this is a sinking road
"The Wolf"
Harry, Remus, and Sirius (lurking in the space between the words). Adventures in the House of Ennui. PG.
Cut tag by the Velvet Teen.
&
Remus makes him hot chocolate, using fine china bearing the Black crest. It's bitter on his tongue and he can't figure out whether it's the drink or the cup. The ivy pattern around the handle is creeping, creeping along next to Harry's fingers, and he feels the tiny sharp leaves scratch his skin.
"Today I think we shall go to Diagon Alley; you need the fresh air, and I need some items myself. Perhaps we can have lunch out, wouldn't that be nice?"
Harry isn't particularly interested in town or inns, but Remus looks so hopeful and worried that he says yes, yes, that would be nice.
Into town they go, with a studied flourish of cloaks and smiles. Remus ducks into the market for his wine and Harry stands outside Quality Quidditch Supplies with his nose pressed to the self-cleaning glass and stares at the brooms. He remembers his money then, lying against his thigh with a cold weight. I can buy whatever I want now, he thinks, but he stays outside the shop.
&
Mrs. Black's portrait is quieter now, morose seeping into her vitriol. When Harry walks past her, she slaps her palm against the front of the painting, arousing a small cloud of dust. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Clockwork in the creaking of pigment bones.
"Bless this house, oh Lord bless this house," she says in an awful tone of voice, and laughs a very cracked sort of laugh.
Harry always walks very quickly down that particular hallway.
&
The full moon is unfortunately a regular occurence, and Remus keeps a room tucked away for the event. He shows it to Harry the day before the first of the boy's stay. It's empty, windowless, and there are deep gashes in the wallpaper and Remus curls his fingers instinctively.
"You must understand that I am not myself when I change, not myself at all. It is crucial that I remain here for the duration of the night, and that no one else comes in. It's not a difficult ward to break, any wizard could do it, so you must be watchful, Harry."
Harry touches the latch that lies limp and oiled on the side of the door. "Why bother with wards at all?"
"It's not that thick a door." Remus taps the width of the wood. "And it's old. Things can break."
&
He's not supposed to leave the house, let alone go flying, but he's good at sneaking out. He's had practice. Anyway, Remus is a little scatterbrained these days.
He rigs his invisibility cloak so it covers both him and his broom, quite ingenious, really; and even though he knows he's safe, there's a little thrill at the threat of discovery. He wonders what the Muggle papers would say.
The sun's as gold as a snitch and he flies with his hand reaching for it. In the back of his head, he sees the headline: Boy Sighted Racing Towards the Sun.
Up and up and up he goes, so high that the buildings below turn to specks, so high that the air thins out and he can barely breathe. Then he stops: hovers, arms outstretched, eyes closed, feels the wind whip his robes back and the sun warm his face.
And he falls back down.
On the way to the ground he keeps his gaze firmly on where he'd guess the Black House is. He guesses right, he always does, and the mansion hurtles up at him with a rushing dread, spilling out from the buildings on either side. He pictures himself crashing through the roof, through each floor, and the old wood would snap underneath his weight. He knows the sound it'd make, knows it with a deep, visceral certainty.
When his feet are firmly on the concrete, he breathes again.
&
Dear Hermione,
Thanks for the book, I really enjoyed it. I think it's the first book you've given to me that I've actually finished (sorry!).
How are things at the Burrow? Fred&George aren't being too much of a trouble, I hope. I wish I could be there with you. This place is big and draughty and quiet, and there's nothing to do. It's terribly boring, but I guess being bored is better than being attacked by You-Know-Who.
Yours,
Harry
PS.
Ron does stupid things sometimes, but don't hold it against him. He means well.
&
Five PM, in the afternoon of a future full moon, and Remus smiles almost apologetically as he closes the door between him and Harry. Normally, Harry would go off and read a book or perhaps play a few games of solitaire, but today he stays here. He sits against the opposite wall, knees to his chin, and watches the door.
Eight PM, and the noises start. Growls. Nails clickclicking on the floor: pacing, pacing and pacing back and forth. Whines, high and keening. The first inquisitive brushes against the door, as if testing it. Then harder, determined. Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Alohomora," Harry whispers.
The sounds come louder: THUD. THUD. THUD. Fur and sinews against oak, like clockwork. The scrabbling of claws, of teeth. Splintering. The door is splintering.
He stands up and steps forward with only the slightest of hesitations, and slides open the latch.
