Hung With Bloom Along the Bough (wellymuck Day 04)
Title: Hung With Bloom Along the Bough
Words: 1616
Rating: PG for a foul-mouthed statue.
Prompt: Picture prompt of blossom. It made me think of Housman's poem, which made me think of this.
Author's notes: The poem quoted is A E Housman's 'Loveliest of Trees.' After the war, Remus Lupin lives in a house surrounded by cherry trees and waits to fade away. I like this one - it's more wistful than most of mine.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
The postcard was from Nymphadora. Remus turned it over in his hands, amused by the gaudy picture of the Taj Mahal. It felt rough and soft in his hands, the stamps battered and faded. She had sent it Muggle-style, and he wondered if he was meant to take a message from that.
It read: Weather bloody brilliant! Have been cultured - you would approve. Charlie almost pulled a naga. Have bought you tea - let my owl in this time!! Wish you were here!!! Tonks.
The last sentence was underlined, hard.
Remus smiled and wandered back through into the living room. He stuck the postcard above the fireplace, aligning its edges neatly with the previous ones. Paris. Riga. Istanbul. Alexandria. Goa.
There were others, from other wanderers. Kingsley was in Seattle, Hestia in Sydney, Oliver Wood in Bulgaria. Luna had sent him a plain black card with the caption Nepal by Night, which puzzled him, as he had thought she was in Rio.
He wasn’t even sure who some of these people were. They kept sending him postcards, though.
He drifted across the room, gathering up dirty mugs. It wasn’t worth trying to settle to a task, not when he was expecting the crunch of footsteps on gravel. The moon would be full tonight.
He understood the wanderlust that came with the empty aftermath of war. He had run away before, put nations and oceans between himself and his memories.
Every sea had made him think of Azkaban, high above the water, and this time he knew better. It was easier to stay. There was no one left to flee.
He took the mugs through to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the Wolfsbane warming on the hob.
He tried to tell them he didn’t need company at the moon these days. With the potion he could just sit by his window and watch the light shimmer across his tangled garden. He had let the trees go wild for just that reason, so none of his polite neighbours would ever notice that the old eccentric next door was sometimes a little altered.
Somehow, though, one of them always appeared, with some casual excuse - a book to borrow or a letter to pass on. Then it was, “Oh, since I’m here, Remus,” or “I’m too knackered to apparate, mate.” Only Harry didn’t bother with excuses. He just came, and stayed, and sometimes, when the sky was clear, opened the doors into the garden and walked with the placid wolf beneath the lacery of the branches, listening to dogs cry in the distance.
Remus dumped the mugs in the sink to scourgify later, and put the kettle on. The trees were in blossom now, heavy pink and white falls. He watched them through the kitchen window, swaying in the breeze. It made him think of Scottish snow, and the feathery plumes of London plane and impatient boys, wild with the spring and convinced that their whole lives were waiting to be grasped.
Old Aurors never die, they’d said, long ago, when Alice Longbottom had still been able to tap his nose and tease, they merely fade away. None of them had had the chance to fade, not Alice, not Frank, not-
He wasn’t fading. He just wasn’t feeling very sociable. It was perfectly understandable. He’d spent most of the war in a pack that wasn’t his own. Was it really any surprise he just wanted everyone to leave him alone.
He could hear footsteps coming around the side of the house, so he wandered back into the main room. Harry appeared outside the doors, grinning widely. He rapped on the glass and Remus hurried to open the door.
The spring breeze gusted in, bringing blossom with it. One of the neighbours must have mowed their lawn because he could smell cut grass amongst the blossom and the echo of wet brick from the rain earlier.
“Hi,” Harry said. “Sorry - I thought we’d get here earlier.”
“I’ll forgive you,” Remus said. “Especially as I didn’t know you were coming. Did Ron come?”
“Oh, no,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “He’s doing wedding things. How are you?”
Remus shrugged. “Not bad. And you?”
“Great,” Harry said. “Um, yeah, brilliant. Can I come in?”
Remus nodded, moving back to let him through the doors. He’d been peering into the garden, wondering who Harry had dragged along this time.
