jeddy83 & fluffyllama
Author: jeddy83
Title: Waiting
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Theme: His tragic forces are heaven sent/In sweet things in a lovers breath/In knowing this was meant to be the last - Smashing Pumpkins, Where Boys Fear To Tread
"So," Albus hears Remus say while he checks and rechecks the charms on his wand sheath.
He watches Sirius slouch against the honeysuckled wall, hands in his pockets. "So."
He has seen this dance before, the nervous shuffle of feet, clasped hands, slapped backs, and stilted attempts to heal old wounds. Even now he finds waiting the hardest part, the moments between word and deed stretching out impossibly.
"Look, Moony," Sirius says. His eyes flicker up toward the other boy's face and then back down to his feet. "I'm... I just wanted to... you know... in case there isn't another..."
"Don't say it." Remus shoves Sirius's shoulders hard against the foliage. "Just don't."
He leans in, the space between them dissolving, and speaks low into Sirius's ear. Too low for Albus to hear the words, but Sirius shudders, and they melt together, lips and hands sliding like ice over fevered skin.
Albus knows he should turn away. There is no dignity in watching, but their unspoken reassurance is as heady as the scent of the bruised honeysuckle spilling through the open window.
Hearing the first signal, he finally collects himself, straightening as he turns, steeling himself to send them forth.
Title: Ghosts of Summer
Author: fluffyllama (Fluffy_llama2000 @ yahoo.co.uk)
Rating: G
Words: 1100
Notes:Huge thanks to leogryffin and caemlyn for looking this over for me.
Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
Of summer to be.
-William Ernest Henley
It's one of those long, hot summers that are all too rare in England, although Albus could swear that every summer used to be this way once upon a time. The dozen or so young men baking with him in this forgotten corner of rural Lancashire should be laughing and chasing pretty girls through flower-scattered fields, not giving up the best days of their youth for war. Do they still do that nowadays, Albus wonders? Do young people still walk and picnic in the countryside as they did in his youth? Or is he just a fanciful old man, and innocent romance has gone the way of penny dreadfuls, homemade lemonade, and those proper muggle Gobstoppers he liked so much?
Albus grew up just down the road from here, not that he can recognise much of it these days. This barn, once part of a thriving farm, is abandoned now. The honeysuckle he remembers covering a single pretty trellis around the farmhouse door has taken over, reaching out across the yard and filling the gaps in the crumbling dry stone walls. The scent tickles his nostrils and stirs fond memories of a young witch from the neighbouring village. Millie. He repeats her name in his head with a smile, but her surname is long gone, along with her family, her home and her village, where she stayed to marry the local undertaker.
He's always liked to think that Millie's life was prosperous and happy, but he’ll never know the end of her family's story for certain. He visited the place once more in all these long years, but there weren't many records left intact and few cottages remained standing after Grindelwald's attack on the place she'd once called home. Of course, there wasn't much left of that particular dark wizard either after Albus had single-handedly shown him the error of his ways. Sometimes he wants to hand his Order of Merlin back, tell them he only did it for the memory of a few sweet kisses among the columbines, nothing else - but these young ones, with such passion and fire in them, would still only see a shining example of heroism in this rusted old fool, and Voldemort has many more supporters than Grindelwald ever commanded.
So he keeps the memory of his folly to himself, and the Order of Merlin to remind him that sometimes luck and sheer bloody-mindedness will do when there is nothing else.
The fields around here are burnt and scarred again now, more than thirty years later, some of them still smouldering from the fires that stripped the colour from another small corner of the world overnight. It will be a long time before anyone flirts and teases here on a summer picnic. Instead, hand-picked aurors, all trusted Order members, sit among dry straw and the faint scent of ashes and wait for the signal to come.
Most of them take every opportunity for a nap in the shade, seasoned campaigners already after only a few months. The days have been long on this trip, the journey gruelling without the customary magic that would give them away to Voldemort's forces in an instant. Albus nods at Mundungus, already a few quid up from the unsuspecting new recruits now skulking in the corner, and steps carefully over the sprawled legs that make the overgrown walk between the barn and farmhouse hazardous for an old man.
He steps into the shade of the farmhouse, only realising he’s not alone when he sees two familiar figures through the broken window.
He doesn’t mean to spy on them, but their youth and life has always charmed him, always made him smile, and he worries as it slips away little by little under the burden of missions and responsibilities. And there’s something else, but he doesn’t know what, and if he doesn’t know, he reasons, how can he possibly fix it?
