(no subject)
Instead of my thesis paper, I wrote this. Life's too short to waste on high school. Seriously. Fuck 'em, fuck 'em all. Oi Oi Oi and all that.
"Postlapsaria"
Lupin/Snape, Lupin/Sirius, both vaguely. Perhaps Black House/Lupin preslash. Er. I have a problem writing specifically about 'ships, apparently.
PG.
In the space between arrival and departure, there are: two promises made, eight layers of dust wiped off, five hello's, four goodbye's, one feeling of falling sickness in the coatroom.
(In the space between arrival and departure, there are more looks of pity than he cares to count.)
Lupin shuffles through the house, dodging as many people as he can - and sometimes it seems like there are thousands in here - slinking against a wall to hide from Molly and her cookies, the hands of portraits reaching to touch him as he brushes past. Dumbledore's in the dining room at the head of that giant table, lit by a tortuously ornate chandelier. He's got missions and candy hidden in that beard, and Lupin bites out "Hello, lovely to see you, must be off" as he twists away from his responsibilities.
The house pushes him forward, his feet moving, half-dreamy, folding onto the splintery floor. Another room, another room, more people and his breath turns into words with a helplessness that scares him. Fine, thank you. Fingertips caressing the dusty wallpaper as he passes.
And then Snape's in the kitchen, his legs too long for the chair he's in, one hand around a mug and the other holding a scroll with the absolute minimum of caring.
Hair's all stringy and lank, the dim light turning it matte black, and he's wearing the same scowl he's had since 1975.
Lupin slumps into a chair opposite. "Shall we?" he asks, and scratches absentmindedly at his arm. Snape shakes his head, but Lupin's not exactly disappointed.
"There are a few Weasley boys littered about. Try one of them if you're in the mood."
"No," Lupin says as he stands back up. "They might actually start liking me," and he smiles without any humor.
Ginny's started leaving around magazines opened to vacation advertisements, and he goes around closing all of them, paper slamming shut on hucksters with toothy grins and cameras around their necks. He's not susceptible to suggestions of leaving.
He steps carefully over the floorboards that creak, creeping past the painted Blacks in their sleeping finery. There are few Sirius' here, few prodigal sons in the gallery of decay. He swallows the love that rises in his throat. And we shall know him by his absence.
All hallways lead to the same place: the Black house spits him out like something sour, the door biting at his cloak as he stumbles out into the noonday sun. He hears the building slide back into not-there with a soft thud, draws his shoulders in and follows the cracks down the street.
"Postlapsaria"
Lupin/Snape, Lupin/Sirius, both vaguely. Perhaps Black House/Lupin preslash. Er. I have a problem writing specifically about 'ships, apparently.
PG.
In the space between arrival and departure, there are: two promises made, eight layers of dust wiped off, five hello's, four goodbye's, one feeling of falling sickness in the coatroom.
(In the space between arrival and departure, there are more looks of pity than he cares to count.)
Lupin shuffles through the house, dodging as many people as he can - and sometimes it seems like there are thousands in here - slinking against a wall to hide from Molly and her cookies, the hands of portraits reaching to touch him as he brushes past. Dumbledore's in the dining room at the head of that giant table, lit by a tortuously ornate chandelier. He's got missions and candy hidden in that beard, and Lupin bites out "Hello, lovely to see you, must be off" as he twists away from his responsibilities.
The house pushes him forward, his feet moving, half-dreamy, folding onto the splintery floor. Another room, another room, more people and his breath turns into words with a helplessness that scares him. Fine, thank you. Fingertips caressing the dusty wallpaper as he passes.
And then Snape's in the kitchen, his legs too long for the chair he's in, one hand around a mug and the other holding a scroll with the absolute minimum of caring.
Hair's all stringy and lank, the dim light turning it matte black, and he's wearing the same scowl he's had since 1975.
Lupin slumps into a chair opposite. "Shall we?" he asks, and scratches absentmindedly at his arm. Snape shakes his head, but Lupin's not exactly disappointed.
"There are a few Weasley boys littered about. Try one of them if you're in the mood."
"No," Lupin says as he stands back up. "They might actually start liking me," and he smiles without any humor.
Ginny's started leaving around magazines opened to vacation advertisements, and he goes around closing all of them, paper slamming shut on hucksters with toothy grins and cameras around their necks. He's not susceptible to suggestions of leaving.
He steps carefully over the floorboards that creak, creeping past the painted Blacks in their sleeping finery. There are few Sirius' here, few prodigal sons in the gallery of decay. He swallows the love that rises in his throat. And we shall know him by his absence.
All hallways lead to the same place: the Black house spits him out like something sour, the door biting at his cloak as he stumbles out into the noonday sun. He hears the building slide back into not-there with a soft thud, draws his shoulders in and follows the cracks down the street.