Rabbit: July 1969
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: July 1969: Spade (29/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1406
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome. The language transition was difficult so let me know if it does/doesn't work. First Muggle encounter! This is adapted from a short me_pensieve scene I did with mildlyironic way back when.
July 7, 1969
Spade
The flimsy tin spade pierced the sand’s surface, shifted grains to the side, and forced its way into the wet, thick layer underneath. It jiggered in the ground, and then came up swiftly, opening the sandy surface and flinging a spadeful of grey-brown muck into a nearby pile. Little hands reached into the pile, trying forming it into a shape against its viscous desire to drip and glob.
A meter away, the process was mimicked exactly.
The two boys worked together, one holding the sand firm and dripping new sand atop the old, and the other working on a moat to surround the castle. It looked decent, as it should have: they had spent the last hour burning on the beach, planning and building the castle. However, it was not the best on the beach, as one of the boys had noticed.
The moat-builder looked up and saw that his friend has abandoned his construction to stare out across the beach. “Auguste, what are you doing?”
Auguste’s face contorted. “There. Their castle is better."
His friend turned and saw: not too far away, another pair was busy building a castle of sand, but it made this one look like a clumsy mess. Six spires rose from the foundation of sand, in a cluster, growing as they neared the center. Each was topped with a cone-like roof, and decorated with dozens of little windows and etchings to simulate stone. What made it all the worse was that the castle had been built on a hill-like foundation, and the builders had somehow dug a pond with a tunnel running into the foundation.
“That pond, that hill,” Auguste observed. “They should cave in.”
“Go ask them how they did it!”
“I’m not going to ask some little boys - they must be ten at the oldest - for advice.”
“Well,” his friend replied, “then don’t complain.”
Auguste apparently did not like that option, because he stood and began to walk toward the champion structure. “Bonjour!” he greeted.
Behind him, his friend reached over to a little plastic radio and turned down the twanging guitar of Johnny Hallday.
“Who are they?” Sirius asked, sitting up from his work on a barrier wall and turning to look at the newcomer. He had to squint to see the figure, walking in front of the bright summer sun.
Rabastan shrugged, and sat straighter. “Qui es-tu?” he asked, ignoring any friendly formality.
“Je m’appelle Auguste. Là, il es Maurice. Et vois?”
Rabastan furrowed his brow, unsure about giving out his name to strangers. “Rabastan Lestrange,” he conceded. “Et Sirius Black.”
Sirius’ head snapped back up at the sound of his name, just in time to see Auguste’s smug reaction.
“Noms estranges.”
“Ha. Ha.” Rabastan rolled his eyes and looked back down at his work. “No one asked you to come over here. Leave us alone. Ignore him, Sirius, he’s probably some gross Muggle.”
“Yeah. I don’t like the looks of him.” Sirius turned back around, shutting out the boy. He smoothed out the top edge of the outer wall, to even it, and patted the foundation to secure it.
Auguste, to Rabastan’s relief, retreated, and Maurice turned the volume back up on their French Muggle music.
Rabastan looked up at the inner castle, and stood, scratching his head to get dried salt and sand out of his hair. “I think there’s something wrong. It’s missing a flag.”
“Here!” Sirius reached over and grabbed a small stick that had drifted ashore.
“Splendid, thanks!” Rabastan licked his sun-chapped lips and tried to climb to a place where he could reach the highest tower.
“Maybe you shouldn’t. It might break.”
Rabastan stopped, looked down at his friend, and shook his head. “No it won’t. Look, it’s just a little stick, and it’ll go right in. Look, I’ll-” He balanced on one food, leaned over, and - knocked over one of the towers.
“Rabbit!”
“Sorry!” He threw the stick as far as it would go, and turned to Sirius. “I can rebuild it. I’ll rebuild it.”
Sirius didn’t look appeased at all, until Auguste’s and Maurice’s laughter drifted over in the breeze. He pushed himself up and spun, sending little grains of sand flying. “Listen, you dirty frogs! Our sand castle is still one hundred times better than your sorry Muggle excuse, so shut it!” Without waiting for a retort, he turned back to Rabastan. “It’s all right. We’ll fix it together.”