"So," Albus hears Remus say while he checks and rechecks the charms on his wand sheath.
He watches Sirius slouch against the honeysuckled wall, hands in his pockets. "So."
Albus has seen this dance before, the nervous shuffle of feet, clasped hands, slapped backs, and stilted attempts to heal old wounds. Even now, when it isn’t him trying to find the right words or pretend everything is going to be fine, he finds the waiting the hardest part, the moments between word and deed stretching out impossibly.
He holds his breath, but he already knows what’s coming, even though he hopes he’s wrong, because how can he fix this for them?
"Look, Moony," Sirius says. His eyes flicker up toward the other boy's face and then back down to his feet. "I'm... I just wanted to... you know... in case there isn't another..."
"Don't say it." Remus shoves Sirius' shoulders hard against the foliage. "Just don't."
Remus leans in, the space between them dissolving, and speaks low into Sirius' ear. Too low for Albus to hear the words, but Sirius shudders, and they melt together, lips and hands sliding like ice over fevered skin.
Albus knows he should turn away. There is no excuse for him to watch this private moment, but it’s been too long since anyone touched him that way. Their kisses, their whispers, their unspoken reassurances, are as heady as the scent of the bruised honeysuckle spilling through the open window.
He wants to send them on their way home, to that flat they bought, and doesn't that make so much more sense now. But he knows they wouldn’t leave. They deserve to have their summer as much as anyone else, but he can't rely on luck or the Ministry to pull them through this war, only these children of his, and other young men and women just like them. He can only hope they all have summers to spare, once this is over.
Hearing the first signal, he finally collects himself, straightening as he turns back towards the barn. All he can give them is a few more seconds alone in peace, while he steels himself to send them forth for maybe the last time. Moments later, Remus hurries from the right of the barn, while Sirius emerges from the left, both straightening their clothes and so obvious in their disarray that Albus wonders at the blindness of their colleagues.
They troop out silently, their routine well practiced, no directions needed. Albus nods gravely as they pass, hoping more of them will return than the last time. Honeysuckle smears on the dusty stone flags, trampled by careless feet, and Albus is alone with his ghosts.
Title: Waiting
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Theme: His tragic forces are heaven sent/In sweet things in a lovers breath/In knowing this was meant to be the last - Smashing Pumpkins, Where Boys Fear To Tread
"So," Albus hears Remus say while he checks and rechecks the charms on his wand sheath.
He watches Sirius slouch against the honeysuckled wall, hands in his pockets. "So."
He has seen this dance before, the nervous shuffle of feet, clasped hands, slapped backs, and stilted attempts to heal old wounds. Even now he finds waiting the hardest part, the moments between word and deed stretching out impossibly.
"Look, Moony," Sirius says. His eyes flicker up toward the other boy's face and then back down to his feet. "I'm... I just wanted to... you know... in case there isn't another..."
"Don't say it." Remus shoves Sirius's shoulders hard against the foliage. "Just don't."
He leans in, the space between them dissolving, and speaks low into Sirius's ear. Too low for Albus to hear the words, but Sirius shudders, and they melt together, lips and hands sliding like ice over fevered skin.
Albus knows he should turn away. There is no dignity in watching, but their unspoken reassurance is as heady as the scent of the bruised honeysuckle spilling through the open window.
Hearing the first signal, he finally collects himself, straightening as he turns, steeling himself to send them forth.
Title: Ghosts of Summer
Author: fluffyllama (Fluffy_llama2000 @ yahoo.co.uk)
Rating: G
Words: 1100
Notes:Huge thanks to leogryffin and caemlyn for looking this over for me.
Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
Of summer to be.
-William Ernest Henley
It's one of those long, hot summers that are all too rare in England, although Albus could swear that every summer used to be this way once upon a time. The dozen or so young men baking with him in this forgotten corner of rural Lancashire should be laughing and chasing pretty girls through flower-scattered fields, not giving up the best days of their youth for war. Do they still do that nowadays, Albus wonders? Do young people still walk and picnic in the countryside as they did in his youth? Or is he just a fanciful old man, and innocent romance has gone the way of penny dreadfuls, homemade lemonade, and those proper muggle Gobstoppers he liked so much?
