Fic: Soft Falling Rain Part II Extract
Author: gilpin25
Title: Soft Falling Rain Part II Extract
Rating & Warnings: PG, none
Word Count: 1260
Prompt: Character prompt: Poppy Pomfrey and Miscellaneous: Don't be afraid of being scared. To be afraid is a sign of common sense. Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything.” Both from huldrejenta.
Summary: After a seemingly perfect night at the Weasleys' with Tonks has promised so much, a chance remark makes all of Remus' fears about their relationship resurface. Having literally left her standing there, he finds himself back in an all too familiar place.
Notes: I've been struggling with annoying health issues but wanted to post something for this event. This is an extract from the start of the second part of a fic called Soft Falling Rain, which I'm aiming to finish sooner rather than later, and which hopefully makes sense in its own right. The first part can be found here, but all you really need to know is that it's set towards the end of HBP, and is another look at the events between Dumbledore's funeral and Remus and Tonks' wedding, in keeping with the info in Remus' bio at Pottermore. Sorry about the angst overload. (Things do get better for them both, honest!) Thanks to all who've supported the SpringFest. ♥
Soft Falling Rain Part II
Sanity, or something roughly thereabouts, returns to Remus as soon as his feet touch solid ground again. Along with a stomach which hasn’t expected Molly’s large dinner or sudden Apparation afterwards, and a heart lurching wildly at the turn recent events have taken. He has developed a good understanding of the meaning of inner turmoil, especially over the last year or so, but this has taken it to a whole new level.
His first thought is to go straight back.
His second is to remember the reason for his flight.
His third is to wonder how he’s avoided splinching himself, how he can feel such joy and utter despair at exactly the same time, and how he simply can’t go back until he’s back in control of himself again. However much he wants to. Since Tonks’ outburst in the hospital wing he hasn’t allowed himself to think, only to believe, and suddenly every fear he’s had for her through associating with him is magnified tenfold again.
He can’t believe he’s left her standing there. Not after such an evening together. Not to come here, of all places. Though if you already have the words werewolf and revulsion taking up permanent residence in your head, and add in a sudden, overwhelming dose of guilt, which is never far away anyway, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the answer to the equation might sit darkly and dismally high above the village of Hogsmeade.
The Shrieking Shack has scarcely changed since he last saw it. A building with a face that’s been blinded: its windows boarded up tightly and the light shut out to ensure something very dark stays within. The garden is overgrown with thick, choking weeds that reach almost to the height of a man’s waist, and the wooden boards shift restlessly though there is scarcely a breeze in the warm night air. There was a time he knew every creak and every sigh and every moan. Most of them were made by him, after all.
He takes a breath, which gets lost amongst the churning inside. Forces out another one. In, out, in, out. It’s pathetic and childlike. All the while he’s checking that no one from Hogsmeade has either drunk or dared themselves into a late night stroll up here to listen to a few ghosts. But it’s just him. All alone. Except that he hadn’t been alone, and the sense of coming home that Tonks has always brought him, the sure, quiet joy of being with her, had been stronger than ever tonight. If only she hadn’t echoed the same words he’d heard earlier that day. If only he could take back that last moment of fear. If only-
In, out.
He doesn’t look across at the Shack from this hill very often. It’s not that big, up close, but it had towered over his head when he’d first asked Dumbledore if it was safe. If it would hold him. “It’s safe for you. And safe for others,” Dumbledore had said calmly, knowing what he needed to hear. And so began the routine whereby Poppy Pomfrey, very much Madam Pomfrey back then, would walk with him to the Whomping Willow each month, and he’d try not to think of what lay ahead. Seven years of walks; seven years of transformations; seven years of that last hour in the dark waiting for his humanity to be ripped from him. But hey, who’s counting? Well, he had been, and Poppy must have been, and both of them had counted those days very, very carefully, as one tended to when lives depended on it.
Though on the odd occasion not carefully enough, eh Lupin?
In, out.
He wonders what Poppy Pomfrey had thought all that time; how scared she must have been. She’d try to find something reassuring to say as she left him; he’d always assure her he’d be fine. He didn’t want her worrying, didn’t want her reporting anything but his immense gratitude back to Dumbledore. Sometimes she’d squeeze his arm before briskly saying that she’d see him back here the next day, and she’d have some chocolate and a cup of tea waiting for him. She always did as well. He’d brought her some chocolate the year he’d come back to teach, although he’d had to give it to Harry on the train. Nowadays there is a polite reserve between them, born out of embarrassment and pity for what she’s seen. He hates that.
In, out.
