Baby, sweetheart, would I lie to you?
I have a maple syrup snowcone. YUMMINIES.
Title: The Tea House
Author: waxrose
Pairings: Severus/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Length: 925 words
Notes: Written for threadedwinter and themeadow_song as an early Christmas present. All my love to my wonderful beta reader, sioniann! ♥
November is the month of death, a biting cold that screams through futile layered warmth and whistles shrilly through the silent air. Nature has resigned itself to its fate and the fragile green grass is now crushed and broken under slushy, grey snow. Darkness comes early, death ever more frequently. Wizards and witches scurry home quickly, avoiding the eyes of strangers and locking themselves into their homes, warded securely, solidly, uselessly.
Yes, it is a cruel, killing month and the Dark Mark reigns over all, twinkling madly in the sky like a massive green constellation, relishing the screams of pain and horror that cry out in the still night.
There is not much time to talk these days and very few places to do so. But talk they must, even though Lupin’s fists clench and his knuckles turn white when he looks in Severus’s dark eyes and oh - Severus doesn’t need Legilimency to tell what he sees, the images to betrayal and treason that carve lines of pain on the werewolf’s face. A tower, a curse, a flight, whispers the wind accusingly, shrieking through cracks in the rough wooden barn walls, as if it knows his sins. Yes, they must talk, anywhere they can: the cold, hard floor of a deserted barn, teeth chattering as they convey plans and strategies, eyes flitting to the crudely drawn diagrams on the dirt floor, to cracked skin on hands (and occasionally, furtively, to a furrowed brow, wrinkles, new scars). A shabby cottage near the tossing, sickly ocean where the air smells like salt and delirium. They build a fire and drink weak tea, pretending that some problems aren’t beyond escape.
Lupin doesn’t trust him. He never really did, he simply trusted Dumbledore and Dumbledore trusted Severus. Lupin can’t reconcile a world where he is the one to send people to die, where there is no benevolent all-knowing leader to dispense lemon drops and platitudes.
Poor bastard. Things weren’t holding together very well; three Weasleys dead within a month of each other, eight other Order members lost to an ambush on a warm September evening in Muggle London. One could imagine that support for his leadership was faltering.
From the piecemeal and mumbled tidbits of information that Lupin conveys, Severus knows that Potter is gone, along with Weasley and Granger. There was a note (Don’t worry about us, Remus, we’ll be all right-), but no clear explanation for why. Brainless, foolish, rash boy. Typical Gryffindor. He tells Lupin this and Lupin smiles tiredly, ironically, says, “Just like James.” Lupin hasn’t given up on Potter, but he’s prepared for the worst. Severus can see it in the tight, anxious lines of his face, the way he keeps biting his lower lip. He’ll face the potential -and likely - death of Lily and James’s son as he’s always faced everything. Strength. Silent grief. Just enough denial to be able to wake up and drink a cup of tea every morning and pretend that a new day means a new beginning.
Severus knows this, and he watches. He always has, even before he knew why.
He wants to explain, somehow, as Lupin quietly stirs his tea, spoon rattling against the china, ringing and unwelcome in the silence of the dark cottage. He wants to regain what he lost so suddenly: respect. Purpose. The promise of a life that could be truly his and his alone. Those things are lost forever now and although he knows how this will end - how it will all end - he teases himself with the barest whispers of almost. Like sucking icy air in to test a sore tooth. So when the time comes...he will remember.
They are both weathered and scarred by the endless seasons of war and death that have marked and defined their lives, driven to pursue things that they must do but do not want.
But there is still hope to be found, still life to be lived, even if he won’t believe or allow himself to even imagine a world where he is allowed to exist as a free man. Free of Voldemort’s service, free of Dumbledore’s well-meaning manipulation, and above all, free of the duty he still holds
to, even when no one else cares whether or not he succeeds. Yes, there is life. It’s in the small triumph of the lifted corners of Remus’s lips, the momentary flash of joy in his eyes. It’s in the gritty, burning feel of stubble against stubble, lips tasting and the comfort of another’s warmth.
And it is in regaining something he thought was truly never to be found again.
He will die, of course, and soon. Voldemort’s power is waning; why, no one is sure. Sometimes, Severus thinks that Dark Lord knows, but will not say. He will meet Potter eventually and whether he dies at the hands of Potter or the Dark Lord is no matter to him - as long as he stands between them long enough to assure a victory for the boy he hates. The boy who will live at the cost of Severus’s death.
But in those moments when the world is blessedly quiet and there are just enough tea leaves in the dusty cupboard for a pot of tea while the wind whispers secrets of death and rebirth - he knows that in the end, his life will have mattered, his death will make a difference. And there is freedom to be found there.
