Day Four: A Recipe and another Ficlet (Remus)
Since recipes seem to be in fashion today, I give you:
Recipe for a Remus
by Sirius Black (and James Potter)
Image by seviet
Ingredients:
Tea. Lots of tea.
Commas and proper grammar.
Poncy literature.
A furry little problem.
Homework help for three lazy Marauders.
A conscience.
Loyalty. (Don't be a ponce, Remus!)
Girl skills
Serves: one fangirl.
And, of course, another ficlet, this time featuring Lost!Years!Remus. It is as yet untitled.
Had you asked Sirius Black if Remus could become quieter, he would have said no. He was wrong, and it was Sirius who made him so.
In January, the first new year after it, he left the Auror office forever. The werewolf laws had been tightened again, and there was no place for a Auror who, once a month, was something much different. He didn't mind, not really. He'd become an Auror alongside three men that were dead, or worse than dead. It was only fitting that he should follow them. (There were no cards and well wishes when he left, only averted eyes and silence. They understood his future, or maybe, just his past. He wasn't sure there was a difference.)
Dumbledore found him a place, working as a Muggle news editor. He knew the real stories, of course, but writing the innocuous little pieces about terrorism - he both hated and loved it; wanted it to be real because it was an explanation away from betrayals, suspicion and ever-present fear.
He lived alone, in a small apartment a bit away from downtown. It was like nothing he'd ever had before, a space of his own where books could litter the floor and no one cared. It was quiet, in this little world he'd created, isolated from everything and everyone he knew. (He stopped answering his owls, reading and rereading the messages, unable to answer. They stopped coming, after a while, and Remus didn't write.)
(On good days, he drank too much tea and read too many books, occasionally even venturing to take a walk in the park down the street. On bad days, he broke things. He never spoke of the bad days.)
It was two months before he was brave enough to take the Tube, sitting down next to people he'd never met and never would meet. He spent most of the ride fingering his wand, and hoping the man in the corner wasn't really a wizard, despite the odd mutterings. He didn't meet anyone's eyes.
The days, stretching into weeks and months, fell into a pattern.
In April, he was offered a holiday, a week away from London. He nodded, and drove to Scotland, hands on the wheel, anchoring him to the world.
(He remembered Sirius' laughter when he learned to drive. Sirius always laughed, even when the joke was on him. He wondered, bitterly, if Sirius laughed in Azkaban.)
Early one morning, he left his room and drove, unsure of where he was going or what he would find when he got there. He didn't know what happened - vaguely recalling the feel of a spell being cast - but he knew those towers, that castle. Hogwarts. If he continued driving, he knew that he'd reach the lake, could walk up to the Headmaster's office or the common room, pretend the last few years hadn't happened. Instead, he turned around and drove back to London. (It wasn't cowardice.)
In July, one of the secretaries asked him to dinner. She was pretty, small and dark, fashionable clothes and a smile that would melt harder hearts than his. He said yes. They went to a place she knew, a cheery, bright Indian place, where everyone smiled like she did. Remus tried, but there was no second date.
Before he knew it, it was October 31st again. He called in sick to work. By the next morning, there was not a book left in place, or an unbroken plate, but the tea was on, and the sun was shining. His face was still tear-stained when he left for work the next day.
He went to Andromeda's for Christmas that year, trying to smile. Andromeda saw through him, as she always did. “You can't do this, Remus,” she said, watching him attempting to put together a decent dinner from what Ted had bought. “I know,” he said darkly, meaning more than the dinner. She nodded, and smiled when Ted slipped his arm around her waist.
He resigned on January 1st, packing up his apartment. It hadn't taken much thought, really. He knew he couldn't avoid his life forever. His world. A new year, and he was about to go back to the world he couldn't leave. It was time to try again.
Recipe for a Remus
by Sirius Black (and James Potter)
Image by seviet
Ingredients:
Tea. Lots of tea.
