingdom, in love with England and her primogeniture rules. His name had been literally burned off of the family tree but trust his mother to will it to any last surviving offspring, bastard and disowned or otherwise, before letting a cent of her money and holdings slip in to the hands of her best friends and arch rivals.
He'd always been wealthy but now it was bordering on ridiculous, and Sirius was grateful for every cent that came his way.
-----
Remus had once asked if Sirius was ever frightened by how much he loved.
At the time, Sirius had only looked up at Remus, hair mussed and golden-auburn in the early morning sun, with dark, rosy bruises bearing the curves of Sirius' mouth all over his chest, draped in the white sheets of their bed. There was an easy and obvious answer, which Sirius had murmured, reverent and guileless, smoothing his brown hands across Remus' white skin.
It was easy to love Remus, the easiest thing Sirius had ever come across in his wide spectrum of talents. Being in love with Remus was nearly second-nature, as simple as breathing, extraordinary as the way that Remus arched his back and made that gasping, groaning sound when he came in Sirius' mouth. It was uncomplicated for Sirius in a way it had never been for James, and where James came away from Lily frustrated and bemused, incensed and completely floored by turns, Sirius knew Remus, and their silence spoke volumes.
"There's something wrong with the two of you," James had accused once. "You never fight about anything that matters. It's always the superficial things that throw a wrench."
"You're just jealous," Sirius had said lightly, tossing the man an extra pillow and blanket.
James, throwing himself onto Sirius and Remus' battered couch had frowned at the ceiling. "That's part of it," he admitted. "But there's something wrong with that--don't you two ever talk about the important things?"
And before Sirius had time to counter that with some stunning but ultimately flawed logic, Remus had walked through the door, dripping from the evening's downpour, and raising his eyebrows when he spied James on the couch--again. He'd only rolled his eyes, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Sirius' mouth, and wandered off into the bedroom, where through the half-closed door the thump of wet clothing had been heard.
James, scowling from his vantage point, said, "You two are vile and unnatural."
And Sirius, grinning, had flicked off the lightswitch of the living room, commenting easily, "I wager you'd stop fighting with Lily so often if you know just how vile and unnatural we are--especially on that couch."
Padfoot had hollered bloody murder and flipped himself onto the floor, where he presumably spent the night. Sirius was then divesting himself of his pants and following Remus into the bath, and had no patience for narrow-minded acquaintances that were being traumatized the next room over.
Then--even then--with the Dark Wars on the cusp, men being deployed, their entire lives tremulous and unbalanced, Sirius had never been afraid of loving Remus. And that night, when he'd slid into the hot water, felt his damp skin flush and slick against Remus' chest, he hadn't been thinking, "This can't last," he was thinking of very little save for the way that Remus moaned into his mouth.
-----
It was too late to be wary, to hold away parts of himself as Remus must have.
As Sirius hoped he had.
There was only rocking, terrifying nausea as he watched Mad Eye Moody pull strings--or perhaps just terrify nurses and doctors into submission--and mutter something boarding schools while waving him into Remus' hospital room. The first time, Sirius had asked if it was really all right; Moody had asked, "Will you be all right?" which had effectively ended the conversation in a standstill, like any other time Sirius had attempted to communicate with the man.
The last time that Moody had asked if Sirius was all right was after a large herd of merhags and their cuckholded husbands had swarmed him in a spirited attempt to kill him. Sirius found it especially disconcerting that Moody was repeating the phrase; what exactly did that mean?
There was an obvious answer to that obvious question, but Sirius refused to entertain it, planning two funerals in one go was annoying enough, he'd off himself just to be contrary before he had to phone mum and dad Lupin and explain to them their son was dead.
Sirius nodded his thanks to Moody, and ducked into the hospital room, slumping into his customary chair by Remus' side, feeling--if not numb, exactly, then disconnected, removed from the situation. It was wonderful and infuriating by turns: it turned all of Sirius' words earlier into a film of lies, in a way, that he could sit there watching Remus hooked to beeping boxes and pale as death and be all right with that.
The next morning, he called mum and dad Lupin anyway, cursing himself.
"Will you stay with him--until we get there?" Mrs. Lupin asked.
"You will, won't you, Sirius?" Mr. Lupin interjected, stealing the phone receiver. "We'll be there in an hour or so--but you will meet us at the hospital?"
Sirius reflected, upon ending the phone call with dozens of promises, was that Remus' parents seemed to like him so well. Through the years, Remus had always maintained that his parents possessed no knowledge of his and Sirius' carnal relations, and Sirius had always maintained that Athena and John Lupin were clever enough that they had to notice something was a bit off.
From an ocean of white sheets only a shade paler than his cheek, Sirius saw Remus' eyelids flutter, as if he'd wake, or as if he'd only been dreaming something particularly unpleasant. For a moment, Sirius held his breath, waiting, expectant, for Remus to simply blink sleep out of his hazel eyes and ask Sirius if there was any tea on. In a way, it'd be hilarious if it came to pass: for Remus to finally admit--or, verify--his particular preferences under present circumstances.
"For as often as you told me to be more realistic," Sirius muttered at Remus' prone figure, "you were bloody awful at being realistic about us."
After a long pause, Sirius corrected, "You are."
In my own defense, this file on my harddrive is literally titled "omgwhy."
"Oh, this is hilarious," Ron muttered under his breath.
Harry picked up a soft-boiled egg and hazarded a glance to the front of the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall was wavering between titters and scowling, shoving piles of pink paper and hearts back toward her left. The stacks of valentines and elaborate gifts had grown to such a ridiculous portion that only a few tufts of sleep-mussed hair could be seen over all the envelopes and swirling signatures; even from a distance, Harry could smell a wave of perfume.
"It is actually rather funny," Harry said, grinning at Ron, who scowled, eyes narrowing on Hermione as she rushed to the front of the room, carrying her own contribution. She, however, circumnavigated the stack and presented it smiling, to large, brown hands.
Ron slammed the table, throwing down his teaspoon. "This is preposterous!" he hissed.
Harry really thought that after five years of the same thing, Ron would have learned simply to accept what could not be changed. February fourteenth at Hogwarts was tradition: morning dawned, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher would be badgered by love struck girls throughout the school, each of whom he smiled at dashingly and sent along on their merry way, thanking them profusely for their gifts.
"It's not as if he's stealing off with any of them to Filch's supply closet," Harry contended.
Ron's eyes widened in horror. "D'you think he'd do that?" He gasped. "He could do that."
Mentally kicking himself, Harry quickly recovered, "And if he was, Hermione's much too clever for anything like that. Don't you think?"
Ron seemed to consider it for a moment before relaxing, a smile creeping across his face again as Hermione rushed back to the table, jittery and red-cheeked, enormously pleased with herself.
Honestly, Harry thought, this whole problem would be sorted out if Ron would just say something to her; then again, the last time he'd proposed it Ron had simply flushed eight shades of red and been useless for the rest of the day. He cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was already a deep shade of crimson, rolled his eyes, and returned to eating his soft-boiled egg.
Enjoy, and be gentle, none of these have seen the light of a beta-reader's flame yet.