Shine
Title: Shine
Author: chococoffeekiss
Rating & Warnings: PG, AU without explaining why.
Prompts: Christmas Party
Format & Word Count: Fic, 1,894
Summary: The Lupins attend the first Christmas Ball following the war.
Author’s Notes: OK, I'm not sure exactly what this is, it just happened. Share and Enjoy. :D
Thank the gods, Remus Lupin thinks loudly as he looks his wife over, that she doesn’t dress up often.
To be certain, she’s attractive all the time, clothed fancily, plainly, or not at all, and yes, he’s gone maudlin from the Christmas ambience (and mulled wine), but the poet in him takes one glance and is lost for words.
Nymphadora sees him watching and her lips twist into a moue that only she can use to such effect; her eyes narrow at him as she swings her new black mink cloak over pale shoulders. He catches a glimpse of the old familial arrogance that she tries so hard to curb - it shows in the set of her brow and tilt of her chin, in the expression that shifts from to “I will exact my revenge...” to “I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” to “I’m only doing this for you.”
She’s so strikingly beautiful that he is afraid to look directly at her, worried that the shine of her might kill him outright, but it’s hard not to stare at her when she’s standing inches from him, straightening his tie.
“Don’t you look fit,” Dora says with a roguish wink, and then smacks him on the rear as she walks by.
That’s his wife, the war hero; a woman with the incalculable patience of a whole host of saints, who always gets what she wants, come hell or high water (or lycanthropic moral dilemmas or soulless megalomaniacs with male pattern baldness). This is a woman with the ferocity of a legion of demons, whom, the first night they slept together, he had attempted to wake with a kiss and found himself pinned to the floor with her knee on his throat and a wand in his face before her eyes were even open, and he loves her more than words could ever convey.
With a faint and enigmatic smile in his direction, she leans down to kiss Teddy on his bright head - the boy’s hair matches the deep robin’s egg blue shade of the gown she wears. The color brings out the subtle tones of pink in her skin, compliments the storm gray of her eyes and her raven-dark hair, piled and pinned, wisping around her face. She murmurs goodbyes to their son - together they look like a Kodachrome Madonna and Child, haloed by the dying fire in the grate.
It’s no wonder that the entire world seems to worship a mother and son, he thinks, because these two fill the gaps in his soul like nothing else ever could. She nestles the baby against her shoulder and paces the room, singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in a tired alto. Her father sang it to her every night until she was eight, and continued to do so occasionally, much to her embarrassment (and secret delight) even when she was 24 and a grown woman, married and pregnant.
“Are we going, or what?” she asks after Teddy has drifted to sleep, turning round with an air of resignation.
Dora doesn’t want to go to the Ministry’s Christmas Ball for two reasons: one, because it’s a ball, which translates as ‘stuffy politicians, dress robes and (horror of all horrors) waltzing.’ Reason Two? She won’t leave Teddy for love nor money, not since the last time they left him, when they almost didn’t come back.
But they do leave; Teddy is staying home with his grandmother, and Andromeda kisses them goodbye at the door. Together they step out into the darkness, which is everything a Christmas Eve should be - cloudless climes and starry skies over mountain and moor. The wind whips one of the gardenia blossoms from her hair and he chases it across the path to retrieve it from a lingering snowdrift.
He tucks the bloom behind her ear and takes her hand, warm and strong in his own. Her eyes meet his, holding his gaze as his fingers tighten around hers, and for the most fleeting of moments, they are each other and they are the night.
_
London is warmer than home. They take the Visitor’s Entrance, laughing as they wedge into the telephone box and push the buttons.
The Ministry is completely different than it was a year ago - he works as a consultant for the newly-formed Werewolf Welfare department, but Dora hasn’t seen the changes since taking a leave of absence from the Auror Office in July. She gasps at the sight of it - the Atrium now has an enchanted ceiling dotted with fiery stars, and a huge, spreading silver elm, bare of leaves, towers where the Fountain once stood - they crossed under its reaching branches to the other side of the Atrium, where a huge crowd has gathered.
Their friends and adoptive family are congregated near one of the long tables decked with drinks and Christmas treats. They exchange greetings as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, instead of just yesterday, as if they won’t again, though they will all meet tomorrow for dinner.
The Weasleys look collectively uncomfortable in new dress robes and suits; Harry is awkward and cheerful, color high on his cheeks as he stands next to Ginny, who looks like Yuletide embodied in an emerald green dress, with a Father Christmas hat perched atop her bright red hair. Hermione urges Ron to close his mouth as he munches a handful of biscuits, while George and Angelina Johnson tip a flask of something suspicious into the punchbowls. Bill escorts a glowing Fleur, whose baby bump seems bigger by the minute. Nymphadora’s eyes linger on her; she abruptly spins around and heads for a fireplace.