“Thanks,” muttered Rabastan. He dropped to his knees, and smoothed out the area where the tower had fallen, clearing the castle’s hill and sorting the sand into two piles, damp and dry. Sirius, meanwhile, reached into the pond and grabbed a handful of wet sandy muck, and began to reconstruct the tower. To anyone who had tried to build a sand castle, Sirius’ work appeared most extraordinary: the sand-mud obeyed his wishes, staying in a stately column when logic and physics demanded that it drip down into a pile of goo.
“Rabbit!”
The boy stopped shifting sands and looked up, half expecting to see the whole structure topple.
“Why don’t you find a good, strong stick, and maybe a piece of seaweed for a flag?” Sirius patted the top of the tower into a point. “I think if we put it in while it’s forming we can get it.”
“Great idea!” Rabastan pushed himself up, brushed the grains of sand off of his sticky legs, and ran off to the water to look for something suitable.
Rabastan had only made it a stone’s throw away before Auguste jumped up and, swinging his tin spade, swaggered over to Sirius.
“Ello again, funny Eenglish boy,” he greeted. His words were drenched with a thick accent, and made it to Sirius’ ears drowned. “I said, ‘ello.”
“Go away,” Sirius replied, not bothering to look behind him.
“I see what you do here, with ze sand. Eet is strange, impossible.”
Sirius spun and stumbled out of of the castle’s grounds. “What? I don’t know what you mean. What is it you want, anyway?”
“Ow do you make eet stay? Zis is more grand zan ours, and you are more leetle.”
“Littler,” Sirius corrected. “I’m littler. And I guess I’m just cleverer. Better.” He stood tall and pushed his chin out. “Not a surprise, since you’re probably a filthy Muggle.”
“Qu’est que c’est-”
“MUG. GLE. You can’t do magic.”
Even Sirius could tell that he had made a bad choice by explaining, but he had already made the choice, and there was no turning back. He balled his fists and set them on his hips, daring the foreign boy to fight him.
Auguste, however, just laughed. “Hah, hah, hah! Magique, naturellement. Stupeed Eenglish boy, zese stupeed games.”
His laughter caught Rabastan’s ear. He looked back and saw the unwelcome boy, and started back, running, from the surf to their castle.
“I make ze best castles, not leetle Eenglish boys. Let your magique fix zis,” Auguste dared, and before Sirius or the approaching Rabastan could stop him, he swung his arm, his hand, and his little tin spade, into the best castle on the beach.
“YOU STUPID MUGGLE FROG,” Sirius exploded, throwing himself toward his new enemy. Rabastan arrived in time to throw his own arms around his friend’s middle and stop him from moving, though he kept shouting. “JUST WAIT UNTIL MY PARENTS HERE ABOUT THIS!”
“Sirius, shh,” Rabastan warned.
“I’LL HAVE YOU PUT AWAY! I’LL HAVE YOUR WHOLE STUPID COUNTRY BLOWN TO LITTLE BITS!”
“Sirius!”
“What?” Sirius gave up on the French boy, who was laughing his way back to Maurice, walking with a dance in his step. “Did you see what he did? That sodding pra-”
“Language!” Rabastan warned again, through gritted teeth. “If your mother-”
“Well, if Mother could hear or see us, he’d never’ve come here. I should pound him to pieces, until he bleeds from his toes.” Sirius’ voice neared a growl, and he turned his head at every pause to glower.
“First, gross. Second, it’s not worth it. The water would have washed it up,” Rabastan shrugged. “Third, he’s not worth it. And you’ve already spent far too much time on him. Come on, we’ll go in the water, and make another castle later.”
Sirius hissed his air out slowly, and relaxed. “Yea, yeah. All right. A better one.”
“Even bigger,” Rabastan assured. He took his friend’s hand and tugged him toward the incoming surf.
