(no subject)
Title: Decrescendo
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Author's Notes: Again, written for the post script challenge at contrelamontre.
Anticlimactic is what it was. He lay in the infirmary for days and when he wasn't sleeping or plucking frizzy fibers from his thin blanket, he was envisioning the scene that awaited him back in the common room. He thought he was liable to collapse under the weight of their fervent apologies, and they were expected, in droves, because it would be the first time he'd seen them since it happened. (He told Madam Pomfrey to turn away visitors and she was only too happy to comply; swelling with motherly pride at Remus' good sense while at the same time recoiling at his face, blank and horrible.)
What actually happened was different, though. He returned with a clinical, medicinal smell foreign to their noses; indeed, even to anyone who'd spent a significant amount of time in the infirmary. Peter looked him up and down as he would a stranger; James, a kind of pitying gaze that was thoroughly killing him; and Sirius.... He stood with the others but slightly apart, a separation self-imposed, Remus correctly guessed. Sirius' face reflected neither relief nor guilt. Rather, it reflected Remus' own face. That is to say, nothing.
"Hi," said James, acting diplomat. His voice fumbled. "Remus-"
"I’m tired," said Remus, who took care never to interrupt.
"Of course," said James, holding one arm awkwardly. He looked on the verge of something, as though he had a speech prepared, but seemed happy enough to forego it tonight. Reparations didn't come naturally to him. And anyway, it wasn't his responsibility to repair this friendship.
It was Peter who called something like an apology to his retreating back.
:::
It wasn't a decision because he told himself he had no choice. He lived in his own exile for months, ever alert. His gaze lingered on overlooked corners, details second-years and up failed to appreciate. He was attentive in classes that had once dragged, and took small, pristine notes. He did it because Remus was not one to believe in second chances, even after he'd been assured, many times over, that he was not to be expelled. Those first tentative weeks after the prank he saw everything, heard everything of Hogwarts, as though it might be the last time.
He removed himself from the others, severing the cord with grace. James and Peter found it distressing, as they bent over backwards to include Remus and only grudgingly allowed Sirius in their company. To little avail, though. The first few days after his return from the infirmary Remus ate with them, smiling wanly at the ridiculous chatter between James and whoever'd play along that night. (Sirius never would.) Then, slowly, Remus began to show up at their table with less frequency. A month later he stopped dining with them altogether. He walked with them to classes, then trailed behind, then began to take different routes altogether. There were no more evening rituals because some nights he went to bed at 7pm and other nights he did not return to their dorm at all. It was a backwards spiral the others couldn't understand. James and Peter redoubled their efforts, and then they realized: it was Remus who was removing himself, piece by piece, preparing them. It was seamless, they had to admit, and even Remus was obscenely proud of his own understated exit.
They saw him as a ship, disappearing over the horizon, and they did not know how to stop it.
:::
It's summer.
Three days before the train takes them home and he's ready. His attempts are officially a success and his wraithlike existence is in full swing, as it were. They miss him, probably. And he misses them, in the way you miss something that's been, well, missed. He misses them as though he'd come very close to them, almost had them, but had just fallen short.
Dinner hour on the grounds is a fine hour. Everyone is inside and there's a heavy June stillness that comforts him. Lounging on the grass Remus decides it's high time he reorganized his book bag, given that it's only been thoroughly cleaned twice this week. (There's one good thing that's come out of this-before the prank he'd been surprisingly untidy, which had probably been the indirect influence of the other Marauders. Now he is fastidious about his things, believing, almost superstitiously, that the order of his possessions will rub off in all other facets of his life.)
Before he puts them back, he stacks his books, largest to smallest. Hogwarts, a History is the base, crushing a fresh generation of grass, and a thin Muggle novel completes the pyramid. Then Remus turns his bag upside down, emptying a number of quills in deep reds and black. A small shower of paper follows, his OWLs notes drifting to the ground. The exams ended a few days ago (his performance was excellent) but he keeps the notes, adding them to a growing catalogue of facts and formulas. The trick is in method.
He opens a smaller compartment that's been magicked in width, just longer than the length of his quills. (Makes for neat, precise storing and easy access.) He gathers his quills in a handful, brushing brittle grass from them, and is about to replace them in their compartment when he feels something soft that wasn't there before.
A flowering lupine stem peeks out from the pocket. Beguiled, Remus frees the plant, cradling it in his palm. Its vibrant purple-blue petals are unbruised, proud, as though waiting for someone to congratulate them on their cleverness. A lupine.
The stem rests between the folds of a small scrap of paper. Remus is not surprised to read the hastily scrawled "S" inside. Sirius has dated the paper; it has been in his bag for two days. Three months of silence is abruptly ended with this, silent in itself but still jarring, somehow. This fumbling gesture he's not at all sure he understands.
He thinks of crushing the flower with the heel of his shoe but instead holds it in his open hand. Then Remus folds the note and tucks it in his pocket. He twirls the lupine in his fingers and feels strangely awake, and angry, and vaguely touched. He wonders if anything ever really ends.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Author's Notes: Again, written for the post script challenge at contrelamontre.