“I need to firecall Mum-“
Remus catches her arm, gently tugging her back to his side. “Your mum is more than capable of taking care of our boy for another hour or so.”
“I know,” she insists half-heartedly. “I know, I just-“
“It’s okay.” He leans down to kiss her forehead and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks with a sly smile, and she grins.
“I want whatever George is having,” she calls after him, laughing as Ginny pulls her into a group of chattering friends, and he meets an interesting-looking fellow with a guitar while searching for the errant Weasley.
_
The crowd is in a livelier mood as Harry takes the stage, standing behind the podium with a gangly sort of authority. He clears his throat, looking years older than a mere eighteen. “I was asked to speak tonight, so here I am…speaking.”
The audience titters with half-laughter, as though they were unsure whether it was allowed or not.
“It’s traditional to decorate the tree at the Christmas Ball, but traditions are-well, this is a different sort of tree that we’ll be decorating tonight.”
He talks on for a few minutes more but neither Remus nor his wife are listening - Nymphadora is toying with the glass peacock feather pendant of her necklace and he watches her fingers trace the curve of the plume, knowing that she wishes she was home with their son, worried that something may happen to him, to them. Admittedly, she has every right to worry, though it hurts to see her afraid. Even on the night they should have died she was fearless, but the war had left no one untouched.
“This is, for some of us, the first real holiday we’ve had in several years,” Harry continued, turning his speech cards over and over. “And it’s only fitting to honor the ones who can’t be here with us today. Contrary to popular belief, there are some things that I can’t do, and this is one of them, so Minister Shacklebolt will be taking over from here on out. Kingsley? Thank you.” He left the podium to raucous applause and disappeared into the crowd.
“When I call the names of the fallen, will the next of kin please come forward?” Shacklebolt’s voice continues, deep and calm as a river, “…Regulus Black. Sirius Black. Amelia Bones. Edgar Bones. Charity Burbage.”
“That’s you, Dora,” he whispers against her cheek. She walks to the front of the stage, where
Luna Lovegood takes her hands and says something he can’t hear. She then returns with a pair of silver leaves the size of his hand, embossed with the names of her cousins.
The roll is called - a list far too long, with the names of too many of his friends. Others must have felt the same way; the almost hallowed quiet in the room was punctuated by the whispering sounds of grief. Many of them have handfuls of leaves, some only one, and Nymphadora pushes one of her three into his hand, Sirius’s, giving him a smile that teeters on the brink of tears.
The other she gives to a pale young man on the edge of the crowd; her only remaining cousin. Harry will smile curiously about it, Ron will rage, but Dora has her own reasoning for everything, and Remus understands without asking. She walks back to him with one leaf - the name Ted Tonks gleams on the curved surface.
A solemn hush falls over the room again as, of their own accord, every leaf in every hand begins a slow, spinning rise to meet the gleaming branches of the tree above them. They hover, turning and shining in a breeze no mortal can feel, and every eye stares upward in rapt silence. Somehow, her fingers find his again and she holds his hand with a fierce sort of possession.
After a long time someone can be heard sobbing, then another person cheers and another claps their hands until the entirety of Wizarding Britain is applauding and he has heard nothing like it since a cold October night so many years ago. It went on for what seemed like ages, until Kingsley took over again and announced that it was time for celebration.
“Do you want to stay for just one dance?” he asks her, nodding toward the stage. A few hairy men, looking awkward in neat and expensive robes, were arranged on stools with their respective instruments. One of them waves at her before starting into a Muggle song she recognizes instantly, having heard her father sing it a thousand times over in her twenty-five years.
“Oh, Remus, you didn’t.”
“I had to bribe Heathcote Barbary, he gets to name our second-born,” he teases, and his wife (the war-hero) leans her forehead against his shoulder and laughs madly before bursting into tears. Neither of them are much for dancing, so he pulls her close for the rest of the song. The band shifts into another tune as the first ends, and he whispers a question against the curve of her neck.
“Do you want to go home now?”
“We can stay if you want.”
“Let’s go home.”
_
The sky above their cottage rivals any enchanted ceiling, and they walk up the path with joined hands. It’s peaceful, cold and dark; everything a Christmas Eve should be. Dora touches the ancient horseshoe on the post and unlocks the door, standing framed in a block of warm light.
“Are you coming in, or what?”
The stars above burn like far-off fire, and Remus supposes that he should make wishes on them, but finds he doesn’t have to anymore.