Albus grew up just down the road from here, not that he can recognise much of it these days. This barn, once part of a thriving farm, is abandoned now. The honeysuckle he remembers covering a single pretty trellis around the farmhouse door has taken over, reaching out across the yard and filling the gaps in the crumbling dry stone walls. The scent tickles his nostrils and stirs fond memories of a young witch from the neighbouring village. Millie. He repeats her name in his head with a smile, but her surname is long gone, along with her family, her home and her village, where she stayed to marry the local undertaker.
He's always liked to think that Millie's life was prosperous and happy, but he’ll never know the end of her family's story for certain. He visited the place once more in all these long years, but there weren't many records left intact and few cottages remained standing after Grindelwald's attack on the place she'd once called home. Of course, there wasn't much left of that particular dark wizard either after Albus had single-handedly shown him the error of his ways. Sometimes he wants to hand his Order of Merlin back, tell them he only did it for the memory of a few sweet kisses among the columbines, nothing else - but these young ones, with such passion and fire in them, would still only see a shining example of heroism in this rusted old fool, and Voldemort has many more supporters than Grindelwald ever commanded.
So he keeps the memory of his folly to himself, and the Order of Merlin to remind him that sometimes luck and sheer bloody-mindedness will do when there is nothing else.
The fields around here are burnt and scarred again now, more than thirty years later, some of them still smouldering from the fires that stripped the colour from another small corner of the world overnight. It will be a long time before anyone flirts and teases here on a summer picnic. Instead, hand-picked aurors, all trusted Order members, sit among dry straw and the faint scent of ashes and wait for the signal to come.
Most of them take every opportunity for a nap in the shade, seasoned campaigners already after only a few months. The days have been long on this trip, the journey gruelling without the customary magic that would give them away to Voldemort's forces in an instant. Albus nods at Mundungus, already a few quid up from the unsuspecting new recruits now skulking in the corner, and steps carefully over the sprawled legs that make the overgrown walk between the barn and farmhouse hazardous for an old man.
He steps into the shade of the farmhouse, only realising he’s not alone when he sees two familiar figures through the broken window.
He doesn’t mean to spy on them, but their youth and life has always charmed him, always made him smile, and he worries as it slips away little by little under the burden of missions and responsibilities. And there’s something else, but he doesn’t know what, and if he doesn’t know, he reasons, how can he possibly fix it?
"So," Albus hears Remus say while he checks and rechecks the charms on his wand sheath.
He watches Sirius slouch against the honeysuckled wall, hands in his pockets. "So."
Albus has seen this dance before, the nervous shuffle of feet, clasped hands, slapped backs, and stilted attempts to heal old wounds. Even now, when it isn’t him trying to find the right words or pretend everything is going to be fine, he finds the waiting the hardest part, the moments between word and deed stretching out impossibly.
He holds his breath, but he already knows what’s coming, even though he hopes he’s wrong, because how can he fix this for them?
"Look, Moony," Sirius says. His eyes flicker up toward the other boy's face and then back down to his feet. "I'm... I just wanted to... you know... in case there isn't another..."
"Don't say it." Remus shoves Sirius' shoulders hard against the foliage. "Just don't."
Remus leans in, the space between them dissolving, and speaks low into Sirius' ear. Too low for Albus to hear the words, but Sirius shudders, and they melt together, lips and hands sliding like ice over fevered skin.
Albus knows he should turn away. There is no excuse for him to watch this private moment, but it’s been too long since anyone touched him that way. Their kisses, their whispers, their unspoken reassurances, are as heady as the scent of the bruised honeysuckle spilling through the open window.
He wants to send them on their way home, to that flat they bought, and doesn't that make so much more sense now. But he knows they wouldn’t leave. They deserve to have their summer as much as anyone else, but he can't rely on luck or the Ministry to pull them through this war, only these children of his, and other young men and women just like them. He can only hope they all have summers to spare, once this is over.
Hearing the first signal, he finally collects himself, straightening as he turns back towards the barn. All he can give them is a few more seconds alone in peace, while he steels himself to send them forth for maybe the last time. Moments later, Remus hurries from the right of the barn, while Sirius emerges from the left, both straightening their clothes and so obvious in their disarray that Albus wonders at the blindness of their colleagues.
They troop out silently, their routine well practiced, no directions needed. Albus nods gravely as they pass, hoping more of them will return than the last time. Honeysuckle smears on the dusty stone flags, trampled by careless feet, and Albus is alone with his ghosts.