The walk back from to Hogwarts had been worse. Often he could hardly put one aching leg in front of the other. Which was a lot easier to bear than her face; the faint wrinkle of distaste she couldn’t hide as she smelt the dusty animal smell inside. It was on him as well. No matter how many Scourgify spells he cast, it still lingered. “It’s not my fault,” he’d want to cry as she’d find some excuse at the entrance to “tidy up a bit.” Whatever spell it was she used, it was all he could smell afterwards. Strong, stringent, human smells: lemon, beeswax and disgustingly strong vinegar.
Oh no, that was him. Disgusting.
He draws a last ragged breath and catches hold of himself. He’s not a fearful eleven year old, nor an optimistic seventeen. This constant harking back is pointless. It won’t change the facts. He’s had advantages and care and friendships the likes of which the poor, bitter creatures he’d spent his time with this year could only dream of. He’s had a family and an education and love. How lucky is he?
He also has Nymphadora Tonks. He probably won’t ever quite believe that. Here he is, sitting on a hill by a haunted house, thinking of what it felt like to kiss her without restraint at last. Two more minutes under that tree and he’d have been saying all the things he’d bottled up for so long, turning into Fifi La Whatsit, whose sugary sweet romance novels line Molly’s bookcase (at least he presumes they’re not Arthur’s). But Tonks would appreciate honesty far more; the hardest thing of all to give. Honesty would mean letting her share his life, such as it is.
Honesty would mean he stops protecting himself?
The boarded up windows of the Shrieking Shack shift restlessly. It all feels like a moment when the hero should throw off the shackles of the demon’s curse, once and for all, but he’s not remotely heroic, he is the curse, and his epiphany had already come on the night when Tonks told him who she’d fallen for, and then positively dared him to say he didn’t feel the same in return. He lived with lies all the time, but none of them hurt as much as pretending that moment had never happened.
He sighs.
It was Poppy Pomfrey who always said that thoughts could leave deeper scars than almost anything else. Poppy Pomfrey who, polite reserve or not, had frequently sought him out when he was teaching at Hogwarts, and sat down with him to chat at length over a cup of tea. And Poppy Pomfrey who used to say to the eleven year old boy he’d once been: “Don’t forget, Remus, that I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
She had been as well. What was it he’d said to Tonks as they’d stood together under the tree in Molly’s garden? It’s so selfish, taking strength and comfort from you.
“Why?” she’d asked, her head resting against his neck, her forehead wrinkling in apparent puzzlement. “It’s what I take from you.”
Title: Soft Falling Rain Part II Extract
Rating & Warnings: PG, none
Word Count: 1260
Prompt: Character prompt: Poppy Pomfrey and Miscellaneous: Don't be afraid of being scared. To be afraid is a sign of common sense. Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything.” Both from huldrejenta.
Summary: After a seemingly perfect night at the Weasleys' with Tonks has promised so much, a chance remark makes all of Remus' fears about their relationship resurface. Having literally left her standing there, he finds himself back in an all too familiar place.
Notes: I've been struggling with annoying health issues but wanted to post something for this event. This is an extract from the start of the second part of a fic called Soft Falling Rain, which I'm aiming to finish sooner rather than later, and which hopefully makes sense in its own right. The first part can be found here, but all you really need to know is that it's set towards the end of HBP, and is another look at the events between Dumbledore's funeral and Remus and Tonks' wedding, in keeping with the info in Remus' bio at Pottermore. Sorry about the angst overload. (Things do get better for them both, honest!) Thanks to all who've supported the SpringFest. ♥
Soft Falling Rain Part II
Sanity, or something roughly thereabouts, returns to Remus as soon as his feet touch solid ground again. Along with a stomach which hasn’t expected Molly’s large dinner or sudden Apparation afterwards, and a heart lurching wildly at the turn recent events have taken. He has developed a good understanding of the meaning of inner turmoil, especially over the last year or so, but this has taken it to a whole new level.
His first thought is to go straight back.
His second is to remember the reason for his flight.
His third is to wonder how he’s avoided splinching himself, how he can feel such joy and utter despair at exactly the same time, and how he simply can’t go back until he’s back in control of himself again. However much he wants to. Since Tonks’ outburst in the hospital wing he hasn’t allowed himself to think, only to believe, and suddenly every fear he’s had for her through associating with him is magnified tenfold again.
He can’t believe he’s left her standing there. Not after such an evening together. Not to come here, of all places. Though if you already have the words werewolf and revulsion taking up permanent residence in your head, and add in a sudden, overwhelming dose of guilt, which is never far away anyway, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the answer to the equation might sit darkly and dismally high above the village of Hogsmeade.
