Unless To Spy My Shadow In The Sun (blanketforts Day 15)
Title: Unless To Spy My Shadow In The Sun
Rating: PG for language.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 865
Prompt: Frost on windowpanes
Notes: A note of apology - there's no Remus or Sirius in this one. Those who are following this will have probably realised I'm juggling a fair bit of plot. For that reason, I'll hope you'll forgive me and read this anyway. This is probably the most important piece of plot so far and the second half of the month will be confusing if you haven't read it. Passwords and title from Richard III
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
The frost was forming on the outside of the bus shelter, turning the scratched windows translucent. His breath was pluming in the air around him and his fingers were growing numb around his wand. He needed to buy new gloves. There were so many little ordinary things that seemed so hard these days.
He should ask his mum. She needed to get out of the house. The only time she left was when she went to see his father in the home. Dad didn’t remember much these days. The charms and the firewhiskey had seen to that.
Dad didn’t remember Paul. Not any more.
The clock above the church hall began to chime eleven, the sound clear and cold in the night air. Pubs would be kicking out soon. Radcliffe wouldn’t come until the streets were clear again.
He huddled back into the corner of the shelter. The last bus had gone hours ago. There was a empty beer can by his foot, already glittering with frost. The whole place stank of beer and piss and peculiar Muggle rubbish. How could Muggles bear living in such filth?
How long would this last? How many nights like this would there be? How many cold waits for a man already doomed to die?
He remembered Paul. He remembered the man who had laughed and dashed around the house like another child and made terrible puns at every opportunity. He remembered the man who had died just because he married a pretty Muggleborn witch.
Oh, yes, Peter Pettigrew remembered his brother.
They said the Dark Mark rose steaming from the blood of the dead. They said augeries cried over Snowdonia. They said that Grims roamed the streets of London.
He’d never been scared of the Grim.
Now, he stood in a quiet street in Cardiff, waiting for a hunted man.
A group of young men came stumbling down the road, shouting and shoving. Peter slipped backwards into the shadows as one of them began to sing. They were probably just Muggle drunks. He couldn’t be sure. They could work for the Ministry, though Ministry spies were usually more inept. They could be the Dark Lord’s. They could be Dumbledore’s. They could belong to any of the minor factions.
There was a soft scuff behind him and he whirled, tensing around his wand.
“Don’t move!” the other man snapped. “Not an inch.”
“Radcliffe?”
He heard the other man’s breath rush out and then he said, “Let them not live to taste this land’s increase.”
“That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace,” Peter said coolly. “Pettigrew.”
“Are they sending children out these days?”
“Whoever can get the job done. What have you got for me?”
Radcliffe offered him a package. Peter took it with his left hand and stashed it inside his jacket, never relaxing his grasp on his wand.
“That’s all of it. Copies of my reports, everything I could think of. An account of the last few days. Make what you will of it. You’ll get no more from me.”
Peter readied spells in his mind. “Why’s that?”
Radcliffe snorted. “I’ve had enough. Jack Yarwood could hide. I don’t care. I’ve no one left to protect.”
“You have your duty,” Peter said coldly. He’d had two nieces once. They hadn’t been old enough to run. It was past time this war was over.
“Is that how they drag you in these days? Duty? Honour? Morals?”
“Revenge.”
Radcliffe looked at him properly then, a sharp, measuring glance. He was a thin-faced man, his unshaven cheeks sallow with worry. Peter had seen him before, though they’d never been introduced. “You forget all that,” he said. “In the end. I’ve been fighting this bloody war too long. I just wish it was over.”
Peter shrugged. “So do I.”
There was another long silence. No more groups trailed out of the pub. The clouds swayed and parted over the moon, so newly past full.
“Pettigrew, eh? Any relation to Paul?”
“Brother.”
“I remember Paul Pettigrew. Hard luck, kid.”
“I’m not a child.”
Radcliffe snorted. “Right. Got a fag? Haven’t been able to stop long enough for days.”
Peter passed him his tobacco tin and the rolling papers. “Keep them. I can buy more.” Who was he to deny a dying man?
“Cheers.” Radcliffe shoved them into his pocket. “Where’s a fucking distraction when you need one?”
Peter shrugged.
In the distance, the streetlights began to go out.
“Here they come,” Radcliffe said, tensing.
“Go,” Peter said. “I’ll make your distraction.”
Radcliffe pushed out of the bus shelter, running softly down the road. Peter lifted his wand and murmured, “Umbraxe.”
Shadow figures flowed out the end of his wand, moving towards the church. He waited, watching the lights flicker into darkness, the shadow spreading through the cold night towards him. Then he raised his wand and roared, “Incendio!”
The church tower exploded into flames. In the roar of it he could barely hear the pop of Radcliffe’s apparition. He paused long enough to see his shadows capering in the firelight and then apparated himself, bracing for the string of jumps which should leave the enemy floundering.
