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mclachlan
harry potter, sbrl
spoilers for the series
The significance of her newly-acquired surname was not lost on her, and so Magdha Lupin prayed to the woman with the white face who gazed down upon their small house on the moors every night. She wanted a child, a boy or a girl; the sex didn't matter as long as it was healthy, and happy. The broad area of open land, often high but poorly drained, with its patches of heath and peat bogs, was lonely, its scarce population made up of mostly the older generations, wizards and witches who had long since retired from the bustle of the world, content to see the rest of their days out by watching the kestrals flying in the twilight, in search of their next meal, most likely a mouse seeking shelter in the high grasses.
Her pleas were not lost on the woman with the white face, her white oxen-drawn chariot silently taking her across the sky, her fingers touching Magdha's eyes and anyone else who happened to look up at the diamond-dotted expanse.
I will grant you a child, but in my footsteps shall he follow. The words came to Magdha, curled up against the naked, lean form of her new husband and drifting in the place between sleep and awake, white light pouring through a hole in the old window shades, fraying slightly at the edges and growing brown with age.
The evening Magdha discovered there were two heartbeats rooting her to the earth was also the evening a man named Fenrir Greyback moved into the abode half a mile away.
He had never known pain such as the kind he was feeling, his small body beaten and battered by a monster that had clawed its way out of his chest. He did not know why such a thing lived in him, and so Remus Lupin prayed to the woman with the white face who was fading in the light of the coming dawn, her touch weak and fleeting upon his torn cheeks.
It had been an odd business, the afternoon before, the silence that descended over the table at dinner. He had eaten his stew, the chunks of beef especially delicious for no reason that he could fathom. He wanted to ask his mother if the cilantro she was growing in her little garden by the window had been right for seasoning, but her face was drawn, eyes rimmed red and puffy. She had either been crying, or going through the albums in the attic again, their covers the perfect resting place for dust and mites. He loved it when she would sit him down and told him stories of his grandmother, pointing all the while to the moving memories, her kind smile and little wave captured in time for him. It was almost as if she was waving to him, her mouth turned up in a gentle apology for not coming to visit him when he had been hurt that night, when that man with the wild eyes had returned him to his father's arms. That had been a month ago.
After dinner, his father had brought him down the old stairs, worn with time and use, to the basement. The room was small and claustrophobic, the single window stained with muck. A rather large spider had taken up residence there, its web intricate and thick, the threads catching the filtered orange light of the setting sun. But it had been the newest addition to the wall on the left that drew his eyes, great chains huddled in four piles. They had looked like sleeping constrictors, coiled tightly to keep warm in the dank atmosphere.
His father had fastened the shackles around both of his wrists, his ankles, efficient and silent, steadfastedly avoiding his frightened, questioning gaze. Once the task was complete, his father had left him there, the spider in the corner of the window the only company to be had, the fading sun the only light. But as the last crimson rays bled away, laying a peculiar hush to the world, something was demanding release.
And now lying in on a floor as red as the coming dawn, he begged her to stop the pain, to put to sleep whatever was caged beneath his skin. His pleas were not lost on the woman with the white face, her chariot taking her back to her palace where she would slumber until the night was to come again.
I shall kiss you every night except one, and such will be enough to hide the monster away. The words came to Remus as the rose-tipped fingers of her sweet-faced sister, who promised to lull him into happy dreams and to warm the hurts on his skin, cupped his cheeks and brushed away the tears trembling on his lashes.
The next evening, resting against his sheets, Remus realized that the white-faced woman's kisses would never be enough to hide it away, because the monster was not separate from him.
The crimson and gold of the Gryffindor common room was cast into ivory, turning the lone form seated by the window into a living sculpture. His friend had been called back once again to the side of his dying grandmother, the ailing lie that none of the four would question, set to return to Hogwarts in three day's time once the oxen-drawn chariot had gone. Knowing he had no affiliation with her, James prayed to the woman with the white face anyway. He needed to be told what to do.
Their circle was breaking, the never ending band that connected them was starting to split in places, suspicion and fear turning them against each other. Contemplative, confused, angry, and resigned; that was what the Marauders had become in the face of deceit. But simple logic had given them the truth that the three of them craved to hear, that one of them longed to give.
