Fic: Lay an Anchor in My Heart, for hauntologies
Title: Lay an Anchor in My Heart
Author: grandilloquism
Recipient: hauntologies
Rating:G
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *passing mention of food *
Word count:1800
Summary:Sirius translates spells, Remus studies cryptozoology: two meetings and an invitation.
Notes: Shoutout to J. S. Bach, for realizing 300 years ago that I would eventually need music to write gay wizards to and for fulfilling that duty admirably- couldn't have done it without you, sir. To hauntologies, the conception of this fic was like throwing my interests against the wall and seeing what stuck, the execution was rather like throwing my brain against said wall until words came out. Happy holidays, and I hope you like it.
The principal benefits to working from a converted castle were, chiefly, none. There were draughts in all seasons, vermin persisted despite enchantment, and thirteenth century architectural mores were represented by rather more dysfunction than one might prefer. In winter these colourful quirks were compounded by the sludgy grey snow tracked in from the sludgy grey courtyards and the sludgy and grey view afforded by the indifferently glazed windows.
The Institute Principia was, despite these shortcomings, chief federation of scientific naturalism in the wizarding world- the oftentimes one bright candle of rationality struggling against the metaphorical dark. Sirius’ work was very rarely biologic, which was why, when confronted with the open office door of their newest cryptozoology fellow, Sirius felt temptation rise. He had often these last few weeks been in and out of the room in pursuit of one errand or another, but had still, yet, been denied the opportunity simply to look.
It was rather late to be paying calls, social or professional, but when a light knock and a quick visual inspection failed to turn up any inhabiting persons Sirius felt safe in the conclusion that the room’s occupant had simply neglected to close up properly before leaving for the night.
Remus Lupin’s office proved something of a strange creature without Lupin himself there being strange enough to take up the better part of one’s attention. It satisfied a broad range of utilities, both laboratory and library, and reflected this in the eclectic clutter of its many tables and shelves. There was something of a voyeuristic thrill to be gained, Sirius standing alone amidst the detritus of Lupin’s professional life, his obsessions and ambitions.
He sifted through it with due curiosity, murky jars full of dead things and murkier tanks filled with the unfortunately still-living, pinned insects and tiny, brittle birds preserved on sticks. He was examining the thin black bones of a juvenile dragon, a specimen about equal in size to a pony, when he felt a shift in the quality of silence in the room.
They had been acquainted for just less than a month, not enough, in Sirius’ opinion, to permit the kinds of liberties he was taking with much equanimity, but Lupin’s expression was perfectly mild, as if he expected to receive colleagues unannounced and uninvited at any hour of the day. He was dressed casually, his robes open over his clothing, his neck cloth loose at his throat, and he was holding three books in the crook of his left arm and a glaring grey cat in his right. As with previous occasions Sirius felt the nebulous cloud of his attention draw in from the room around him to focus itself squarely upon Remus Lupin.
Sirius considered and discarded several things he might say. “Is this a Hebridean?” he asked, indicating the skeleton, in favour of an apology or explanation.
Lupin shifted his grip on the cat, which had begun to emit a low, rumbling growl. “It was a cross, rather,” he said. “Between a Hebridean Black and a Welsh Green.” He reached behind him with a foot to push the door shut, then let the cat fall to the floor. “There was an effort to repopulate the Hebrideans by crossing them with the common Greens, who lay a larger clutch. Unfortunately there was a common defect- the hearts in many of the animals weren’t large enough to support their bodies, and most died before achieving adolescence.” He set his books on the overflowing desk and came closer to Sirius, indicating with two fingers the chest cavity of the specimen. “You can see how underdeveloped the coracoid seems in comparison to what one might expect to see on a healthy animal. These bones in the shoulders, here,” he pointed them out, “would have supported the muscles necessary for flight, but the distance between them is perhaps half what it should be, in proportion to the rest of its body.”
“I’ve never heard of crossbreeding dragons,” Sirius admitted, fascinated not just by this new information, but by the bright light in Lupin’ eyes, by the mobility of his expression and the deft, evocative movements of his hands.
Lupin’s shoulders hitched. “Well, no, this was about four hundred years ago- hardly recent, and it was such a failure that very little has been written about the experiments. Only about one in twelve eggs produced viable offspring, and half of those proved sterile, but you do still get some unusual markings in the Hebrideans that can be traced back to those fifteenth century trials.”
Sirius stared at Lupin, smiling, feeling warmer, friendlier, than he had in recent memory, coaxed out of his carefully studied indifference by this man’s genuine enthusiasm for dragon husbandry. He cleared his throat, startled at himself and unsure how to proceed.