His night’s work was done.
Rating: PG for language.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 865
Prompt: Frost on windowpanes
Notes: A note of apology - there's no Remus or Sirius in this one. Those who are following this will have probably realised I'm juggling a fair bit of plot. For that reason, I'll hope you'll forgive me and read this anyway. This is probably the most important piece of plot so far and the second half of the month will be confusing if you haven't read it. Passwords and title from Richard III
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
The frost was forming on the outside of the bus shelter, turning the scratched windows translucent. His breath was pluming in the air around him and his fingers were growing numb around his wand. He needed to buy new gloves. There were so many little ordinary things that seemed so hard these days.
He should ask his mum. She needed to get out of the house. The only time she left was when she went to see his father in the home. Dad didn’t remember much these days. The charms and the firewhiskey had seen to that.
Dad didn’t remember Paul. Not any more.
The clock above the church hall began to chime eleven, the sound clear and cold in the night air. Pubs would be kicking out soon. Radcliffe wouldn’t come until the streets were clear again.
He huddled back into the corner of the shelter. The last bus had gone hours ago. There was a empty beer can by his foot, already glittering with frost. The whole place stank of beer and piss and peculiar Muggle rubbish. How could Muggles bear living in such filth?
How long would this last? How many nights like this would there be? How many cold waits for a man already doomed to die?
He remembered Paul. He remembered the man who had laughed and dashed around the house like another child and made terrible puns at every opportunity. He remembered the man who had died just because he married a pretty Muggleborn witch.
Oh, yes, Peter Pettigrew remembered his brother.
They said the Dark Mark rose steaming from the blood of the dead. They said augeries cried over Snowdonia. They said that Grims roamed the streets of London.
He’d never been scared of the Grim.
Now, he stood in a quiet street in Cardiff, waiting for a hunted man.
A group of young men came stumbling down the road, shouting and shoving. Peter slipped backwards into the shadows as one of them began to sing. They were probably just Muggle drunks. He couldn’t be sure. They could work for the Ministry, though Ministry spies were usually more inept. They could be the Dark Lord’s. They could be Dumbledore’s. They could belong to any of the minor factions.
There was a soft scuff behind him and he whirled, tensing around his wand.
“Don’t move!” the other man snapped. “Not an inch.”
“Radcliffe?”
He heard the other man’s breath rush out and then he said, “Let them not live to taste this land’s increase.”
“That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace,” Peter said coolly. “Pettigrew.”
“Are they sending children out these days?”
“Whoever can get the job done. What have you got for me?”
Radcliffe offered him a package. Peter took it with his left hand and stashed it inside his jacket, never relaxing his grasp on his wand.
“That’s all of it. Copies of my reports, everything I could think of. An account of the last few days. Make what you will of it. You’ll get no more from me.”
Peter readied spells in his mind. “Why’s that?”
Radcliffe snorted. “I’ve had enough. Jack Yarwood could hide. I don’t care. I’ve no one left to protect.”
“You have your duty,” Peter said coldly. He’d had two nieces once. They hadn’t been old enough to run. It was past time this war was over.
“Is that how they drag you in these days? Duty? Honour? Morals?”
“Revenge.”
Radcliffe looked at him properly then, a sharp, measuring glance. He was a thin-faced man, his unshaven cheeks sallow with worry. Peter had seen him before, though they’d never been introduced. “You forget all that,” he said. “In the end. I’ve been fighting this bloody war too long. I just wish it was over.”
Peter shrugged. “So do I.”
There was another long silence. No more groups trailed out of the pub. The clouds swayed and parted over the moon, so newly past full.
“Pettigrew, eh? Any relation to Paul?”
“Brother.”
“I remember Paul Pettigrew. Hard luck, kid.”
“I’m not a child.”
Radcliffe snorted. “Right. Got a fag? Haven’t been able to stop long enough for days.”
Peter passed him his tobacco tin and the rolling papers. “Keep them. I can buy more.” Who was he to deny a dying man?
“Cheers.” Radcliffe shoved them into his pocket. “Where’s a fucking distraction when you need one?”
Peter shrugged.
In the distance, the streetlights began to go out.
“Here they come,” Radcliffe said, tensing.
“Go,” Peter said. “I’ll make your distraction.”
Radcliffe pushed out of the bus shelter, running softly down the road. Peter lifted his wand and murmured, “Umbraxe.”
Shadow figures flowed out the end of his wand, moving towards the church. He waited, watching the lights flicker into darkness, the shadow spreading through the cold night towards him. Then he raised his wand and roared, “Incendio!”
The church tower exploded into flames. In the roar of it he could barely hear the pop of Radcliffe’s apparition. He paused long enough to see his shadows capering in the firelight and then apparated himself, bracing for the string of jumps which should leave the enemy floundering.
His night’s work was done.