_
Author: chococoffeekiss
Rating & Warnings: PG, AU without explaining why.
Prompts: Christmas Party
Format & Word Count: Fic, 1,894
Summary: The Lupins attend the first Christmas Ball following the war.
Author’s Notes: OK, I'm not sure exactly what this is, it just happened. Share and Enjoy. :D
Thank the gods, Remus Lupin thinks loudly as he looks his wife over, that she doesn’t dress up often.
To be certain, she’s attractive all the time, clothed fancily, plainly, or not at all, and yes, he’s gone maudlin from the Christmas ambience (and mulled wine), but the poet in him takes one glance and is lost for words.
Nymphadora sees him watching and her lips twist into a moue that only she can use to such effect; her eyes narrow at him as she swings her new black mink cloak over pale shoulders. He catches a glimpse of the old familial arrogance that she tries so hard to curb - it shows in the set of her brow and tilt of her chin, in the expression that shifts from to “I will exact my revenge...” to “I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” to “I’m only doing this for you.”
She’s so strikingly beautiful that he is afraid to look directly at her, worried that the shine of her might kill him outright, but it’s hard not to stare at her when she’s standing inches from him, straightening his tie.
“Don’t you look fit,” Dora says with a roguish wink, and then smacks him on the rear as she walks by.
That’s his wife, the war hero; a woman with the incalculable patience of a whole host of saints, who always gets what she wants, come hell or high water (or lycanthropic moral dilemmas or soulless megalomaniacs with male pattern baldness). This is a woman with the ferocity of a legion of demons, whom, the first night they slept together, he had attempted to wake with a kiss and found himself pinned to the floor with her knee on his throat and a wand in his face before her eyes were even open, and he loves her more than words could ever convey.
With a faint and enigmatic smile in his direction, she leans down to kiss Teddy on his bright head - the boy’s hair matches the deep robin’s egg blue shade of the gown she wears. The color brings out the subtle tones of pink in her skin, compliments the storm gray of her eyes and her raven-dark hair, piled and pinned, wisping around her face. She murmurs goodbyes to their son - together they look like a Kodachrome Madonna and Child, haloed by the dying fire in the grate.
It’s no wonder that the entire world seems to worship a mother and son, he thinks, because these two fill the gaps in his soul like nothing else ever could. She nestles the baby against her shoulder and paces the room, singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in a tired alto. Her father sang it to her every night until she was eight, and continued to do so occasionally, much to her embarrassment (and secret delight) even when she was 24 and a grown woman, married and pregnant.
“Are we going, or what?” she asks after Teddy has drifted to sleep, turning round with an air of resignation.
Dora doesn’t want to go to the Ministry’s Christmas Ball for two reasons: one, because it’s a ball, which translates as ‘stuffy politicians, dress robes and (horror of all horrors) waltzing.’ Reason Two? She won’t leave Teddy for love nor money, not since the last time they left him, when they almost didn’t come back.
But they do leave; Teddy is staying home with his grandmother, and Andromeda kisses them goodbye at the door. Together they step out into the darkness, which is everything a Christmas Eve should be - cloudless climes and starry skies over mountain and moor. The wind whips one of the gardenia blossoms from her hair and he chases it across the path to retrieve it from a lingering snowdrift.
He tucks the bloom behind her ear and takes her hand, warm and strong in his own. Her eyes meet his, holding his gaze as his fingers tighten around hers, and for the most fleeting of moments, they are each other and they are the night.
_
London is warmer than home. They take the Visitor’s Entrance, laughing as they wedge into the telephone box and push the buttons.
The Ministry is completely different than it was a year ago - he works as a consultant for the newly-formed Werewolf Welfare department, but Dora hasn’t seen the changes since taking a leave of absence from the Auror Office in July. She gasps at the sight of it - the Atrium now has an enchanted ceiling dotted with fiery stars, and a huge, spreading silver elm, bare of leaves, towers where the Fountain once stood - they crossed under its reaching branches to the other side of the Atrium, where a huge crowd has gathered.
Their friends and adoptive family are congregated near one of the long tables decked with drinks and Christmas treats. They exchange greetings as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, instead of just yesterday, as if they won’t again, though they will all meet tomorrow for dinner.
The Weasleys look collectively uncomfortable in new dress robes and suits; Harry is awkward and cheerful, color high on his cheeks as he stands next to Ginny, who looks like Yuletide embodied in an emerald green dress, with a Father Christmas hat perched atop her bright red hair. Hermione urges Ron to close his mouth as he munches a handful of biscuits, while George and Angelina Johnson tip a flask of something suspicious into the punchbowls. Bill escorts a glowing Fleur, whose baby bump seems bigger by the minute. Nymphadora’s eyes linger on her; she abruptly spins around and heads for a fireplace.
