He got it. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.
He looked up from nothingness to see her hand on the table; then looked further up to her eyes.
She's leading him gently, by exactly the right landmarks. Maybe the older him, mid-war, would be less able, but this Remus goes so readily, ready for all the confirmation that she not only knows him, but he may also know her.
(…which also means, yes, older-him would agree with present her: younger-him is a much better advocate and intermediary for himself, obviously much wiser on this front than he'll grow to be. But then… First War—embedded with werewolves, bereavement and alienation from Marauders an unrealised trauma on its own, 1978-1981. End of the world, Halloween 1981. Homelessness 1982-1986. Near-total hermitry, 1987-1993. Horribly, the worst for Remus Lupin was yet to come. And "It's not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes…")
There are qualities that stay the same, at least. One, likewise, is being a good listener.
When she recounts the books' judgments on metamorphmagi, he makes a sound of angry shock. Shock, clearly, that he didn't already know most of this—so many connections not only, as she's excellently pointing out, to his situation, but to all of his studies; but, yes, another of her points proven: actually rather an obscure subject. …And anger because, exactly… "Don't these pillocks know the harm they create," he… yeah, the word, more literally than usual, was growled. In part, feeling like a guard dog, in defense specifically of her.
When she mentions Bellatrix Lestrange, Remus's expression, intently listening, had a new aspect, like a rain, wash down it. A slightest change of frown, not better or worse, just… specific.
He hesitated on this one. "…I shouldn't tell. Because you know him. So you may know already, but maybe especially for that…" He bit his lip, then slightly shook his head. "Just promise not to show you know. All right? …The reason I took my specialty in Defense Against the Dark Arts. …I got into it cleaning up after Sirius. He is so… afraid… so violently opposed… to being like… those members of your extended family—that mindset of the House… the strength of that anger and resistance, itself… when he gets angry, it kind of explodes and… he becomes exactly like that." He looked down, and now his hand moved ever so slightly closer to hers. "I'm so sorry."
When she said she was rambling, he gave a disagreeing exhalation and self-deprecating smile. Compared to me? But he stayed quiet to keep listening.
Decidedly human. Yet another new kind of silence as he digested that.
The song… her voice… When silence fell, Remus looked utterly wrung out. Like he'd been laughing or weeping or he might start either or both.
If he were older here and now, he might have asked if he could kiss her. But it was maybe better he wasn't. He didn't actually want a snog anyway… he wished he could lie down with her somewhere warm and curl up together like cats until they both felt calm again, and safe.
But I do feel safe with you. …I get it. I'm sorry I won't feel safe enough everywhere else.
AAAAAH AMAZING!!! <3 <3 <3
He got it. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.
He looked up from nothingness to see her hand on the table; then looked further up to her eyes.
She's leading him gently, by exactly the right landmarks. Maybe the older him, mid-war, would be less able, but this Remus goes so readily, ready for all the confirmation that she not only knows him, but he may also know her.
(…which also means, yes, older-him would agree with present her: younger-him is a much better advocate and intermediary for himself, obviously much wiser on this front than he'll grow to be. But then…
First War—embedded with werewolves, bereavement and alienation from Marauders an unrealised trauma on its own, 1978-1981. End of the world, Halloween 1981. Homelessness 1982-1986. Near-total hermitry, 1987-1993. Horribly, the worst for Remus Lupin was yet to come. And "It's not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes…")
There are qualities that stay the same, at least. One, likewise, is being a good listener.
When she recounts the books' judgments on metamorphmagi, he makes a sound of angry shock. Shock, clearly, that he didn't already know most of this—so many connections not only, as she's excellently pointing out, to his situation, but to all of his studies; but, yes, another of her points proven: actually rather an obscure subject. …And anger because, exactly… "Don't these pillocks know the harm they create," he… yeah, the word, more literally than usual, was growled. In part, feeling like a guard dog, in defense specifically of her.
When she mentions Bellatrix Lestrange, Remus's expression, intently listening, had a new aspect, like a rain, wash down it. A slightest change of frown, not better or worse, just… specific.
He hesitated on this one. "…I shouldn't tell. Because you know him. So you may know already, but maybe especially for that…" He bit his lip, then slightly shook his head. "Just promise not to show you know. All right? …The reason I took my specialty in Defense Against the Dark Arts. …I got into it cleaning up after Sirius. He is so… afraid… so violently opposed… to being like… those members of your extended family—that mindset of the House… the strength of that anger and resistance, itself… when he gets angry, it kind of explodes and… he becomes exactly like that." He looked down, and now his hand moved ever so slightly closer to hers. "I'm so sorry."
When she said she was rambling, he gave a disagreeing exhalation and self-deprecating smile. Compared to me? But he stayed quiet to keep listening.
Decidedly human. Yet another new kind of silence as he digested that.
The song… her voice… When silence fell, Remus looked utterly wrung out. Like he'd been laughing or weeping or he might start either or both.
If he were older here and now, he might have asked if he could kiss her. But it was maybe better he wasn't. He didn't actually want a snog anyway… he wished he could lie down with her somewhere warm and curl up together like cats until they both felt calm again, and safe.
But I do feel safe with you. …I get it. I'm sorry I won't feel safe enough everywhere else.
"Thank you," he finally managed.