Thunder shook through the castle in a low, timpani growl. Sirius jolted, shocked out of the moment just as easily as it had come on. He drew himself up, replacing whichever too-honest expression that had attached itself to him with polite neutrality. “My apologies,” he said, catching the beginning of Lupin’s frown and directing his gaze away; the grey cat was chewing ineffectually at a straggle of grass in a ceramic bowl on the sill, Sirius watched it as he continued, “This was, I think, quite rude of me and I did not mean to trespass so thoroughly on your evening, nor your,” he glanced at Lupin and away again, “hospitality.”
“Nor my office,” was his reply, said in all apparent good humour.
Sirius flushed. “Good evening,” he said, making brief eye contact again, before turning and leaving. His nerves fizzed discordant under his skin as he shut the door behind him, and sweat dried chill on his back as he passed through the castle corridors, seeking out the warm wellbeing of the chair by the fire in his own secluded office, high in the turret of the Enchanter’s tower.
~~
Sirius had no excuse for working through the long night of midwinter, or, rather, that it was long night was enough of an excuse for him to work through it. The sun was rising when he looked up from the manuscript he was translating, and he felt an echo of the same sort of accomplishment he had felt as a child, whenever it had happened that he’d managed to stay up through the longest night of the year, to greet the returning dawn.
He pushed his work away and stood, his joints protesting the night spent in his chair. He stretched and went to the window, looking out at the sun just touching the sleet-covered hills, colouring them golden pink in the clear morning. The sight bore something keen and sharp in him, a feeling he whet, testing it against himself to better discover its composition.
Underneath the ache of fatigue and the little zing of nostalgia, Sirius found something that he could only identify as a quiet, tired loneliness. He was turning this thought over in his head, staring unseeing out the window, when sudden motion caught his eye, refocusing him. There was a person in the distance, making slow progress against the frozen earth as they came down the hill towards the Institute. Sirius watched them almost idly, still absorbed by his own emotional turmoil.
When the person went down, stumbling on the ice, Sirius felt a twinge of sympathy, but after several moments passed and they had still yet to rise he felt the hard grip of panic seize him by the throat. He grabbed up his wand from the desk, threw his cloak round his shoulders and took but a moment to focus before spinning on the spot, apparating.
The wind hit like a thousand thousand needles, whipping through him, biting at his exposed hands and face, and he threw up a charm against it before he could even get his bearings. When he could focus he found Remus Lupin at his feet, wrapped imperfectly against the cold and struggling to stand. Sirius reached out immediately, getting an arm under one of Lupin's and helping him to stand. He bolstered the spell keeping the wind off of them and added to it a heating charm, focusing it particularly on Lupin.
“I do not wish to criticize,” Sirius said, out of breath with effort and, perhaps, the nearness of Lupin’s face to his own, “but I cannot help but to notice that another time for a walk in the hills might have served better.”
Lupin coughed a laugh, his breath warm against Sirius’ throat, and he felt each individual hair at the back of his neck rise. “It was by but strictest necessity, I assure you,” he replied, voice hoarse and leaning heavily on Sirius.
Sirius shuddered, beginning to lead them back to the castle at a slow walk, mindful that Lupin seemed to be favoring his left leg. “I fail to think of a single thing that might induce me to brave this weather, necessity or no.”
A glance down revealed that, behind the pinch of pain settled into Lupin’s brow, his eyes seemed to convey a wealth of amusement. “Beside the daring rescue of my person, of course.”
“I did not know it was you,” Sirius said, for lack of anything else.
“Lucky for me that you did not!” Lupin exclaimed. “Or else the thought of more of my lecturing on dragon physiology might have kept you away!”
“I would have gone to further lengths than a short walk in the cold to rescue you, Lupin, even had you chosen to speak of flubberworm matings the entire time.” Sirius’ stomach clenched as he said this, but he let the truth of it stand unadorned.
Lupin smiled up at him, his steps seeming to come easier the closer to the castle they came. “I do not believe it is beyond the bounds of propriety for you to call me Remus. We are colleagues, after all, and you did just come to my rescue. I feel that allows for a certain degree of familiarity.”
Sirius felt buoyed by that warm smile. “Come with me,” he said, suddenly anxious not to be parted. “We can see to your leg and then, perhaps, scout out what breakfast there is to found?”
Remus drew back, breaking contact and seeming to search Sirius’ face for something. “If you have no other obligations this midwinter morning then I would not object to passing it in your company.”
“It is a plan, then,” Sirius replied, smiling, a new, melting sort of warmth within him. He took back up Remus’ arm and led them up the path and back into the castle. Behind them the sun swept over the treetops of the horizon, further obscuring the faint coin of the full moon, nearly set in the west.