“I need to firecall Mum-“
Remus catches her arm, gently tugging her back to his side. “Your mum is more than capable of taking care of our boy for another hour or so.”
“I know,” she insists half-heartedly. “I know, I just-“
“It’s okay.” He leans down to kiss her forehead and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks with a sly smile, and she grins.
“I want whatever George is having,” she calls after him, laughing as Ginny pulls her into a group of chattering friends, and he meets an interesting-looking fellow with a guitar while searching for the errant Weasley.
_
The crowd is in a livelier mood as Harry takes the stage, standing behind the podium with a gangly sort of authority. He clears his throat, looking years older than a mere eighteen. “I was asked to speak tonight, so here I am…speaking.”
The audience titters with half-laughter, as though they were unsure whether it was allowed or not.
“It’s traditional to decorate the tree at the Christmas Ball, but traditions are-well, this is a different sort of tree that we’ll be decorating tonight.”
He talks on for a few minutes more but neither Remus nor his wife are listening - Nymphadora is toying with the glass peacock feather pendant of her necklace and he watches her fingers trace the curve of the plume, knowing that she wishes she was home with their son, worried that something may happen to him, to them. Admittedly, she has every right to worry, though it hurts to see her afraid. Even on the night they should have died she was fearless, but the war had left no one untouched.
“This is, for some of us, the first real holiday we’ve had in several years,” Harry continued, turning his speech cards over and over. “And it’s only fitting to honor the ones who can’t be here with us today. Contrary to popular belief, there are some things that I can’t do, and this is one of them, so Minister Shacklebolt will be taking over from here on out. Kingsley? Thank you.” He left the podium to raucous applause and disappeared into the crowd.
“When I call the names of the fallen, will the next of kin please come forward?” Shacklebolt’s voice continues, deep and calm as a river, “…Regulus Black. Sirius Black. Amelia Bones. Edgar Bones. Charity Burbage.”
“That’s you, Dora,” he whispers against her cheek. She walks to the front of the stage, where
Luna Lovegood takes her hands and says something he can’t hear. She then returns with a pair of silver leaves the size of his hand, embossed with the names of her cousins.
The roll is called - a list far too long, with the names of too many of his friends. Others must have felt the same way; the almost hallowed quiet in the room was punctuated by the whispering sounds of grief. Many of them have handfuls of leaves, some only one, and Nymphadora pushes one of her three into his hand, Sirius’s, giving him a smile that teeters on the brink of tears.
The other she gives to a pale young man on the edge of the crowd; her only remaining cousin. Harry will smile curiously about it, Ron will rage, but Dora has her own reasoning for everything, and Remus understands without asking. She walks back to him with one leaf - the name Ted Tonks gleams on the curved surface.
A solemn hush falls over the room again as, of their own accord, every leaf in every hand begins a slow, spinning rise to meet the gleaming branches of the tree above them. They hover, turning and shining in a breeze no mortal can feel, and every eye stares upward in rapt silence. Somehow, her fingers find his again and she holds his hand with a fierce sort of possession.
After a long time someone can be heard sobbing, then another person cheers and another claps their hands until the entirety of Wizarding Britain is applauding and he has heard nothing like it since a cold October night so many years ago. It went on for what seemed like ages, until Kingsley took over again and announced that it was time for celebration.
“Do you want to stay for just one dance?” he asks her, nodding toward the stage. A few hairy men, looking awkward in neat and expensive robes, were arranged on stools with their respective instruments. One of them waves at her before starting into a Muggle song she recognizes instantly, having heard her father sing it a thousand times over in her twenty-five years.
“Oh, Remus, you didn’t.”
“I had to bribe Heathcote Barbary, he gets to name our second-born,” he teases, and his wife (the war-hero) leans her forehead against his shoulder and laughs madly before bursting into tears. Neither of them are much for dancing, so he pulls her close for the rest of the song. The band shifts into another tune as the first ends, and he whispers a question against the curve of her neck.
“Do you want to go home now?”
“We can stay if you want.”
“Let’s go home.”
_
The sky above their cottage rivals any enchanted ceiling, and they walk up the path with joined hands. It’s peaceful, cold and dark; everything a Christmas Eve should be. Dora touches the ancient horseshoe on the post and unlocks the door, standing framed in a block of warm light.
“Are you coming in, or what?”
The stars above burn like far-off fire, and Remus supposes that he should make wishes on them, but finds he doesn’t have to anymore.
_