“He’s probably still trying to find his way through the jungle,” Harry said, poking at the squat statue on the windowsill. “Honestly, Remus, don’t you ever de-gnome?”
Somebody, Remus thought, has been spending too much time with Weasleys.
“I like the gnomes,” he said mildly. “If you leave them alone long enough they discover democracy.”
Harry gave him a sceptical look, and shook the statue.
“Oy!” it shouted. “Put me down, you scarfaced turnip!”
Harry lifted it up, studying its squashed gargoyle face. “What on earth?”
“I don’t know,” Remus said. “It was a gift from Mundungus. It seems to exist purely to insult people.”
“Cool,” Harry said, and shook it again.
“Git!”
The kettle was beginning to whistle. Remus leant on the windowsill to wait for it, studying Harry. He did look happy, more so than he had been for a long time. It had been a hard few years. Harry had done what no one else could do, but he was too young to be a hero, and the last battle had left him not only with new scars but an arm too badly healed for him to ever play Quidditch again. There had been wild months, and Remus knew it had only been Hermione’s furious crusade which had saved both him and Ron from self-destruction by drink, fame and desolation. Now he was sadder and wiser and quieter, old before his time, but somehow, miraculously, alive.
He did it, James, he thought. Here he is, twenty and laughing. Your son made it.
He managed not to say the words aloud. He hadn’t started speaking to his ghosts in company yet, though he supposed it was only a matter of time.
“Cack-handed wanker!”
“Tea?” Remus asked.
“Better make a pot. He’ll want a cup, too.” Harry grinned at him, and Remus bit back a sigh. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking. Let his guest remain a mystery.
As he wandered back towards the kitchen, Harry put the statue down and began to straighten cushions.
“I like them as they are,” Remus said mildly.
“It looks like no one’s looking after you,” Harry complained. “Remus, there’s books down the back of your sofa.”
“I turned forty last month. I don’t need looking after.”
“I remember,” Harry said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “You didn’t turn up to your party.”
“I don’t like parties.”
He pretended not to hear Harry mutter at his back. He could imagine how they all would have laughed at that, even Peter.
Who made Harry nervous enough to tidy up? If the guest hadn’t been male, he’d have suspected Minerva. He wouldn’t have objected to that - she’d come for the moon in August and spent the night as a cat on his windowsill. He didn’t mind restful company.
Arthur Weasley? No, Arthur didn’t mind a bit of mess. Alastor? It would be like him to lurk in the garden.
He grabbed the top three mugs out of the sink and muttered a spell at them before digging deeper for the teapot.
“Do you want biscuits?” he called. “Minerva keeps sending me shortbread.”
“Yeah,” Harry called back, sounding distracted, and the statue shrieked, “Mannerless moron!”
Remus sent the tray floating into the main room, and followed it, shaking his head. “Don’t bully the statue, Harry.”
“It’s great,” Harry said, bending over it again. “Just like a minature Malfoy. Oy, ferret-face, Dementors ate your Daddy!”
“Fuck your nostrils, toad-arse!”
“Harry!” Remus protested. “I hope you don’t say any such thing to poor Draco.”
He got a look which was half exasperation, half affection, and all Lily. “No, Professor Lupin.”
The breeze sighed through the window again, catching the back of his neck and making him shiver. “Do you think your friend would mind coming in? It’s getting cold.”
“Mmm,” Harry said. “Give him a bit longer. Shall I pour?”
Remus relinquished the tray and went to sit down. This close to the moon his bones ached constantly, a dull throb. He took a shortbread finger with him, fussing at the edges until it crumbled onto his robes.
Harry put the statue down again. Immediately it bellowed, “Oy! Oy! Loony Lupin!”
“What?” Remus said, nibbling at the biscuit. His appetite came and went.
“There’s a Grim widdling on your cherry tree!”
Remus shot to his feet, the biscuit snapping between his fingers. Sure enough, there was a black dog in his garden, its leg lifted against the trunk of his favourite tree. As Remus took a shaky step forward, it turned to grin at him, gleefully marking its territory.
Harry was leaning against the sill, roaring with delighted laughter.
It wasn’t-
It couldn’t be-
He was gone.
