Now is the Winter of Our Discontent (blanketforts Day 03)
Title: Now is the Winter of Our Discontent
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 2132 (Remus wouldn't shut up)
Prompt: Pink flower in a pile of snow.
Notes: Lalalala. Nothing here. No fic. Not one. Because I'm not doing blanketforts. As should be obvious by now. Title from Richard III. Remus doesn't like commuting. I got fairly creative in trying to work out how the wizarding world travels to work. This is a mix of creative interpretation and sheer invention, born of the almighty headache I got trying to make sense of it. As far as I know there ain't no such thing as a Commercial Floo. Muggle Lorry drivers did declare a strike on 3rd January 1979, though.
1 2 3 4
It was dark when Remus left home that morning and there was a fresh layer of snow on the path. The windows of the guesthouse were all still dark, though he knew his dad was up and started on breakfast. He felt the familiar pang of guilt as he left. His dad had been running The Seagull’s Rest single-handedly since Mum died and it was too much for one person. He ought to be helping. If there hadn’t been a war, he would have done. They’d have never let him on the Auror training programme if they weren’t desperate. It was his only chance and Dad had insisted he take it. He wondered sometimes if he should have argued more.
He hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted this.
The snow creaked under his feet as he made his way out onto the road. It was snowing again, a thin whirl of flakes visible in the glow of each streetlight. He took a breath of cold air and shivered, not entirely with cold.
He could see the shadow of the sea at the end of the road, black and slick. He wasn’t close enough to see if the edges had frozen again. He shook his head, marvelling, and set off up the hill into town.
It was so quiet. The seagulls were huddled under eaves and there were no prowling cats. He couldn’t hear any cars. He glanced at the doorsteps as he passed and saw no milk had been delivered. Last week it had frozen in the bottles and they’d had to stack them by the cooker to defrost.
There were usually a few delivery lorries parked on the High Street, their engines humming warmly. Today there was nothing. That was odd. How bad was the snow over the Downs?
There were a few other commuters trailing up Lyon Street. Remus smiled at them politely but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t done to talk. There were silent rituals to commuting, an unspoken code of honour between fellow sufferers. You only spoke when things went wrong and then, only then, were you permitted to laugh and mutter and make unfunny jokes about the state of the country. When it all went back to normal, once the delays cleared, you returned to the silence behind the Times and the Prophet.
He didn’t talk over breakfast, either. He and Dad were good at moving around each other in the kitchen, not awake enough for conversation. On days when his training was intense and Sirius was brooding he could get to noon without speaking a single word. He had never realised how addictive silence was.
Sirius was due for another brood. It had been threatening yesterday, until James’ problem pushed everything aside. It was inevitable, after New Year.
There was snow melting into the grey wool of his gloves. Remus watched it, and hunched his shoulders. The snow wouldn’t really melt around him if he let himself think of New Year’s Eve.
The memory of Sirius’ arms snaking around him as they counted down the seconds sent heat flushing through him. He could almost feel the hot press of Sirius’ mouth on his as the year changed, and the way Sirius’ hands had roamed, fast and desperate, as a flatload of drunken strangers bawled Auld Lang Syne.
And then Peter had said, “Padfoot! Moony?” and Sirius had jumped as if Moody had apparated into the middle of the flat and leapt away. He had stared at Remus and then at Peter before launching into a string of obscenties and crashing away across the flat, grabbing for the first bottle he could reach. He had downed the vodka neat, swayed for a moment, and then screamed.
Remus hadn’t been sober enough not to run away and hide in the shower.
It didn’t make sense. Sirius didn’t want him like that any more. There had been a time when that would have been every night and every excuse. Then there had been the nightmare in their Sixth year and all that followed. It had been the worst summer of his life, betrayal followed by horror as the war intensified. It had been that summer they had first heard the name Voldemort. He had forgiven Sirius on the day the Death Eaters attacked Swindon. When it came to it, Snape was alive, and Sirius was sorry and there were things that mattered more, when the world was falling apart. They had mended their friendship until it was a careful, patchwork thing, almost as good as new. All that had changed was that Sirius no longer wanted him.
Remus had tried to raise the subject, in a sideways, hinting way. Sirius would snap a refusal and then he would brood. Sirius’ broods were legendary. After James, Peter, Lily and McGonagall all offered him threats or bribes to stop provoking them, Remus had given up.
He still dreamt of Sirius. He still lusted after him, there was no point in denying it. He even still trusted him, albeit knowingly.