Title: The Tea House
Author: waxrose
Pairings: Severus/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Length: 925 words
Notes: Written for threadedwinter and themeadow_song as an early Christmas present. All my love to my wonderful beta reader, sioniann! ♥
November is the month of death, a biting cold that screams through futile layered warmth and whistles shrilly through the silent air. Nature has resigned itself to its fate and the fragile green grass is now crushed and broken under slushy, grey snow. Darkness comes early, death ever more frequently. Wizards and witches scurry home quickly, avoiding the eyes of strangers and locking themselves into their homes, warded securely, solidly, uselessly.
Yes, it is a cruel, killing month and the Dark Mark reigns over all, twinkling madly in the sky like a massive green constellation, relishing the screams of pain and horror that cry out in the still night.
There is not much time to talk these days and very few places to do so. But talk they must, even though Lupin’s fists clench and his knuckles turn white when he looks in Severus’s dark eyes and oh - Severus doesn’t need Legilimency to tell what he sees, the images to betrayal and treason that carve lines of pain on the werewolf’s face. A tower, a curse, a flight, whispers the wind accusingly, shrieking through cracks in the rough wooden barn walls, as if it knows his sins. Yes, they must talk, anywhere they can: the cold, hard floor of a deserted barn, teeth chattering as they convey plans and strategies, eyes flitting to the crudely drawn diagrams on the dirt floor, to cracked skin on hands (and occasionally, furtively, to a furrowed brow, wrinkles, new scars). A shabby cottage near the tossing, sickly ocean where the air smells like salt and delirium. They build a fire and drink weak tea, pretending that some problems aren’t beyond escape.
Lupin doesn’t trust him. He never really did, he simply trusted Dumbledore and Dumbledore trusted Severus. Lupin can’t reconcile a world where he is the one to send people to die, where there is no benevolent all-knowing leader to dispense lemon drops and platitudes.
Poor bastard. Things weren’t holding together very well; three Weasleys dead within a month of each other, eight other Order members lost to an ambush on a warm September evening in Muggle London. One could imagine that support for his leadership was faltering.
From the piecemeal and mumbled tidbits of information that Lupin conveys, Severus knows that Potter is gone, along with Weasley and Granger. There was a note (Don’t worry about us, Remus, we’ll be all right-), but no clear explanation for why. Brainless, foolish, rash boy. Typical Gryffindor. He tells Lupin this and Lupin smiles tiredly, ironically, says, “Just like James.” Lupin hasn’t given up on Potter, but he’s prepared for the worst. Severus can see it in the tight, anxious lines of his face, the way he keeps biting his lower lip. He’ll face the potential -and likely - death of Lily and James’s son as he’s always faced everything. Strength. Silent grief. Just enough denial to be able to wake up and drink a cup of tea every morning and pretend that a new day means a new beginning.
Severus knows this, and he watches. He always has, even before he knew why.
He wants to explain, somehow, as Lupin quietly stirs his tea, spoon rattling against the china, ringing and unwelcome in the silence of the dark cottage. He wants to regain what he lost so suddenly: respect. Purpose. The promise of a life that could be truly his and his alone. Those things are lost forever now and although he knows how this will end - how it will all end - he teases himself with the barest whispers of almost. Like sucking icy air in to test a sore tooth. So when the time comes...he will remember.
They are both weathered and scarred by the endless seasons of war and death that have marked and defined their lives, driven to pursue things that they must do but do not want.
But there is still hope to be found, still life to be lived, even if he won’t believe or allow himself to even imagine a world where he is allowed to exist as a free man. Free of Voldemort’s service, free of Dumbledore’s well-meaning manipulation, and above all, free of the duty he still holds
to, even when no one else cares whether or not he succeeds. Yes, there is life. It’s in the small triumph of the lifted corners of Remus’s lips, the momentary flash of joy in his eyes. It’s in the gritty, burning feel of stubble against stubble, lips tasting and the comfort of another’s warmth.
And it is in regaining something he thought was truly never to be found again.
He will die, of course, and soon. Voldemort’s power is waning; why, no one is sure. Sometimes, Severus thinks that Dark Lord knows, but will not say. He will meet Potter eventually and whether he dies at the hands of Potter or the Dark Lord is no matter to him - as long as he stands between them long enough to assure a victory for the boy he hates. The boy who will live at the cost of Severus’s death.
But in those moments when the world is blessedly quiet and there are just enough tea leaves in the dusty cupboard for a pot of tea while the wind whispers secrets of death and rebirth - he knows that in the end, his life will have mattered, his death will make a difference. And there is freedom to be found there.