But the dog was rising into a man, striding towards him through the falling flowers, too bold and loud and living to ever fade away.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Words: 1616
Rating: PG for a foul-mouthed statue.
Prompt: Picture prompt of blossom. It made me think of Housman's poem, which made me think of this.
Author's notes: The poem quoted is A E Housman's 'Loveliest of Trees.' After the war, Remus Lupin lives in a house surrounded by cherry trees and waits to fade away. I like this one - it's more wistful than most of mine.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
The postcard was from Nymphadora. Remus turned it over in his hands, amused by the gaudy picture of the Taj Mahal. It felt rough and soft in his hands, the stamps battered and faded. She had sent it Muggle-style, and he wondered if he was meant to take a message from that.
It read: Weather bloody brilliant! Have been cultured - you would approve. Charlie almost pulled a naga. Have bought you tea - let my owl in this time!! Wish you were here!!! Tonks.
The last sentence was underlined, hard.
Remus smiled and wandered back through into the living room. He stuck the postcard above the fireplace, aligning its edges neatly with the previous ones. Paris. Riga. Istanbul. Alexandria. Goa.
There were others, from other wanderers. Kingsley was in Seattle, Hestia in Sydney, Oliver Wood in Bulgaria. Luna had sent him a plain black card with the caption Nepal by Night, which puzzled him, as he had thought she was in Rio.
He wasn’t even sure who some of these people were. They kept sending him postcards, though.
He drifted across the room, gathering up dirty mugs. It wasn’t worth trying to settle to a task, not when he was expecting the crunch of footsteps on gravel. The moon would be full tonight.
He understood the wanderlust that came with the empty aftermath of war. He had run away before, put nations and oceans between himself and his memories.
Every sea had made him think of Azkaban, high above the water, and this time he knew better. It was easier to stay. There was no one left to flee.
He took the mugs through to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the Wolfsbane warming on the hob.
He tried to tell them he didn’t need company at the moon these days. With the potion he could just sit by his window and watch the light shimmer across his tangled garden. He had let the trees go wild for just that reason, so none of his polite neighbours would ever notice that the old eccentric next door was sometimes a little altered.
Somehow, though, one of them always appeared, with some casual excuse - a book to borrow or a letter to pass on. Then it was, “Oh, since I’m here, Remus,” or “I’m too knackered to apparate, mate.” Only Harry didn’t bother with excuses. He just came, and stayed, and sometimes, when the sky was clear, opened the doors into the garden and walked with the placid wolf beneath the lacery of the branches, listening to dogs cry in the distance.
Remus dumped the mugs in the sink to scourgify later, and put the kettle on. The trees were in blossom now, heavy pink and white falls. He watched them through the kitchen window, swaying in the breeze. It made him think of Scottish snow, and the feathery plumes of London plane and impatient boys, wild with the spring and convinced that their whole lives were waiting to be grasped.
Old Aurors never die, they’d said, long ago, when Alice Longbottom had still been able to tap his nose and tease, they merely fade away. None of them had had the chance to fade, not Alice, not Frank, not-
He wasn’t fading. He just wasn’t feeling very sociable. It was perfectly understandable. He’d spent most of the war in a pack that wasn’t his own. Was it really any surprise he just wanted everyone to leave him alone.
He could hear footsteps coming around the side of the house, so he wandered back into the main room. Harry appeared outside the doors, grinning widely. He rapped on the glass and Remus hurried to open the door.
The spring breeze gusted in, bringing blossom with it. One of the neighbours must have mowed their lawn because he could smell cut grass amongst the blossom and the echo of wet brick from the rain earlier.
“Hi,” Harry said. “Sorry - I thought we’d get here earlier.”
“I’ll forgive you,” Remus said. “Especially as I didn’t know you were coming. Did Ron come?”
“Oh, no,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “He’s doing wedding things. How are you?”
Remus shrugged. “Not bad. And you?”
“Great,” Harry said. “Um, yeah, brilliant. Can I come in?”
Remus nodded, moving back to let him through the doors. He’d been peering into the garden, wondering who Harry had dragged along this time.
“He’s probably still trying to find his way through the jungle,” Harry said, poking at the squat statue on the windowsill. “Honestly, Remus, don’t you ever de-gnome?”