But Sirius didn’t want him.
Except there had been New Year and it didn’t make sense.
He trailed into the railway station, stamping the snow off his boots. The Muggle commuters headed across the echoing ticket hall, newspapers tucked under their arms. Remus wandered, seemingly without purpose, towards the permanently closed ice-cream stand on the left of the ticket hall.
Bognor Regis, like many seaside resorts, had a significant wizarding population. Many of them, like Remus, commuted into London. The public Floo left Bognor Regis station every half an hour. The 8.30 Floo was notorious for overcrowding, and for shooting commuters across the atrium of the Ministry as they arrived at the other end. The 8.00 was less busy but you could never be guaranteed a place on the grid. Remus caught the 7.30 most mornings. It was an early start, but his season ticket was much cheaper than Flooing straight from home and paying the congestion charge. Sometimes, when the streets were quiet and the sunrise reflecting in the sea, he even liked commuting.
There was a little crowd outside the ice-cream stand. Remus joined the edge and waited until he had a chance to shuffle forward. The metal door was padlocked shut and a notice was pinned to it. Those in front of him were tapping it surreptiously with their wands. Remus squinted over someone’s shoulder as he waited his turn. The note read:
Missing: Miss Tuftykins. Beloved family pet. Black. Answers to Tuffy. Reward offered. There were no contact details.
He was in front of it now and he tapped quickly and watched as the letters rearranged themselves to read: Floo service suspended until further notice. Due to Muggle Thump action, we have not received our fuel delivery and can’t get the bloody thing lit. Come back later. Yours most sincerely, Bill Watkins, caretaker (On behalf of The Management who ain’t due in ‘til nine).
“Bloody Muggles and their thumps,” someone muttered.
“Strikes,” Remus said automatically. “They go on strike. How are we meant to get to work?”
“Apparate,” someone said wisely. “Like we did in seventy-three. You can get away from the Gents without the Muggles noticing.”
Remus groaned and moved away. He still didn’t like apparating. He always worried that he’d splinch himself, although he never had. And it took effort. He was almost seventy miles away from London. With a sigh, he headed for the loo, digging through his pocket for a Muggle coin to work the turnstile.
~x~
He was in the lecture theatre in the ministry by eight. He was always the first to arrive and he was glad of it today. He had time to get a cup of tea and save Sirius a seat while he woke up. He wrapped his hands around the paper cup and tried to inhale wakefulness with the tea fumes.
It didn’t work. He was beginning to dread the day. Auror training was tough enough when you hadn’t had to apparate to work.
A few of the others arrived. He smiled in a polite but unencouraging way. Sirius, who only lived around the corner, never arrived before nine.
His tea had cooled a little and he gulped it down. It was only the awful blend the witches in the cafeteria brewed. He shoved the empty cup aside and decided to risk sleeping until their instructor of the day arrived.
Sirius arrived at five past- nine, without a pen. Remus lent him one and continued to take notes. Long years of Mauradering meant he could do that in his sleep. At lunchtime, Sirius muttered something and vanished. Remus hoped it wasn’t the first sign of a brood and stumbled downstairs in search of food.
Lily Evans was sitting alone in the corner. Remus collected his tray of Roast Stew, assrtd and went to join her.
She looked up quickly as he approached and then her shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
“Hello,” Remus said. “Mind if I join you?”
“No, go ahead. Happy New Year.”
“Same to you. Where’s Prongs?”
Her lips thinned, “Twenty-seven minutes late.” She ran her hands through her hair, dislodging two quills. “I’ve got so much to do.”
“I’m sure he’s got a reason,” Remus said nervously.
“Hah.” She stared at the quills in her hands, as if wondering where they’d come from. “He’s up to something. I know it. He keeps talking about mustard.”
“Er,” Remus said and tried to change the subject. “Did you get this too? What’s in it?”
“Assorted things,” Lily snapped. “Stewed. Mine had pineapple, and some sort of fish, and curry. Are you going to tell me what he’s up to?”
Remus tried to look vague. “I don’t know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Hmm.”
“How’s work?”
“Horrible,” she said and then grinned ruefully. “Which is why I’m being such a cow. Half the stuff we see doesn’t have enough evidence and then the stuff with evidence is foul and the minister wants convictions and everything that goes wrong seems to be the fault of yours truly, the lowly clerk who’s only been doing this for six weeks.”
“Breathe.”