For the first time in his wizarding career, he was not the leader. He was not in charge of the fate of his friend. His friend, the quiet and kind one who endured the teasing of their peers with a sad smile and the heartbreaking retort of "yes, of course". His friend, who could never lift a finger to hurt someone, was out there right now, most likely shut away where the only someone he could hurt was himself. The one who hid his heart away lest someone learn his secret and desert him.
To fear being hated. To hate being feared.
James closed his eyes and pleaded for the woman with the white face to give him something, anything, that might somewhat ease the pain of their distant, yet most-beloved comrade.
One magic is great, but three is a trifecta of endless possibilities. You were born from the earth; run with him.
The words came to him as an idea began to take shape in his mind, an idea unlike anything ever thought of. He grinned, and ran upstairs to wake his friends, his brothers in this most delicious scheme, and tell them of how they were going to go back to the earth so that they might come together as four and run.
The evening that James announced that the Marauders would learn to become Animagi was the first evening in a while that hope sparked in Sirius's eyes.
The air had been driven mad by the relentless pounding of the sea, as mad as the inhabitants of the prison where the dawn did not dare to go. Black as the ocean, the night was wild with storm, rain and seawater clashing and warring, the wind a shrill scream that kept him awake, although sleep hardly came for him.
He couldn't feel her or see her, but she was always there, and so Sirius prayed to the woman with the white face for news about the man with the sad smile and the wolf in his eyes. He had no business asking anything of her, he knew, for she had never looked kindly upon him for his betrayal of Remus that horrible night in fifth year, when the dorms had smelled of marzipan at Christmastime and expulsion had been very close to becoming a reality. While Remus had eventually given him his forgiveness, it had been his trust that was withheld.
Trust. Sirius closed his eyes and cursed himself for witholding his own, for suspecting Remus of--
He quietly asked the woman again for word. Of Remus, or of the other boy whose father had called for her once upon a time.
Unjust in your doings, you, Black as the night that restrains me. But your retribution has been long and hard, and this has not escaped me. The child is growing weary, and the wolf is growing stronger. Kisses are not payment enough to keep them steady. Incentive is needed.
His Moony. His Harry.
His breath escaped him in a frozen cloud, and darkness was creeping into his cell. A brilliant burst of silver light forced the dementors back, pouring through the barred hole in the wall that served as a window.
Go.
Becoming the form she had given to him was second-nature now, and he left the black sea behind, following the earth back to where he was needed.
The night Sirius escaped Azkaban was the night Peter Pettigrew woke in the night and saw the spot of white light on the floor beneath his window diminish and disappear, leaving him alone in the dark.
The world was becoming darker, and the night was not at fault. Shadows had invaded the already murky halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, and so Nymphadora Tonks sat on the edge of the bed she shared with Remus and prayed to the woman with the white face, who watched from her chariot, above the petty and cruel happenings of Man.
He looked at her, but saw another. She wasn't blind, nor deaf, nor was she heartless. The hands she touched him with, the hands he shied away from but endured politely, should have been callused, marked by time and the stone walls of a tiny cell. Her hair should not change color, for it should have been the absense of color. Her body... She knew what her body should be. And she could make it so, if she so chose, but it would not be her.
She implored the woman with the white face to make him love her, shame burning her.
His heart is not his own to give, taken by a man who was wrongfully taken by Death. But another love can be yours. A different kind of love.
The words came to her and were not a comfort, but there was little comfort those days to be had. She had no choice but to take them.
The morning that Tonks realized there were two heartbeats rooting her to the earth was the morning that Remus smiled at her and wished for death.
While happy eyes looked on, his fingertips touched the young face of a smiling man with hair as black as the night, and no one besought the woman with the white face.
He would be setting off for Hogwarts in the morning, his trunks of clothes and American Muggle baseball cards mixed in with his Famous Wizard trading cards, Morgana half-covering the face of Mickey Mantle.
Gazing outside his window into the sky, Teddy asked the woman with the white face if his parents were proud.
The moon smiled down at him.