Author: grandilloquism
Recipient: hauntologies
Rating:G
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *passing mention of food *
Word count:1800
Summary:Sirius translates spells, Remus studies cryptozoology: two meetings and an invitation.
Notes: Shoutout to J. S. Bach, for realizing 300 years ago that I would eventually need music to write gay wizards to and for fulfilling that duty admirably- couldn't have done it without you, sir. To hauntologies, the conception of this fic was like throwing my interests against the wall and seeing what stuck, the execution was rather like throwing my brain against said wall until words came out. Happy holidays, and I hope you like it.
The principal benefits to working from a converted castle were, chiefly, none. There were draughts in all seasons, vermin persisted despite enchantment, and thirteenth century architectural mores were represented by rather more dysfunction than one might prefer. In winter these colourful quirks were compounded by the sludgy grey snow tracked in from the sludgy grey courtyards and the sludgy and grey view afforded by the indifferently glazed windows.
The Institute Principia was, despite these shortcomings, chief federation of scientific naturalism in the wizarding world- the oftentimes one bright candle of rationality struggling against the metaphorical dark. Sirius’ work was very rarely biologic, which was why, when confronted with the open office door of their newest cryptozoology fellow, Sirius felt temptation rise. He had often these last few weeks been in and out of the room in pursuit of one errand or another, but had still, yet, been denied the opportunity simply to look.
It was rather late to be paying calls, social or professional, but when a light knock and a quick visual inspection failed to turn up any inhabiting persons Sirius felt safe in the conclusion that the room’s occupant had simply neglected to close up properly before leaving for the night.
Remus Lupin’s office proved something of a strange creature without Lupin himself there being strange enough to take up the better part of one’s attention. It satisfied a broad range of utilities, both laboratory and library, and reflected this in the eclectic clutter of its many tables and shelves. There was something of a voyeuristic thrill to be gained, Sirius standing alone amidst the detritus of Lupin’s professional life, his obsessions and ambitions.
He sifted through it with due curiosity, murky jars full of dead things and murkier tanks filled with the unfortunately still-living, pinned insects and tiny, brittle birds preserved on sticks. He was examining the thin black bones of a juvenile dragon, a specimen about equal in size to a pony, when he felt a shift in the quality of silence in the room.
They had been acquainted for just less than a month, not enough, in Sirius’ opinion, to permit the kinds of liberties he was taking with much equanimity, but Lupin’s expression was perfectly mild, as if he expected to receive colleagues unannounced and uninvited at any hour of the day. He was dressed casually, his robes open over his clothing, his neck cloth loose at his throat, and he was holding three books in the crook of his left arm and a glaring grey cat in his right. As with previous occasions Sirius felt the nebulous cloud of his attention draw in from the room around him to focus itself squarely upon Remus Lupin.
Sirius considered and discarded several things he might say. “Is this a Hebridean?” he asked, indicating the skeleton, in favour of an apology or explanation.
Lupin shifted his grip on the cat, which had begun to emit a low, rumbling growl. “It was a cross, rather,” he said. “Between a Hebridean Black and a Welsh Green.” He reached behind him with a foot to push the door shut, then let the cat fall to the floor. “There was an effort to repopulate the Hebrideans by crossing them with the common Greens, who lay a larger clutch. Unfortunately there was a common defect- the hearts in many of the animals weren’t large enough to support their bodies, and most died before achieving adolescence.” He set his books on the overflowing desk and came closer to Sirius, indicating with two fingers the chest cavity of the specimen. “You can see how underdeveloped the coracoid seems in comparison to what one might expect to see on a healthy animal. These bones in the shoulders, here,” he pointed them out, “would have supported the muscles necessary for flight, but the distance between them is perhaps half what it should be, in proportion to the rest of its body.”
“I’ve never heard of crossbreeding dragons,” Sirius admitted, fascinated not just by this new information, but by the bright light in Lupin’ eyes, by the mobility of his expression and the deft, evocative movements of his hands.
Lupin’s shoulders hitched. “Well, no, this was about four hundred years ago- hardly recent, and it was such a failure that very little has been written about the experiments. Only about one in twelve eggs produced viable offspring, and half of those proved sterile, but you do still get some unusual markings in the Hebrideans that can be traced back to those fifteenth century trials.”
Sirius stared at Lupin, smiling, feeling warmer, friendlier, than he had in recent memory, coaxed out of his carefully studied indifference by this man’s genuine enthusiasm for dragon husbandry. He cleared his throat, startled at himself and unsure how to proceed.