Harry, Remus, and Sirius (lurking in the space between the words). Adventures in the House of Ennui. PG.
Cut tag by the Velvet Teen.
&
Remus makes him hot chocolate, using fine china bearing the Black crest. It's bitter on his tongue and he can't figure out whether it's the drink or the cup. The ivy pattern around the handle is creeping, creeping along next to Harry's fingers, and he feels the tiny sharp leaves scratch his skin.
"Today I think we shall go to Diagon Alley; you need the fresh air, and I need some items myself. Perhaps we can have lunch out, wouldn't that be nice?"
Harry isn't particularly interested in town or inns, but Remus looks so hopeful and worried that he says yes, yes, that would be nice.
Into town they go, with a studied flourish of cloaks and smiles. Remus ducks into the market for his wine and Harry stands outside Quality Quidditch Supplies with his nose pressed to the self-cleaning glass and stares at the brooms. He remembers his money then, lying against his thigh with a cold weight. I can buy whatever I want now, he thinks, but he stays outside the shop.
&
Mrs. Black's portrait is quieter now, morose seeping into her vitriol. When Harry walks past her, she slaps her palm against the front of the painting, arousing a small cloud of dust. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Clockwork in the creaking of pigment bones.
"Bless this house, oh Lord bless this house," she says in an awful tone of voice, and laughs a very cracked sort of laugh.
Harry always walks very quickly down that particular hallway.
&
The full moon is unfortunately a regular occurence, and Remus keeps a room tucked away for the event. He shows it to Harry the day before the first of the boy's stay. It's empty, windowless, and there are deep gashes in the wallpaper and Remus curls his fingers instinctively.
"You must understand that I am not myself when I change, not myself at all. It is crucial that I remain here for the duration of the night, and that no one else comes in. It's not a difficult ward to break, any wizard could do it, so you must be watchful, Harry."
Harry touches the latch that lies limp and oiled on the side of the door. "Why bother with wards at all?"
"It's not that thick a door." Remus taps the width of the wood. "And it's old. Things can break."
&
He's not supposed to leave the house, let alone go flying, but he's good at sneaking out. He's had practice. Anyway, Remus is a little scatterbrained these days.
He rigs his invisibility cloak so it covers both him and his broom, quite ingenious, really; and even though he knows he's safe, there's a little thrill at the threat of discovery. He wonders what the Muggle papers would say.
The sun's as gold as a snitch and he flies with his hand reaching for it. In the back of his head, he sees the headline: Boy Sighted Racing Towards the Sun.
Up and up and up he goes, so high that the buildings below turn to specks, so high that the air thins out and he can barely breathe. Then he stops: hovers, arms outstretched, eyes closed, feels the wind whip his robes back and the sun warm his face.
And he falls back down.
On the way to the ground he keeps his gaze firmly on where he'd guess the Black House is. He guesses right, he always does, and the mansion hurtles up at him with a rushing dread, spilling out from the buildings on either side. He pictures himself crashing through the roof, through each floor, and the old wood would snap underneath his weight. He knows the sound it'd make, knows it with a deep, visceral certainty.
When his feet are firmly on the concrete, he breathes again.
&
Dear Hermione,
Thanks for the book, I really enjoyed it. I think it's the first book you've given to me that I've actually finished (sorry!).
How are things at the Burrow? Fred&George aren't being too much of a trouble, I hope. I wish I could be there with you. This place is big and draughty and quiet, and there's nothing to do. It's terribly boring, but I guess being bored is better than being attacked by You-Know-Who.
Yours,
Harry
PS.
Ron does stupid things sometimes, but don't hold it against him. He means well.
&
Five PM, in the afternoon of a future full moon, and Remus smiles almost apologetically as he closes the door between him and Harry. Normally, Harry would go off and read a book or perhaps play a few games of solitaire, but today he stays here. He sits against the opposite wall, knees to his chin, and watches the door.
Eight PM, and the noises start. Growls. Nails clickclicking on the floor: pacing, pacing and pacing back and forth. Whines, high and keening. The first inquisitive brushes against the door, as if testing it. Then harder, determined. Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Alohomora," Harry whispers.
The sounds come louder: THUD. THUD. THUD. Fur and sinews against oak, like clockwork. The scrabbling of claws, of teeth. Splintering. The door is splintering.
He stands up and steps forward with only the slightest of hesitations, and slides open the latch.