[OOC: …oh…dear… sorry, I can't resist… I hope this works?!]
The rules of this maybe weren't so clear. Perhaps, lacking verbal command, the spell in the bedknob seized upon written—? or not… no, maybe telepathic… any not-so-buried desire for follow-up:
Suddenly, the swirl of time-/space-/probability around her coalesced into an image—a window and it didn't feel like she landed—the people through it certainly didn't seem to see her—but the bed stopped and… hovered, not traveling, for that one moment, that scene, to play out before her.
The room they were in was dreadful. Beyond decrepit, it looked like it was being actively demolished, yet for some reason being forced to hang together; walls, floor, and ceiling reinforced (by wood, metal, and tangible magic) over and over, and over and over sustaining slash marks of something trying to get out; the door thickest shielded and attacked, both; windows long since boarded over, but just enough slivers of moonlight shining through; the most unwelcoming-looking bed she'd ever seen, just a ridiculously shredded pallet bare on the floor; remains of other sturdy much-abused furniture battered about, wardrobe and drawers and desk, all of thick wood, all slashed and broken, seemingly left in increasing disrepair as one would leave an animal toys.
If she'd ever been in it, the Shrieking Shack would be unmistakable.
And standing in the middle of the room stood Remus Lupin and Albus Sodding Dumbledore. Remus was older than she'd just had a drink with him, younger than when she'd linearly meet him… but the agony of his expression made him impossible to place.
His stance was pure combat. Only excepting that his hands were empty. He wouldn't draw a wand on Dumbledore… he seemed a hair away from doing just that. Or from turning into the beast whose claw marks were on every centimetre of this room—and of himself—and Remus was screaming."Why didn't you call me back?!"
"And what is it you think you could have done?" Dumbledore, with the implacable calm that had stopped some armies and incited others.
"ANYTHING!" roared Remus. "I could have done anything!"
"Do you think you would have been less of an 'obvious' choice of secret keeper than Black? Mrs Potter's reasoning was that Pettigrew had never been given the opportunity to rise to a challenge."
"Peter always needed my help with such things!"
"Except for the wedge between you that was precisely his mental block around lycanthropy."
"I know how you sending me to live with other werewolves for the last two years! has alienated me from my only friends— so precisely when I might have been needed… Maybe help get to the bottom of… Sirius's trial—"
"Would you have been glad to be a character witness for the defense? After this?"
"Now I'll never know because he's already in Azkaban! You didn't bring me back even to see… I'll never see… for myself…"
"I did not think it would make it easier for you to—"
Remus barked the most unmirthful laugh. "You think! You think! What right… How could you possibly… what could make any of this 'easier'?! Maybe if I would have been here!"
"Speak the truth," said Dumbledore sternly. "You wish you were here because you 'would' have died with them."
For a flash, Remus's wand appeared, from his sleeve, nearly into his hand.
Which, would have proved Dumbledore's point. Because even as talented a wizard as Remus Lupin (and he was, one of the brightest of his age, nearly on a par with Lily Evans-Potter and… though his name would be stricken from this record… Sirius Black) —he was nowhere near able to challenge someone like Dumbledore without it being suicide. So that would have to have been the point.
But any glimpse of wand vanished again.
Remus sagged. His body collapsed into more of the slump he'd have from then on… which suddenly took on a new character. Not a lack of dignity or confidence, but exhaustion under weight.
"Yes," he said. All wolf, and its borrowed strength, was gone, and his voice was just the newly, fully adult, hollow hoarseness. "Why couldn't you have left me that."
"You are worth more than that," said Dumbledore. His voice was now a new gentleness, even apology. "We value you. We need you. There are others who care about you. I hope you will come to discover that. For now… grieve them as you must. Including Sirius Black. We'll be here when you find your way back. I'll know where you are."
In a swirl, Dumbledore was gone.
For a timeless moment, Lupin stood alone.
At last, he turned his back on the empty space and let himself fold inward, almost into nothing, until he was nearly flat on the bed.
"I tried," he said in a voice like wind through dead leaves. " '31 October '81. Second Secret Keeper.' I tried so hard before they sent me away… but I was deep undercover… I wasn't even told until I returned. It was too late."