Somebody, Remus thought, has been spending too much time with Weasleys.
“I like the gnomes,” he said mildly. “If you leave them alone long enough they discover democracy.”
Harry gave him a sceptical look, and shook the statue.
“Oy!” it shouted. “Put me down, you scarfaced turnip!”
Harry lifted it up, studying its squashed gargoyle face. “What on earth?”
“I don’t know,” Remus said. “It was a gift from Mundungus. It seems to exist purely to insult people.”
“Cool,” Harry said, and shook it again.
“Git!”
The kettle was beginning to whistle. Remus leant on the windowsill to wait for it, studying Harry. He did look happy, more so than he had been for a long time. It had been a hard few years. Harry had done what no one else could do, but he was too young to be a hero, and the last battle had left him not only with new scars but an arm too badly healed for him to ever play Quidditch again. There had been wild months, and Remus knew it had only been Hermione’s furious crusade which had saved both him and Ron from self-destruction by drink, fame and desolation. Now he was sadder and wiser and quieter, old before his time, but somehow, miraculously, alive.
He did it, James, he thought. Here he is, twenty and laughing. Your son made it.
He managed not to say the words aloud. He hadn’t started speaking to his ghosts in company yet, though he supposed it was only a matter of time.
“Cack-handed wanker!”
“Tea?” Remus asked.
“Better make a pot. He’ll want a cup, too.” Harry grinned at him, and Remus bit back a sigh. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking. Let his guest remain a mystery.
As he wandered back towards the kitchen, Harry put the statue down and began to straighten cushions.
“I like them as they are,” Remus said mildly.
“It looks like no one’s looking after you,” Harry complained. “Remus, there’s books down the back of your sofa.”
“I turned forty last month. I don’t need looking after.”
“I remember,” Harry said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “You didn’t turn up to your party.”
“I don’t like parties.”
He pretended not to hear Harry mutter at his back. He could imagine how they all would have laughed at that, even Peter.
Who made Harry nervous enough to tidy up? If the guest hadn’t been male, he’d have suspected Minerva. He wouldn’t have objected to that - she’d come for the moon in August and spent the night as a cat on his windowsill. He didn’t mind restful company.
Arthur Weasley? No, Arthur didn’t mind a bit of mess. Alastor? It would be like him to lurk in the garden.
He grabbed the top three mugs out of the sink and muttered a spell at them before digging deeper for the teapot.
“Do you want biscuits?” he called. “Minerva keeps sending me shortbread.”
“Yeah,” Harry called back, sounding distracted, and the statue shrieked, “Mannerless moron!”
Remus sent the tray floating into the main room, and followed it, shaking his head. “Don’t bully the statue, Harry.”
“It’s great,” Harry said, bending over it again. “Just like a minature Malfoy. Oy, ferret-face, Dementors ate your Daddy!”
“Fuck your nostrils, toad-arse!”
“Harry!” Remus protested. “I hope you don’t say any such thing to poor Draco.”
He got a look which was half exasperation, half affection, and all Lily. “No, Professor Lupin.”
The breeze sighed through the window again, catching the back of his neck and making him shiver. “Do you think your friend would mind coming in? It’s getting cold.”
“Mmm,” Harry said. “Give him a bit longer. Shall I pour?”
Remus relinquished the tray and went to sit down. This close to the moon his bones ached constantly, a dull throb. He took a shortbread finger with him, fussing at the edges until it crumbled onto his robes.
Harry put the statue down again. Immediately it bellowed, “Oy! Oy! Loony Lupin!”
“What?” Remus said, nibbling at the biscuit. His appetite came and went.
“There’s a Grim widdling on your cherry tree!”
Remus shot to his feet, the biscuit snapping between his fingers. Sure enough, there was a black dog in his garden, its leg lifted against the trunk of his favourite tree. As Remus took a shaky step forward, it turned to grin at him, gleefully marking its territory.
Harry was leaning against the sill, roaring with delighted laughter.
It wasn’t-
It couldn’t be-
He was gone.
But the dog was rising into a man, striding towards him through the falling flowers, too bold and loud and living to ever fade away.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.