Yes.
mclachlanharry potter, sbrl
spoilers for the series
The significance of her newly-acquired surname was not lost on her, and so Magdha Lupin prayed to the woman with the white face who gazed down upon their small house on the moors every night. She wanted a child, a boy or a girl; the sex didn't matter as long as it was healthy, and happy. The broad area of open land, often high but poorly drained, with its patches of heath and peat bogs, was lonely, its scarce population made up of mostly the older generations, wizards and witches who had long since retired from the bustle of the world, content to see the rest of their days out by watching the kestrals flying in the twilight, in search of their next meal, most likely a mouse seeking shelter in the high grasses.
Her pleas were not lost on the woman with the white face, her white oxen-drawn chariot silently taking her across the sky, her fingers touching Magdha's eyes and anyone else who happened to look up at the diamond-dotted expanse.
I will grant you a child, but in my footsteps shall he follow. The words came to Magdha, curled up against the naked, lean form of her new husband and drifting in the place between sleep and awake, white light pouring through a hole in the old window shades, fraying slightly at the edges and growing brown with age.
The evening Magdha discovered there were two heartbeats rooting her to the earth was also the evening a man named Fenrir Greyback moved into the abode half a mile away.
He had never known pain such as the kind he was feeling, his small body beaten and battered by a monster that had clawed its way out of his chest. He did not know why such a thing lived in him, and so Remus Lupin prayed to the woman with the white face who was fading in the light of the coming dawn, her touch weak and fleeting upon his torn cheeks.
It had been an odd business, the afternoon before, the silence that descended over the table at dinner. He had eaten his stew, the chunks of beef especially delicious for no reason that he could fathom. He wanted to ask his mother if the cilantro she was growing in her little garden by the window had been right for seasoning, but her face was drawn, eyes rimmed red and puffy. She had either been crying, or going through the albums in the attic again, their covers the perfect resting place for dust and mites. He loved it when she would sit him down and told him stories of his grandmother, pointing all the while to the moving memories, her kind smile and little wave captured in time for him. It was almost as if she was waving to him, her mouth turned up in a gentle apology for not coming to visit him when he had been hurt that night, when that man with the wild eyes had returned him to his father's arms. That had been a month ago.
After dinner, his father had brought him down the old stairs, worn with time and use, to the basement. The room was small and claustrophobic, the single window stained with muck. A rather large spider had taken up residence there, its web intricate and thick, the threads catching the filtered orange light of the setting sun. But it had been the newest addition to the wall on the left that drew his eyes, great chains huddled in four piles. They had looked like sleeping constrictors, coiled tightly to keep warm in the dank atmosphere.
His father had fastened the shackles around both of his wrists, his ankles, efficient and silent, steadfastedly avoiding his frightened, questioning gaze. Once the task was complete, his father had left him there, the spider in the corner of the window the only company to be had, the fading sun the only light. But as the last crimson rays bled away, laying a peculiar hush to the world, something was demanding release.
And now lying in on a floor as red as the coming dawn, he begged her to stop the pain, to put to sleep whatever was caged beneath his skin. His pleas were not lost on the woman with the white face, her chariot taking her back to her palace where she would slumber until the night was to come again.
I shall kiss you every night except one, and such will be enough to hide the monster away. The words came to Remus as the rose-tipped fingers of her sweet-faced sister, who promised to lull him into happy dreams and to warm the hurts on his skin, cupped his cheeks and brushed away the tears trembling on his lashes.
The next evening, resting against his sheets, Remus realized that the white-faced woman's kisses would never be enough to hide it away, because the monster was not separate from him.
The crimson and gold of the Gryffindor common room was cast into ivory, turning the lone form seated by the window into a living sculpture. His friend had been called back once again to the side of his dying grandmother, the ailing lie that none of the four would question, set to return to Hogwarts in three day's time once the oxen-drawn chariot had gone. Knowing he had no affiliation with her, James prayed to the woman with the white face anyway. He needed to be told what to do.
Their circle was breaking, the never ending band that connected them was starting to split in places, suspicion and fear turning them against each other. Contemplative, confused, angry, and resigned; that was what the Marauders had become in the face of deceit. But simple logic had given them the truth that the three of them craved to hear, that one of them longed to give.