…Look at that: the vortex, the window, were gone, and the bed had landed after all; and he was talking directly to Tonks. Even if maybe he wasn't aware that perhaps she wasn't a dream.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2022-11-03 03:20 am (UTC)The rules of this maybe weren't so clear. Perhaps, lacking verbal command, the spell in the bedknob seized upon written—? or not… no, maybe telepathic… any not-so-buried desire for follow-up:
Suddenly, the swirl of time-/space-/probability around her coalesced into an image—a window
and it didn't feel like she landed—the people through it certainly didn't seem to see her—but the bed stopped and… hovered, not traveling,
for that one moment, that scene, to play out before her.
The room they were in was dreadful. Beyond decrepit, it looked like it was being actively demolished, yet for some reason being forced to hang together; walls, floor, and ceiling reinforced (by wood, metal, and tangible magic) over and over, and over and over sustaining slash marks of something trying to get out; the door thickest shielded and attacked, both; windows long since boarded over, but just enough slivers of moonlight shining through; the most unwelcoming-looking bed she'd ever seen, just a ridiculously shredded pallet bare on the floor; remains of other sturdy much-abused furniture battered about, wardrobe and drawers and desk, all of thick wood, all slashed and broken, seemingly left in increasing disrepair as one would leave an animal toys.
If she'd ever been in it, the Shrieking Shack would be unmistakable.
And standing in the middle of the room stood Remus Lupin and Albus Sodding Dumbledore. Remus was older than she'd just had a drink with him, younger than when she'd linearly meet him… but the agony of his expression made him impossible to place.
His stance was pure combat. Only excepting that his hands were empty. He wouldn't draw a wand on Dumbledore… he seemed a hair away from doing just that. Or from turning into the beast whose claw marks were on every centimetre of this room—and of himself—and Remus was screaming. "Why didn't you call me back?!"
"And what is it you think you could have done?" Dumbledore, with the implacable calm that had stopped some armies and incited others.
"ANYTHING!" roared Remus. "I could have done anything!"
"Do you think you would have been less of an 'obvious' choice of secret keeper than Black? Mrs Potter's reasoning was that Pettigrew had never been given the opportunity to rise to a challenge."
"Peter always needed my help with such things!"
"Except for the wedge between you that was precisely his mental block around lycanthropy."
"I know how you sending me to live with other werewolves for the last two years! has alienated me from my only friends— so precisely when I might have been needed… Maybe help get to the bottom of… Sirius's trial—"
"Would you have been glad to be a character witness for the defense? After this?"
"Now I'll never know because he's already in Azkaban! You didn't bring me back even to see… I'll never see… for myself…"
"I did not think it would make it easier for you to—"
Remus barked the most unmirthful laugh. "You think! You think! What right… How could you possibly… what could make any of this 'easier'?! Maybe if I would have been here!"
"Speak the truth," said Dumbledore sternly. "You wish you were here because you 'would' have died with them."
For a flash, Remus's wand appeared, from his sleeve, nearly into his hand.
Which, would have proved Dumbledore's point. Because even as talented a wizard as Remus Lupin (and he was, one of the brightest of his age, nearly on a par with Lily Evans-Potter and… though his name would be stricken from this record… Sirius Black) —he was nowhere near able to challenge someone like Dumbledore without it being suicide. So that would have to have been the point.
But any glimpse of wand vanished again.
Remus sagged. His body collapsed into more of the slump he'd have from then on… which suddenly took on a new character. Not a lack of dignity or confidence, but exhaustion under weight.
"Yes," he said. All wolf, and its borrowed strength, was gone, and his voice was just the newly, fully adult, hollow hoarseness. "Why couldn't you have left me that."
"You are worth more than that," said Dumbledore. His voice was now a new gentleness, even apology. "We value you. We need you. There are others who care about you. I hope you will come to discover that. For now… grieve them as you must. Including Sirius Black. We'll be here when you find your way back. I'll know where you are."
In a swirl, Dumbledore was gone.
For a timeless moment, Lupin stood alone.
At last, he turned his back on the empty space and let himself fold inward, almost into nothing, until he was nearly flat on the bed.
"I tried," he said in a voice like wind through dead leaves. " '31 October '81. Second Secret Keeper.' I tried so hard before they sent me away… but I was deep undercover… I wasn't even told until I returned. It was too late."
…Look at that: the vortex, the window, were gone, and the bed had landed after all; and he was talking directly to Tonks. Even if maybe he wasn't aware that perhaps she wasn't a dream.