Chapter Number/Title: July 1969: Spade (29/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1406
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome. The language transition was difficult so let me know if it does/doesn't work. First Muggle encounter! This is adapted from a short me_pensieve scene I did with mildlyironic way back when.
July 7, 1969
Spade
The flimsy tin spade pierced the sand’s surface, shifted grains to the side, and forced its way into the wet, thick layer underneath. It jiggered in the ground, and then came up swiftly, opening the sandy surface and flinging a spadeful of grey-brown muck into a nearby pile. Little hands reached into the pile, trying forming it into a shape against its viscous desire to drip and glob.
A meter away, the process was mimicked exactly.
The two boys worked together, one holding the sand firm and dripping new sand atop the old, and the other working on a moat to surround the castle. It looked decent, as it should have: they had spent the last hour burning on the beach, planning and building the castle. However, it was not the best on the beach, as one of the boys had noticed.
The moat-builder looked up and saw that his friend has abandoned his construction to stare out across the beach. “Auguste, what are you doing?”
Auguste’s face contorted. “There. Their castle is better."
His friend turned and saw: not too far away, another pair was busy building a castle of sand, but it made this one look like a clumsy mess. Six spires rose from the foundation of sand, in a cluster, growing as they neared the center. Each was topped with a cone-like roof, and decorated with dozens of little windows and etchings to simulate stone. What made it all the worse was that the castle had been built on a hill-like foundation, and the builders had somehow dug a pond with a tunnel running into the foundation.
“That pond, that hill,” Auguste observed. “They should cave in.”
“Go ask them how they did it!”
“I’m not going to ask some little boys - they must be ten at the oldest - for advice.”
“Well,” his friend replied, “then don’t complain.”
Auguste apparently did not like that option, because he stood and began to walk toward the champion structure. “Bonjour!” he greeted.
Behind him, his friend reached over to a little plastic radio and turned down the twanging guitar of Johnny Hallday.
“Who are they?” Sirius asked, sitting up from his work on a barrier wall and turning to look at the newcomer. He had to squint to see the figure, walking in front of the bright summer sun.
Rabastan shrugged, and sat straighter. “Qui es-tu?” he asked, ignoring any friendly formality.
“Je m’appelle Auguste. Là, il es Maurice. Et vois?”
Rabastan furrowed his brow, unsure about giving out his name to strangers. “Rabastan Lestrange,” he conceded. “Et Sirius Black.”
Sirius’ head snapped back up at the sound of his name, just in time to see Auguste’s smug reaction.
“Noms estranges.”
“Ha. Ha.” Rabastan rolled his eyes and looked back down at his work. “No one asked you to come over here. Leave us alone. Ignore him, Sirius, he’s probably some gross Muggle.”
“Yeah. I don’t like the looks of him.” Sirius turned back around, shutting out the boy. He smoothed out the top edge of the outer wall, to even it, and patted the foundation to secure it.
Auguste, to Rabastan’s relief, retreated, and Maurice turned the volume back up on their French Muggle music.
Rabastan looked up at the inner castle, and stood, scratching his head to get dried salt and sand out of his hair. “I think there’s something wrong. It’s missing a flag.”
“Here!” Sirius reached over and grabbed a small stick that had drifted ashore.
“Splendid, thanks!” Rabastan licked his sun-chapped lips and tried to climb to a place where he could reach the highest tower.
“Maybe you shouldn’t. It might break.”
Rabastan stopped, looked down at his friend, and shook his head. “No it won’t. Look, it’s just a little stick, and it’ll go right in. Look, I’ll-” He balanced on one food, leaned over, and - knocked over one of the towers.
“Rabbit!”
“Sorry!” He threw the stick as far as it would go, and turned to Sirius. “I can rebuild it. I’ll rebuild it.”
Sirius didn’t look appeased at all, until Auguste’s and Maurice’s laughter drifted over in the breeze. He pushed himself up and spun, sending little grains of sand flying. “Listen, you dirty frogs! Our sand castle is still one hundred times better than your sorry Muggle excuse, so shut it!” Without waiting for a retort, he turned back to Rabastan. “It’s all right. We’ll fix it together.”