Anticlimactic is what it was. He lay in the infirmary for days and when he wasn't sleeping or plucking frizzy fibers from his thin blanket, he was envisioning the scene that awaited him back in the common room. He thought he was liable to collapse under the weight of their fervent apologies, and they were expected, in droves, because it would be the first time he'd seen them since it happened. (He told Madam Pomfrey to turn away visitors and she was only too happy to comply; swelling with motherly pride at Remus' good sense while at the same time recoiling at his face, blank and horrible.)
What actually happened was different, though. He returned with a clinical, medicinal smell foreign to their noses; indeed, even to anyone who'd spent a significant amount of time in the infirmary. Peter looked him up and down as he would a stranger; James, a kind of pitying gaze that was thoroughly killing him; and Sirius.... He stood with the others but slightly apart, a separation self-imposed, Remus correctly guessed. Sirius' face reflected neither relief nor guilt. Rather, it reflected Remus' own face. That is to say, nothing.
"Hi," said James, acting diplomat. His voice fumbled. "Remus-"
"I’m tired," said Remus, who took care never to interrupt.
"Of course," said James, holding one arm awkwardly. He looked on the verge of something, as though he had a speech prepared, but seemed happy enough to forego it tonight. Reparations didn't come naturally to him. And anyway, it wasn't his responsibility to repair this friendship.
It was Peter who called something like an apology to his retreating back.
:::
It wasn't a decision because he told himself he had no choice. He lived in his own exile for months, ever alert. His gaze lingered on overlooked corners, details second-years and up failed to appreciate. He was attentive in classes that had once dragged, and took small, pristine notes. He did it because Remus was not one to believe in second chances, even after he'd been assured, many times over, that he was not to be expelled. Those first tentative weeks after the prank he saw everything, heard everything of Hogwarts, as though it might be the last time.
He removed himself from the others, severing the cord with grace. James and Peter found it distressing, as they bent over backwards to include Remus and only grudgingly allowed Sirius in their company. To little avail, though. The first few days after his return from the infirmary Remus ate with them, smiling wanly at the ridiculous chatter between James and whoever'd play along that night. (Sirius never would.) Then, slowly, Remus began to show up at their table with less frequency. A month later he stopped dining with them altogether. He walked with them to classes, then trailed behind, then began to take different routes altogether. There were no more evening rituals because some nights he went to bed at 7pm and other nights he did not return to their dorm at all. It was a backwards spiral the others couldn't understand. James and Peter redoubled their efforts, and then they realized: it was Remus who was removing himself, piece by piece, preparing them. It was seamless, they had to admit, and even Remus was obscenely proud of his own understated exit.
They saw him as a ship, disappearing over the horizon, and they did not know how to stop it.
:::
It's summer.
Three days before the train takes them home and he's ready. His attempts are officially a success and his wraithlike existence is in full swing, as it were. They miss him, probably. And he misses them, in the way you miss something that's been, well, missed. He misses them as though he'd come very close to them, almost had them, but had just fallen short.
Dinner hour on the grounds is a fine hour. Everyone is inside and there's a heavy June stillness that comforts him. Lounging on the grass Remus decides it's high time he reorganized his book bag, given that it's only been thoroughly cleaned twice this week. (There's one good thing that's come out of this-before the prank he'd been surprisingly untidy, which had probably been the indirect influence of the other Marauders. Now he is fastidious about his things, believing, almost superstitiously, that the order of his possessions will rub off in all other facets of his life.)
Before he puts them back, he stacks his books, largest to smallest. Hogwarts, a History is the base, crushing a fresh generation of grass, and a thin Muggle novel completes the pyramid. Then Remus turns his bag upside down, emptying a number of quills in deep reds and black. A small shower of paper follows, his OWLs notes drifting to the ground. The exams ended a few days ago (his performance was excellent) but he keeps the notes, adding them to a growing catalogue of facts and formulas. The trick is in method.
He opens a smaller compartment that's been magicked in width, just longer than the length of his quills. (Makes for neat, precise storing and easy access.) He gathers his quills in a handful, brushing brittle grass from them, and is about to replace them in their compartment when he feels something soft that wasn't there before.
A flowering lupine stem peeks out from the pocket. Beguiled, Remus frees the plant, cradling it in his palm. Its vibrant purple-blue petals are unbruised, proud, as though waiting for someone to congratulate them on their cleverness. A lupine.
The stem rests between the folds of a small scrap of paper. Remus is not surprised to read the hastily scrawled "S" inside. Sirius has dated the paper; it has been in his bag for two days. Three months of silence is abruptly ended with this, silent in itself but still jarring, somehow. This fumbling gesture he's not at all sure he understands.
He thinks of crushing the flower with the heel of his shoe but instead holds it in his open hand. Then Remus folds the note and tucks it in his pocket. He twirls the lupine in his fingers and feels strangely awake, and angry, and vaguely touched. He wonders if anything ever really ends.