“Sorry. It’s fascinating and it’s awful and if I ever manage to get a grip on it, I might love it. Law is more amazing the more you know.. Listening to the Wizengamot - am I boring you?”
Remus prodded his stew again. “Sorry. Knackered.”
“Aren’t we all?” Lily smiled and he managed to grin back.
There was a faint pop and a ball of ice appeared in the air between them. A single pink flower was preserved in its heart, glittering with frost. It hovered for a moment before wobbling in the air and then crashing down on the table. The ice smashed into crystals and the flower slid out limply. There was a note attached, labelled Lily.
Remus recognised James’ best handwriting. Had the daft berk managed to write the question down?
Lily read the note and then sighed. Remus tensed. It hadn’t sounded like a happy sigh.
“No lunch,” she said wryly and put the note down. “He’s in Hemel Hempstead. No idea when he’ll be back. Did you see anything in the paper this morning?”
“Didn’t get one. Sorry.”
“Damn. I hope-”
“I know.” There was only one reason Obliviators were called out these days.
“Poor souls,” Lily said softly and picked up the flower, pushing the ice away from it gently.
Remus shivered and applied himself to his stew. After a moment Lily said, “Are you okay? You look awful.”
“No Floo.”
“I know. I had to catch the train up to Waterloo with Dad this morning. The lorry drivers are on strike again.”
“Had to apparate.”
“No wonder you look terrible. Are you okay to get home tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Remus. You’re no good to anyone splinched.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What about staying with Sirius?”
“Who’s staying with me?” Sirius demanded, dropping onto the empty chair. “Wotcher, Prongette.”
“Hello, Sirius, good morning. Yes, I’m very well and I had a lovely New Year, how kind of you to ask.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth. Who’s staying with me?”
“Remus.”
“No, I’m not.”
Lily glared at him and then turned to Sirius. “There’s no Floo. He’s apparating from Bognor.”
Sirius sat up. “No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Am.”
“Not.”
“He said he was,” Lily interjected, gathering her quills.
“Ah,” Sirius said, holding up a finger, “but, as you so sagely pointed out, o wise and wondrous one, he is in fact staying with me. So he can’t be apparating from Bognor.”
“I am not staying with you.”
“Yes, you are,” Sirius said flatly.
Lily stood up. “Fight nicely, children. Some of us have work to do.”
She took her flower with her.
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 2132 (Remus wouldn't shut up)
Prompt: Pink flower in a pile of snow.
Notes: Lalalala. Nothing here. No fic. Not one. Because I'm not doing blanketforts. As should be obvious by now. Title from Richard III. Remus doesn't like commuting. I got fairly creative in trying to work out how the wizarding world travels to work. This is a mix of creative interpretation and sheer invention, born of the almighty headache I got trying to make sense of it. As far as I know there ain't no such thing as a Commercial Floo. Muggle Lorry drivers did declare a strike on 3rd January 1979, though.
1 2 3 4
It was dark when Remus left home that morning and there was a fresh layer of snow on the path. The windows of the guesthouse were all still dark, though he knew his dad was up and started on breakfast. He felt the familiar pang of guilt as he left. His dad had been running The Seagull’s Rest single-handedly since Mum died and it was too much for one person. He ought to be helping. If there hadn’t been a war, he would have done. They’d have never let him on the Auror training programme if they weren’t desperate. It was his only chance and Dad had insisted he take it. He wondered sometimes if he should have argued more.
He hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted this.
The snow creaked under his feet as he made his way out onto the road. It was snowing again, a thin whirl of flakes visible in the glow of each streetlight. He took a breath of cold air and shivered, not entirely with cold.
He could see the shadow of the sea at the end of the road, black and slick. He wasn’t close enough to see if the edges had frozen again. He shook his head, marvelling, and set off up the hill into town.
It was so quiet. The seagulls were huddled under eaves and there were no prowling cats. He couldn’t hear any cars. He glanced at the doorsteps as he passed and saw no milk had been delivered. Last week it had frozen in the bottles and they’d had to stack them by the cooker to defrost.
There were usually a few delivery lorries parked on the High Street, their engines humming warmly. Today there was nothing. That was odd. How bad was the snow over the Downs?
There were a few other commuters trailing up Lyon Street. Remus smiled at them politely but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t done to talk. There were silent rituals to commuting, an unspoken code of honour between fellow sufferers. You only spoke when things went wrong and then, only then, were you permitted to laugh and mutter and make unfunny jokes about the state of the country. When it all went back to normal, once the delays cleared, you returned to the silence behind the Times and the Prophet.