“Thanks,” muttered Rabastan. He dropped to his knees, and smoothed out the area where the tower had fallen, clearing the castle’s hill and sorting the sand into two piles, damp and dry. Sirius, meanwhile, reached into the pond and grabbed a handful of wet sandy muck, and began to reconstruct the tower. To anyone who had tried to build a sand castle, Sirius’ work appeared most extraordinary: the sand-mud obeyed his wishes, staying in a stately column when logic and physics demanded that it drip down into a pile of goo.
“Rabbit!”
The boy stopped shifting sands and looked up, half expecting to see the whole structure topple.
“Why don’t you find a good, strong stick, and maybe a piece of seaweed for a flag?” Sirius patted the top of the tower into a point. “I think if we put it in while it’s forming we can get it.”
“Great idea!” Rabastan pushed himself up, brushed the grains of sand off of his sticky legs, and ran off to the water to look for something suitable.
Rabastan had only made it a stone’s throw away before Auguste jumped up and, swinging his tin spade, swaggered over to Sirius.
“Ello again, funny Eenglish boy,” he greeted. His words were drenched with a thick accent, and made it to Sirius’ ears drowned. “I said, ‘ello.”
“Go away,” Sirius replied, not bothering to look behind him.
“I see what you do here, with ze sand. Eet is strange, impossible.”
Sirius spun and stumbled out of of the castle’s grounds. “What? I don’t know what you mean. What is it you want, anyway?”
“Ow do you make eet stay? Zis is more grand zan ours, and you are more leetle.”
“Littler,” Sirius corrected. “I’m littler. And I guess I’m just cleverer. Better.” He stood tall and pushed his chin out. “Not a surprise, since you’re probably a filthy Muggle.”
“Qu’est que c’est-”
“MUG. GLE. You can’t do magic.”
Even Sirius could tell that he had made a bad choice by explaining, but he had already made the choice, and there was no turning back. He balled his fists and set them on his hips, daring the foreign boy to fight him.
Auguste, however, just laughed. “Hah, hah, hah! Magique, naturellement. Stupeed Eenglish boy, zese stupeed games.”
His laughter caught Rabastan’s ear. He looked back and saw the unwelcome boy, and started back, running, from the surf to their castle.
“I make ze best castles, not leetle Eenglish boys. Let your magique fix zis,” Auguste dared, and before Sirius or the approaching Rabastan could stop him, he swung his arm, his hand, and his little tin spade, into the best castle on the beach.
“YOU STUPID MUGGLE FROG,” Sirius exploded, throwing himself toward his new enemy. Rabastan arrived in time to throw his own arms around his friend’s middle and stop him from moving, though he kept shouting. “JUST WAIT UNTIL MY PARENTS HERE ABOUT THIS!”
“Sirius, shh,” Rabastan warned.
“I’LL HAVE YOU PUT AWAY! I’LL HAVE YOUR WHOLE STUPID COUNTRY BLOWN TO LITTLE BITS!”
“Sirius!”
“What?” Sirius gave up on the French boy, who was laughing his way back to Maurice, walking with a dance in his step. “Did you see what he did? That sodding pra-”
“Language!” Rabastan warned again, through gritted teeth. “If your mother-”
“Well, if Mother could hear or see us, he’d never’ve come here. I should pound him to pieces, until he bleeds from his toes.” Sirius’ voice neared a growl, and he turned his head at every pause to glower.
“First, gross. Second, it’s not worth it. The water would have washed it up,” Rabastan shrugged. “Third, he’s not worth it. And you’ve already spent far too much time on him. Come on, we’ll go in the water, and make another castle later.”
Sirius hissed his air out slowly, and relaxed. “Yea, yeah. All right. A better one.”
“Even bigger,” Rabastan assured. He took his friend’s hand and tugged him toward the incoming surf.