» the literary revisionist

the last goodbye.

2007-04-01T03:38:01Z

A heads-up to any who may have missed it the first time round: expositionary was abandoned a (long) while back. I closed up shop for good today, locking all entries that weren't fic or meta. Feel free to defriend this journal now. If you'd like, re-friend at the new one: it's a combination of real-life & fic/fandom. Over and out. ♥

moving on to »»» wanderlight.

moving/merging expositionary.

2007-01-04T01:59:37Z

I'm going to close this journal. Sort of.

I'm not leaving fandom: instead, I'm merging this journal with my personal one, wanderlight. All fic will be posted there from now on. It was too much of a hassle to switch accounts all the time -- I think that led to expositionary's long hiatus, in part.

merged with wanderlight

Over the next few days I'll be re-friending and dropping notes to you. Those who I'd thought might be interested in keeping up with me, or those whose journals I've missed reading during the hiatus and would like to talk to again. If you are interested, please friend me back.

& if I haven't re-friended you yet and you're still interested, feel free to friend me and poke me either here or here and let me know. I will try to get around to it eventually, but I could barely keep on top of wanderlight's flist before I went and added twentysome people, so I can't make promises.

So, yeah. Moving, re-friending, hello. Will post new fic and all that jazz later. We'll see how this works. Thanks, everyone. ♥

fic: This Is the Way the World Ends (Lone Power, PG)

2007-01-01T04:16:11Z

Happy New Year's, all. I'm back; apologies for being remiss in reading the flist. I blame illness, my education, and my personal journal (wanderlight) for the long absence from fandom.

I'm on winter break now, so hopefully I'll finally be able to finish various fics and post them. To begin with, fic from a fandom most of you haven't even heard of. ;)

--

title: This Is the Way the World Ends
rating: PG
characters: Lone Power, the Earth
words: ~500
summary: In my beginning is my end. A look at an apocalypse, of sorts, through the eyes of the Lone Power.

notes: This is not the story I set out to write, I'll admit. I claimed a prompt for the myriadwords challenge, long ago, and I still owe labellementeuse fic for that (!) — but instead, you get this snippet. I'm not quite sure what it is. Title and summary text stolen from T.S. Eliot.

--

There are many ways in which a world can die, and the Lone Power has seen them all.

Nucleics are always interesting (a fireworks display for the gods): the grandiosity, the darkening skies, the tremors, the desperation in their faces as it ends. Sometimes ash and radiation sift through the atmosphere for days afterwards, blanketing the surface and smothering its life. Sometimes the destruction is so absolute that it leaves nothing more than a vacuum in cold space. That end is more complete: no chance for the eventual revitalization which always graces planets, no chance of life struggling in again.

Still, He prefers the completion which comes of watching a civilization slowly collapse in upon itself. When the third planet in the Sol system (once-verdant, with clear oceans and skies) stumbles on the slippery slope and begins its descent, things become much more engaging, and He begins to spend a great deal more time in that quadrant of the galaxy.

He could outline all of the mistakes they are making: simple ones, impossible to see from within. (Or, not impossible: but those who recognize the truth are far and few between, and their warnings are not heeded.) Resources, once taken for granted, do not last forever, and war, disguised under layers of ideology and fear, do little to rectify the situation. The planet's wisdom does not increase at the same rate as its knowledge and its ability to destroy.

The humans turn first to their scientists — science soon displaces religion from its pedestal — and, when that fails, to their wizards. But it's futile to think that wizardly intervention can hope to contend with the planet's inexorable transformation; after all, the system is merely seeking to return to the dynamic equilibrium its inhabitants so effectively upset.

It is over far too late for an observer who has aeons at his disposal. When the environment gives out, no longer able to sustain the monolith which the human race has become, the economies collapse first, and with them, the social systems. He isn't sure which amuses him more: the religious zealots, the bestial cannibalism, or the kamikaze attempts of the final wizards, remnants of a race once to be reckoned with.

It isn't a complete destruction: the planet persists, of course; it's just the civilizations which rise and fall. At the very least, he will have a few millennia of peace before life can re-establish a stronghold in this corner of the universe.

The Lone Power supposes that He could destroy it completely. This particular planet has hassled him over time far more than any others — it seems a breeding ground for Life, and humans, or some variant thereof, crop up once every few aeons. Of course, it always ends with their eventual destruction, but...

Still, all of these things they do, to rescue their insignificant planet. Can't they see that, in the end, none of it really matters?

end.

FICLET | Transitional (Remus, PG-13)

2006-10-20T01:02:00Z

1 I am alive, contrary to popular belief; just incredibly busy with school and occupied with various other unimportant things. In fact, the only reason I actually finished a piece of writing is because I've been sick at home for most of the week with nothing to do (which is a little bit sad, in many ways, now that I reflect on it). So, ah, I bring you a repost of something I wrote for darkening_days, a comm you should all be watching if you aren't already.

title: Transitional
pairing: Gen
characters: Remus, Lily, werewolves.
rating: PG-13
words: 400
summary: There exist some things that no one wants to see.
notes: Written for the darkening_days prompt becoming. Crossposted. The idea is one that's been rattling around inside my mind since I started plotting this a long piece of Remus + werewolves genfic, and the prompt made me itch to write this snippet out.

It isn't the grime-streaked walls he notices first, cement stained with blood and ash and age; not the windows, painted over with fading black and sealed tight against light and air; not the all-too-familiar scent of death and decay and pain, intermingling into a scent which makes his stomach roil.