He didn’t talk over breakfast, either. He and Dad were good at moving around each other in the kitchen, not awake enough for conversation. On days when his training was intense and Sirius was brooding he could get to noon without speaking a single word. He had never realised how addictive silence was.
Sirius was due for another brood. It had been threatening yesterday, until James’ problem pushed everything aside. It was inevitable, after New Year.
There was snow melting into the grey wool of his gloves. Remus watched it, and hunched his shoulders. The snow wouldn’t really melt around him if he let himself think of New Year’s Eve.
The memory of Sirius’ arms snaking around him as they counted down the seconds sent heat flushing through him. He could almost feel the hot press of Sirius’ mouth on his as the year changed, and the way Sirius’ hands had roamed, fast and desperate, as a flatload of drunken strangers bawled Auld Lang Syne.
And then Peter had said, “Padfoot! Moony?” and Sirius had jumped as if Moody had apparated into the middle of the flat and leapt away. He had stared at Remus and then at Peter before launching into a string of obscenties and crashing away across the flat, grabbing for the first bottle he could reach. He had downed the vodka neat, swayed for a moment, and then screamed.
Remus hadn’t been sober enough not to run away and hide in the shower.
It didn’t make sense. Sirius didn’t want him like that any more. There had been a time when that would have been every night and every excuse. Then there had been the nightmare in their Sixth year and all that followed. It had been the worst summer of his life, betrayal followed by horror as the war intensified. It had been that summer they had first heard the name Voldemort. He had forgiven Sirius on the day the Death Eaters attacked Swindon. When it came to it, Snape was alive, and Sirius was sorry and there were things that mattered more, when the world was falling apart. They had mended their friendship until it was a careful, patchwork thing, almost as good as new. All that had changed was that Sirius no longer wanted him.
Remus had tried to raise the subject, in a sideways, hinting way. Sirius would snap a refusal and then he would brood. Sirius’ broods were legendary. After James, Peter, Lily and McGonagall all offered him threats or bribes to stop provoking them, Remus had given up.
He still dreamt of Sirius. He still lusted after him, there was no point in denying it. He even still trusted him, albeit knowingly.
But Sirius didn’t want him.
Except there had been New Year and it didn’t make sense.
He trailed into the railway station, stamping the snow off his boots. The Muggle commuters headed across the echoing ticket hall, newspapers tucked under their arms. Remus wandered, seemingly without purpose, towards the permanently closed ice-cream stand on the left of the ticket hall.
Bognor Regis, like many seaside resorts, had a significant wizarding population. Many of them, like Remus, commuted into London. The public Floo left Bognor Regis station every half an hour. The 8.30 Floo was notorious for overcrowding, and for shooting commuters across the atrium of the Ministry as they arrived at the other end. The 8.00 was less busy but you could never be guaranteed a place on the grid. Remus caught the 7.30 most mornings. It was an early start, but his season ticket was much cheaper than Flooing straight from home and paying the congestion charge. Sometimes, when the streets were quiet and the sunrise reflecting in the sea, he even liked commuting.
There was a little crowd outside the ice-cream stand. Remus joined the edge and waited until he had a chance to shuffle forward. The metal door was padlocked shut and a notice was pinned to it. Those in front of him were tapping it surreptiously with their wands. Remus squinted over someone’s shoulder as he waited his turn. The note read:
Missing: Miss Tuftykins. Beloved family pet. Black. Answers to Tuffy. Reward offered. There were no contact details.
He was in front of it now and he tapped quickly and watched as the letters rearranged themselves to read: Floo service suspended until further notice. Due to Muggle Thump action, we have not received our fuel delivery and can’t get the bloody thing lit. Come back later. Yours most sincerely, Bill Watkins, caretaker (On behalf of The Management who ain’t due in ‘til nine).
“Bloody Muggles and their thumps,” someone muttered.
“Strikes,” Remus said automatically. “They go on strike. How are we meant to get to work?”
“Apparate,” someone said wisely. “Like we did in seventy-three. You can get away from the Gents without the Muggles noticing.”
Remus groaned and moved away. He still didn’t like apparating. He always worried that he’d splinch himself, although he never had. And it took effort. He was almost seventy miles away from London. With a sigh, he headed for the loo, digging through his pocket for a Muggle coin to work the turnstile.