Thunder shook through the castle in a low, timpani growl. Sirius jolted, shocked out of the moment just as easily as it had come on. He drew himself up, replacing whichever too-honest expression that had attached itself to him with polite neutrality. “My apologies,” he said, catching the beginning of Lupin’s frown and directing his gaze away; the grey cat was chewing ineffectually at a straggle of grass in a ceramic bowl on the sill, Sirius watched it as he continued, “This was, I think, quite rude of me and I did not mean to trespass so thoroughly on your evening, nor your,” he glanced at Lupin and away again, “hospitality.”
“Nor my office,” was his reply, said in all apparent good humour.
Sirius flushed. “Good evening,” he said, making brief eye contact again, before turning and leaving. His nerves fizzed discordant under his skin as he shut the door behind him, and sweat dried chill on his back as he passed through the castle corridors, seeking out the warm wellbeing of the chair by the fire in his own secluded office, high in the turret of the Enchanter’s tower.
~~
Sirius had no excuse for working through the long night of midwinter, or, rather, that it was long night was enough of an excuse for him to work through it. The sun was rising when he looked up from the manuscript he was translating, and he felt an echo of the same sort of accomplishment he had felt as a child, whenever it had happened that he’d managed to stay up through the longest night of the year, to greet the returning dawn.
He pushed his work away and stood, his joints protesting the night spent in his chair. He stretched and went to the window, looking out at the sun just touching the sleet-covered hills, colouring them golden pink in the clear morning. The sight bore something keen and sharp in him, a feeling he whet, testing it against himself to better discover its composition.
Underneath the ache of fatigue and the little zing of nostalgia, Sirius found something that he could only identify as a quiet, tired loneliness. He was turning this thought over in his head, staring unseeing out the window, when sudden motion caught his eye, refocusing him. There was a person in the distance, making slow progress against the frozen earth as they came down the hill towards the Institute. Sirius watched them almost idly, still absorbed by his own emotional turmoil.
When the person went down, stumbling on the ice, Sirius felt a twinge of sympathy, but after several moments passed and they had still yet to rise he felt the hard grip of panic seize him by the throat. He grabbed up his wand from the desk, threw his cloak round his shoulders and took but a moment to focus before spinning on the spot, apparating.
The wind hit like a thousand thousand needles, whipping through him, biting at his exposed hands and face, and he threw up a charm against it before he could even get his bearings. When he could focus he found Remus Lupin at his feet, wrapped imperfectly against the cold and struggling to stand. Sirius reached out immediately, getting an arm under one of Lupin's and helping him to stand. He bolstered the spell keeping the wind off of them and added to it a heating charm, focusing it particularly on Lupin.
“I do not wish to criticize,” Sirius said, out of breath with effort and, perhaps, the nearness of Lupin’s face to his own, “but I cannot help but to notice that another time for a walk in the hills might have served better.”
Lupin coughed a laugh, his breath warm against Sirius’ throat, and he felt each individual hair at the back of his neck rise. “It was by but strictest necessity, I assure you,” he replied, voice hoarse and leaning heavily on Sirius.
Sirius shuddered, beginning to lead them back to the castle at a slow walk, mindful that Lupin seemed to be favoring his left leg. “I fail to think of a single thing that might induce me to brave this weather, necessity or no.”
A glance down revealed that, behind the pinch of pain settled into Lupin’s brow, his eyes seemed to convey a wealth of amusement. “Beside the daring rescue of my person, of course.”
“I did not know it was you,” Sirius said, for lack of anything else.
“Lucky for me that you did not!” Lupin exclaimed. “Or else the thought of more of my lecturing on dragon physiology might have kept you away!”
“I would have gone to further lengths than a short walk in the cold to rescue you, Lupin, even had you chosen to speak of flubberworm matings the entire time.” Sirius’ stomach clenched as he said this, but he let the truth of it stand unadorned.
Lupin smiled up at him, his steps seeming to come easier the closer to the castle they came. “I do not believe it is beyond the bounds of propriety for you to call me Remus. We are colleagues, after all, and you did just come to my rescue. I feel that allows for a certain degree of familiarity.”
Sirius felt buoyed by that warm smile. “Come with me,” he said, suddenly anxious not to be parted. “We can see to your leg and then, perhaps, scout out what breakfast there is to found?”
Remus drew back, breaking contact and seeming to search Sirius’ face for something. “If you have no other obligations this midwinter morning then I would not object to passing it in your company.”
“It is a plan, then,” Sirius replied, smiling, a new, melting sort of warmth within him. He took back up Remus’ arm and led them up the path and back into the castle. Behind them the sun swept over the treetops of the horizon, further obscuring the faint coin of the full moon, nearly set in the west.