The Shrieking Shack has scarcely changed since he last saw it. A building with a face that’s been blinded: its windows boarded up tightly and the light shut out to ensure something very dark stays within. The garden is overgrown with thick, choking weeds that reach almost to the height of a man’s waist, and the wooden boards shift restlessly though there is scarcely a breeze in the warm night air. There was a time he knew every creak and every sigh and every moan. Most of them were made by him, after all.
He takes a breath, which gets lost amongst the churning inside. Forces out another one. In, out, in, out. It’s pathetic and childlike. All the while he’s checking that no one from Hogsmeade has either drunk or dared themselves into a late night stroll up here to listen to a few ghosts. But it’s just him. All alone. Except that he hadn’t been alone, and the sense of coming home that Tonks has always brought him, the sure, quiet joy of being with her, had been stronger than ever tonight. If only she hadn’t echoed the same words he’d heard earlier that day. If only he could take back that last moment of fear. If only-
In, out.
He doesn’t look across at the Shack from this hill very often. It’s not that big, up close, but it had towered over his head when he’d first asked Dumbledore if it was safe. If it would hold him. “It’s safe for you. And safe for others,” Dumbledore had said calmly, knowing what he needed to hear. And so began the routine whereby Poppy Pomfrey, very much Madam Pomfrey back then, would walk with him to the Whomping Willow each month, and he’d try not to think of what lay ahead. Seven years of walks; seven years of transformations; seven years of that last hour in the dark waiting for his humanity to be ripped from him. But hey, who’s counting? Well, he had been, and Poppy must have been, and both of them had counted those days very, very carefully, as one tended to when lives depended on it.
Though on the odd occasion not carefully enough, eh Lupin?
In, out.
He wonders what Poppy Pomfrey had thought all that time; how scared she must have been. She’d try to find something reassuring to say as she left him; he’d always assure her he’d be fine. He didn’t want her worrying, didn’t want her reporting anything but his immense gratitude back to Dumbledore. Sometimes she’d squeeze his arm before briskly saying that she’d see him back here the next day, and she’d have some chocolate and a cup of tea waiting for him. She always did as well. He’d brought her some chocolate the year he’d come back to teach, although he’d had to give it to Harry on the train. Nowadays there is a polite reserve between them, born out of embarrassment and pity for what she’s seen. He hates that.
In, out.
The walk back from to Hogwarts had been worse. Often he could hardly put one aching leg in front of the other. Which was a lot easier to bear than her face; the faint wrinkle of distaste she couldn’t hide as she smelt the dusty animal smell inside. It was on him as well. No matter how many Scourgify spells he cast, it still lingered. “It’s not my fault,” he’d want to cry as she’d find some excuse at the entrance to “tidy up a bit.” Whatever spell it was she used, it was all he could smell afterwards. Strong, stringent, human smells: lemon, beeswax and disgustingly strong vinegar.
Oh no, that was him. Disgusting.
He draws a last ragged breath and catches hold of himself. He’s not a fearful eleven year old, nor an optimistic seventeen. This constant harking back is pointless. It won’t change the facts. He’s had advantages and care and friendships the likes of which the poor, bitter creatures he’d spent his time with this year could only dream of. He’s had a family and an education and love. How lucky is he?
He also has Nymphadora Tonks. He probably won’t ever quite believe that. Here he is, sitting on a hill by a haunted house, thinking of what it felt like to kiss her without restraint at last. Two more minutes under that tree and he’d have been saying all the things he’d bottled up for so long, turning into Fifi La Whatsit, whose sugary sweet romance novels line Molly’s bookcase (at least he presumes they’re not Arthur’s). But Tonks would appreciate honesty far more; the hardest thing of all to give. Honesty would mean letting her share his life, such as it is.
Honesty would mean he stops protecting himself?
The boarded up windows of the Shrieking Shack shift restlessly. It all feels like a moment when the hero should throw off the shackles of the demon’s curse, once and for all, but he’s not remotely heroic, he is the curse, and his epiphany had already come on the night when Tonks told him who she’d fallen for, and then positively dared him to say he didn’t feel the same in return. He lived with lies all the time, but none of them hurt as much as pretending that moment had never happened.
He sighs.
It was Poppy Pomfrey who always said that thoughts could leave deeper scars than almost anything else. Poppy Pomfrey who, polite reserve or not, had frequently sought him out when he was teaching at Hogwarts, and sat down with him to chat at length over a cup of tea. And Poppy Pomfrey who used to say to the eleven year old boy he’d once been: “Don’t forget, Remus, that I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
She had been as well. What was it he’d said to Tonks as they’d stood together under the tree in Molly’s garden? It’s so selfish, taking strength and comfort from you.
“Why?” she’d asked, her head resting against his neck, her forehead wrinkling in apparent puzzlement. “It’s what I take from you.”