~x~
He was in the lecture theatre in the ministry by eight. He was always the first to arrive and he was glad of it today. He had time to get a cup of tea and save Sirius a seat while he woke up. He wrapped his hands around the paper cup and tried to inhale wakefulness with the tea fumes.
It didn’t work. He was beginning to dread the day. Auror training was tough enough when you hadn’t had to apparate to work.
A few of the others arrived. He smiled in a polite but unencouraging way. Sirius, who only lived around the corner, never arrived before nine.
His tea had cooled a little and he gulped it down. It was only the awful blend the witches in the cafeteria brewed. He shoved the empty cup aside and decided to risk sleeping until their instructor of the day arrived.
Sirius arrived at five past- nine, without a pen. Remus lent him one and continued to take notes. Long years of Mauradering meant he could do that in his sleep. At lunchtime, Sirius muttered something and vanished. Remus hoped it wasn’t the first sign of a brood and stumbled downstairs in search of food.
Lily Evans was sitting alone in the corner. Remus collected his tray of Roast Stew, assrtd and went to join her.
She looked up quickly as he approached and then her shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
“Hello,” Remus said. “Mind if I join you?”
“No, go ahead. Happy New Year.”
“Same to you. Where’s Prongs?”
Her lips thinned, “Twenty-seven minutes late.” She ran her hands through her hair, dislodging two quills. “I’ve got so much to do.”
“I’m sure he’s got a reason,” Remus said nervously.
“Hah.” She stared at the quills in her hands, as if wondering where they’d come from. “He’s up to something. I know it. He keeps talking about mustard.”
“Er,” Remus said and tried to change the subject. “Did you get this too? What’s in it?”
“Assorted things,” Lily snapped. “Stewed. Mine had pineapple, and some sort of fish, and curry. Are you going to tell me what he’s up to?”
Remus tried to look vague. “I don’t know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Hmm.”
“How’s work?”
“Horrible,” she said and then grinned ruefully. “Which is why I’m being such a cow. Half the stuff we see doesn’t have enough evidence and then the stuff with evidence is foul and the minister wants convictions and everything that goes wrong seems to be the fault of yours truly, the lowly clerk who’s only been doing this for six weeks.”
“Breathe.”
“Sorry. It’s fascinating and it’s awful and if I ever manage to get a grip on it, I might love it. Law is more amazing the more you know.. Listening to the Wizengamot - am I boring you?”
Remus prodded his stew again. “Sorry. Knackered.”
“Aren’t we all?” Lily smiled and he managed to grin back.
There was a faint pop and a ball of ice appeared in the air between them. A single pink flower was preserved in its heart, glittering with frost. It hovered for a moment before wobbling in the air and then crashing down on the table. The ice smashed into crystals and the flower slid out limply. There was a note attached, labelled Lily.
Remus recognised James’ best handwriting. Had the daft berk managed to write the question down?
Lily read the note and then sighed. Remus tensed. It hadn’t sounded like a happy sigh.
“No lunch,” she said wryly and put the note down. “He’s in Hemel Hempstead. No idea when he’ll be back. Did you see anything in the paper this morning?”
“Didn’t get one. Sorry.”
“Damn. I hope-”
“I know.” There was only one reason Obliviators were called out these days.
“Poor souls,” Lily said softly and picked up the flower, pushing the ice away from it gently.
Remus shivered and applied himself to his stew. After a moment Lily said, “Are you okay? You look awful.”
“No Floo.”
“I know. I had to catch the train up to Waterloo with Dad this morning. The lorry drivers are on strike again.”
“Had to apparate.”
“No wonder you look terrible. Are you okay to get home tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Remus. You’re no good to anyone splinched.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What about staying with Sirius?”
“Who’s staying with me?” Sirius demanded, dropping onto the empty chair. “Wotcher, Prongette.”
“Hello, Sirius, good morning. Yes, I’m very well and I had a lovely New Year, how kind of you to ask.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth. Who’s staying with me?”
“Remus.”
“No, I’m not.”
Lily glared at him and then turned to Sirius. “There’s no Floo. He’s apparating from Bognor.”
Sirius sat up. “No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Am.”
“Not.”
“He said he was,” Lily interjected, gathering her quills.
“Ah,” Sirius said, holding up a finger, “but, as you so sagely pointed out, o wise and wondrous one, he is in fact staying with me. So he can’t be apparating from Bognor.”
“I am not staying with you.”
“Yes, you are,” Sirius said flatly.
Lily stood up. “Fight nicely, children. Some of us have work to do.”
She took her flower with her.