For the first time in his wizarding career, he was not the leader. He was not in charge of the fate of his friend. His friend, the quiet and kind one who endured the teasing of their peers with a sad smile and the heartbreaking retort of "yes, of course". His friend, who could never lift a finger to hurt someone, was out there right now, most likely shut away where the only someone he could hurt was himself. The one who hid his heart away lest someone learn his secret and desert him.
To fear being hated. To hate being feared.
James closed his eyes and pleaded for the woman with the white face to give him something, anything, that might somewhat ease the pain of their distant, yet most-beloved comrade.
One magic is great, but three is a trifecta of endless possibilities. You were born from the earth; run with him.
The words came to him as an idea began to take shape in his mind, an idea unlike anything ever thought of. He grinned, and ran upstairs to wake his friends, his brothers in this most delicious scheme, and tell them of how they were going to go back to the earth so that they might come together as four and run.
The evening that James announced that the Marauders would learn to become Animagi was the first evening in a while that hope sparked in Sirius's eyes.
The air had been driven mad by the relentless pounding of the sea, as mad as the inhabitants of the prison where the dawn did not dare to go. Black as the ocean, the night was wild with storm, rain and seawater clashing and warring, the wind a shrill scream that kept him awake, although sleep hardly came for him.
He couldn't feel her or see her, but she was always there, and so Sirius prayed to the woman with the white face for news about the man with the sad smile and the wolf in his eyes. He had no business asking anything of her, he knew, for she had never looked kindly upon him for his betrayal of Remus that horrible night in fifth year, when the dorms had smelled of marzipan at Christmastime and expulsion had been very close to becoming a reality. While Remus had eventually given him his forgiveness, it had been his trust that was withheld.
Trust. Sirius closed his eyes and cursed himself for witholding his own, for suspecting Remus of--
He quietly asked the woman again for word. Of Remus, or of the other boy whose father had called for her once upon a time.
Unjust in your doings, you, Black as the night that restrains me. But your retribution has been long and hard, and this has not escaped me. The child is growing weary, and the wolf is growing stronger. Kisses are not payment enough to keep them steady. Incentive is needed.
His Moony. His Harry.
His breath escaped him in a frozen cloud, and darkness was creeping into his cell. A brilliant burst of silver light forced the dementors back, pouring through the barred hole in the wall that served as a window.
Go.
Becoming the form she had given to him was second-nature now, and he left the black sea behind, following the earth back to where he was needed.
The night Sirius escaped Azkaban was the night Peter Pettigrew woke in the night and saw the spot of white light on the floor beneath his window diminish and disappear, leaving him alone in the dark.
The world was becoming darker, and the night was not at fault. Shadows had invaded the already murky halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, and so Nymphadora Tonks sat on the edge of the bed she shared with Remus and prayed to the woman with the white face, who watched from her chariot, above the petty and cruel happenings of Man.
He looked at her, but saw another. She wasn't blind, nor deaf, nor was she heartless. The hands she touched him with, the hands he shied away from but endured politely, should have been callused, marked by time and the stone walls of a tiny cell. Her hair should not change color, for it should have been the absense of color. Her body... She knew what her body should be. And she could make it so, if she so chose, but it would not be her.
She implored the woman with the white face to make him love her, shame burning her.
His heart is not his own to give, taken by a man who was wrongfully taken by Death. But another love can be yours. A different kind of love.
The words came to her and were not a comfort, but there was little comfort those days to be had. She had no choice but to take them.
The morning that Tonks realized there were two heartbeats rooting her to the earth was the morning that Remus smiled at her and wished for death.
While happy eyes looked on, his fingertips touched the young face of a smiling man with hair as black as the night, and no one besought the woman with the white face.
He would be setting off for Hogwarts in the morning, his trunks of clothes and American Muggle baseball cards mixed in with his Famous Wizard trading cards, Morgana half-covering the face of Mickey Mantle.
Gazing outside his window into the sky, Teddy asked the woman with the white face if his parents were proud.
The moon smiled down at him.
Yes.
