Status: hiatus; being rewritten
Spanner in the Works
multiplying matchsticks
It starts badly.
Transfiguration, third period, just before lunch. Remus is hungry, and the growls in his stomach have only exacerbated during the course of the lesson. He’s not paying attention, and that’s unlike him. It’s a particularly warm day and he’s uncomfortable in his uniform: his collar feels too tight, his pullover feels too heavy. Clearly he dressed for the wrong season.
He shifts in his seat, trying not to doze off. McGonagall sets them off to do something – he’s not even exactly sure what – so he turns to his left to ask what they’re meant to be doing. Sirius is lounging, head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. Remus says, “What are we...” then he drifts off and mumbles, “Oh, forget it,” because the chances of Sirius paying attention are equal to the chances of there being a sudden cure for werewolves. So he turns to his right and comes face to face with a girl whose name he cannot remember.
She’s waving her wand at the single matchstick on the desk in front of her, a frown teasing wrinkles into her brow. Noticing his stare, she looks up and smiles. “Hi.”
Remus feels like he should say something, something funny or sarcastic, and for a second he wishes he were Sirius, but he quickly dispels that notion with a slight shudder. He settles for a simple, “Hi.”
Nice. Easy. Understated. Good work, Moony.
He knows her name is something beginning with D. Demetria or Delaney or Dolores. He says, “Sorry, but what are we actually doing?”
She laughs, and her laughter sounds like what silk would sound like if silk ever laughed. Remus feels another curtain of heat roll from his forehead to his heels, spreading right through to his toes. “Multiplying matchsticks,” she replies, and she takes a deep breath and mutters, “Geminio.” A spark leaps out from the tip of her wand, spearing the matchstick at the head, and then there are two. She smiles again and looks up. “You’re Remus, right?”
“Yeah.” Remus grins, gripping his wand a little tighter in his hand as the memory of her name flings itself to the forefront of his mind. “Darcianna!”
The smile slips from her face. “Don’t ever call me Darcianna, Lupin, or I swear I will jam my wand where the sun is actively forbidden from shining.”
It starts bad. It gets worse.
Transfiguration, third period, just before lunch. Remus is hungry, and the growls in his stomach have only exacerbated during the course of the lesson. He’s not paying attention, and that’s unlike him. It’s a particularly warm day and he’s uncomfortable in his uniform: his collar feels too tight, his pullover feels too heavy. Clearly he dressed for the wrong season.
He shifts in his seat, trying not to doze off. McGonagall sets them off to do something – he’s not even exactly sure what – so he turns to his left to ask what they’re meant to be doing. Sirius is lounging, head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. Remus says, “What are we...” then he drifts off and mumbles, “Oh, forget it,” because the chances of Sirius paying attention are equal to the chances of there being a sudden cure for werewolves. So he turns to his right and comes face to face with a girl whose name he cannot remember.
She’s waving her wand at the single matchstick on the desk in front of her, a frown teasing wrinkles into her brow. Noticing his stare, she looks up and smiles. “Hi.”
Remus feels like he should say something, something funny or sarcastic, and for a second he wishes he were Sirius, but he quickly dispels that notion with a slight shudder. He settles for a simple, “Hi.”
Nice. Easy. Understated. Good work, Moony.
He knows her name is something beginning with D. Demetria or Delaney or Dolores. He says, “Sorry, but what are we actually doing?”
She laughs, and her laughter sounds like what silk would sound like if silk ever laughed. Remus feels another curtain of heat roll from his forehead to his heels, spreading right through to his toes. “Multiplying matchsticks,” she replies, and she takes a deep breath and mutters, “Geminio.” A spark leaps out from the tip of her wand, spearing the matchstick at the head, and then there are two. She smiles again and looks up. “You’re Remus, right?”
“Yeah.” Remus grins, gripping his wand a little tighter in his hand as the memory of her name flings itself to the forefront of his mind. “Darcianna!”
The smile slips from her face. “Don’t ever call me Darcianna, Lupin, or I swear I will jam my wand where the sun is actively forbidden from shining.”
It starts bad. It gets worse.
♠ ♠ ♠
I AM WRITING A MARAUDERS!ERA FIC AND IT FEELS SO GOOD
i can't imagine this going on for very many chapters because it's kind of light and fluffy and fun and i'm not good at light and fluffy and fun. but yeah.
i can't imagine this going on for very many chapters because it's kind of light and fluffy and fun and i'm not good at light and fluffy and fun. but yeah.