Commas and proper grammar.
Poncy literature.
A furry little problem.
Homework help for three lazy Marauders.
A conscience.
Loyalty. (Don't be a ponce, Remus!)
Girl skills
Serves: one fangirl.
- Fill a bowl with tea. This will be your Remus' blood.
- Drop in a book or two. Poetry and a rule book are a must.
- Add ink to the mixture. Stir.
- Add a curl of werewolf fur.
- Sacrifice a comma on an altar. This should bring the spirit of a Remus.
- Tempt it with your mixture, and let it drink the tea-ink mixture.
- Feed it another comma and it will be yours forever.
And, of course, another ficlet, this time featuring Lost!Years!Remus. It is as yet untitled.
Had you asked Sirius Black if Remus could become quieter, he would have said no. He was wrong, and it was Sirius who made him so.
In January, the first new year after it, he left the Auror office forever. The werewolf laws had been tightened again, and there was no place for a Auror who, once a month, was something much different. He didn't mind, not really. He'd become an Auror alongside three men that were dead, or worse than dead. It was only fitting that he should follow them. (There were no cards and well wishes when he left, only averted eyes and silence. They understood his future, or maybe, just his past. He wasn't sure there was a difference.)
Dumbledore found him a place, working as a Muggle news editor. He knew the real stories, of course, but writing the innocuous little pieces about terrorism - he both hated and loved it; wanted it to be real because it was an explanation away from betrayals, suspicion and ever-present fear.
He lived alone, in a small apartment a bit away from downtown. It was like nothing he'd ever had before, a space of his own where books could litter the floor and no one cared. It was quiet, in this little world he'd created, isolated from everything and everyone he knew. (He stopped answering his owls, reading and rereading the messages, unable to answer. They stopped coming, after a while, and Remus didn't write.)
(On good days, he drank too much tea and read too many books, occasionally even venturing to take a walk in the park down the street. On bad days, he broke things. He never spoke of the bad days.)
It was two months before he was brave enough to take the Tube, sitting down next to people he'd never met and never would meet. He spent most of the ride fingering his wand, and hoping the man in the corner wasn't really a wizard, despite the odd mutterings. He didn't meet anyone's eyes.
The days, stretching into weeks and months, fell into a pattern.
In April, he was offered a holiday, a week away from London. He nodded, and drove to Scotland, hands on the wheel, anchoring him to the world.
(He remembered Sirius' laughter when he learned to drive. Sirius always laughed, even when the joke was on him. He wondered, bitterly, if Sirius laughed in Azkaban.)
Early one morning, he left his room and drove, unsure of where he was going or what he would find when he got there. He didn't know what happened - vaguely recalling the feel of a spell being cast - but he knew those towers, that castle. Hogwarts. If he continued driving, he knew that he'd reach the lake, could walk up to the Headmaster's office or the common room, pretend the last few years hadn't happened. Instead, he turned around and drove back to London. (It wasn't cowardice.)
In July, one of the secretaries asked him to dinner. She was pretty, small and dark, fashionable clothes and a smile that would melt harder hearts than his. He said yes. They went to a place she knew, a cheery, bright Indian place, where everyone smiled like she did. Remus tried, but there was no second date.
Before he knew it, it was October 31st again. He called in sick to work. By the next morning, there was not a book left in place, or an unbroken plate, but the tea was on, and the sun was shining. His face was still tear-stained when he left for work the next day.
He went to Andromeda's for Christmas that year, trying to smile. Andromeda saw through him, as she always did. “You can't do this, Remus,” she said, watching him attempting to put together a decent dinner from what Ted had bought. “I know,” he said darkly, meaning more than the dinner. She nodded, and smiled when Ted slipped his arm around her waist.
He resigned on January 1st, packing up his apartment. It hadn't taken much thought, really. He knew he couldn't avoid his life forever. His world. A new year, and he was about to go back to the world he couldn't leave. It was time to try again.