It's the cages.

They're the only thing in this place which isn't decomposing: steel reinforced with a crackle of powerful magic, and as he steps closer in the gloom, he realises why, because there's the vague outline of a body, in one of them.

Remus shuts the door behind him, whispers "Lumos," and regrets it the moment feeble wandlight illuminates the first of the waist-high structures. He steps into the room, circles the cage, and tries to hold back the bile.

The man lies spread-eagled on his back, obviously dead, but no: he isn't a man, he's a werewolf, or a wolf -- no, not that, either -- a caricature of a werewolf.

He is twisted, halfway through a transformation, half fur and half bloodied flesh, expression and limbs frozen in a rictus of pain, face lupine and bones so warped that the human skeletal structure is barely recognisable. Remus doesn't look closer, and so he doesn't see the way the bones of the arched spine protrude from the skin, piercing it, shredding it. (Moonlight, anguish, the wolf howls and his back is a curve of pain.)

It's been two weeks since the full moon, but the blood is fresh, and there's been no decay.

This is where Lily finds him, crouched on the dank cement in the half-shadows, staring. "The Order's finished out front," she says as she edges open the door, wand at the ready, "they caught the bastard who -- what the hell is that?"

Remus swallows, dust and rot. "It was a human, once."

"What happened to it -- to him?" Lily hesitates half a moment, he notices, before whipping her wand at angles through the air to set up visual recording spell. He doesn't blame her: there exist some things that no one wants to see.

Looking down at the floorboards, Remus traces patterns in grime; he would rather avoid the wide-eyed horror reflected in her eyes (the pity). "They volunteer," he says finally, voice pitched barely above a whisper, "the Ministry -- bans werewolf testing of any sort, they'd rather a silver bullet than wasting time on a cure --" he barks out a laugh "-- and there's no time to waste, not in war."

"Remus, don't."

He silences her by meeting her gaze. "And so -- they come to places like this. They offer their bodies up to... experimentation, to find answers, and instead they find back-alley pipe dreams, death in a cage." He breathes in deep and wipes his hands on his trousers, beginning to straighten.

Lily offers him a hand, mouth set in a hard line. "Dumbledore's never told us about any of that."

"No." Remus smiles, but it's an ironic twist of a thing. "He hasn't."

end.

meta | fic: writing multiple, varying "takes" on the same characters and events

2006-08-29T06:01:07Z

1 School starts again for me on the fifth; I'm wasting the remainder of my summer by reading a lot of fic and writing a lot of horrible original fiction and fic. This week I'm doing a bit of volunteering -- the type you actually have to wake up early for -- so that should get me sorted on a regular sleep schedule again. Hopefully. Judging from the fact that it's midnight now, perhaps not.

2 The fic I'm currently writing is killing me. Thus, my rantings, as thinly-disguised meta! This is a bit all-over-the-place; it's about personal canon, it's about writing multiple takes on the same character/event, and it's also about reading them. Bear with my midnight-induced ramblings. ;)

meta | fic: writing multiple, varying "takes" on the same characters and events

One of the things that I don't understand and, at the same time, love about fic is how we can write different stories for the same characters, over and over and over.

In novels, one set of events happens to one character; it's linear. Things happen, your favourite characters die, and there's nothing you can do about it. Get over it, move on, read the rest of the book, maybe cry a little when no one's looking.

But in fic, there's possibility ~~for fangirls to deny Sirius' death~~. Each of the stories are like individual AU plotlines, branching off into alternate realities. Like reading about a certain character? Great. You can read endless fics about what may have happened to him/her during childhood, teenage years, and adulthood — in every conceivable pairing and circumstance, and if it doesn't exist you can go write it — and you'll probably never run out.

Like many other fic writers/readers, I've assembled a "personal canon" while reading, picking and choosing from fic I've read and from ideas of my own. Examples in the Harry Potter fandom: I have certain definite ideas about who Regulus was and was not, I rather like the idea of Remus the academian, Peter gave Remus his R.J. Lupin briefcase (courtesy of Professor R.J. Lupin by such_heights xD).

At the same time, reading fic has never given me a definitive sequence of events that excludes all other fic not complying with those ideas. Another HP example: I read largely in the Marauders era and the First Rise of Voldemort, and have no problems reconciling the idea of several different ways Peter could have turned traitor, or what Sirius and James were doing for the Order, or Remus' experiences as a werewolf.

It's when I write fic that these millions of different stories become a problem.

For instance, I'm writing two pieces about Regulus Black right now, and they seem to want to integrate themselves into one all-encompassing narrative that follows one cohesive plotline of his life. Which would be great, if I were writing a damned novel, but I'm not — I'm not so deluded in my abilities as a writer that I think my readers will sit through 20,000 words of every single thing that's happened to the poor boy, influencing his every choice and character flaw.

I'm trying to write concise, accessible fic that portrays a certain characteristic or choice smattering of events, because I think that's what a lot of good fic does — it gives us a nice snapshot of a facet of something, not the whole thing.

But once I've worked out a good, thorough plotline and personality for a character, and gone into all of the issues in depth, s/he can't be anything else for me, at least when I'm creating. If I've decided that certain events shaped someone's personality, I can't go write another fic about how a different set of events did the same thing. If I have an idea of how a certain ship got together, I can't reconcile myself to the idea of writing a different fic.

(I dearly hope that I can get over this eventually, or I'm going to run out of things I like to write about in my fandom very soon.)

Anyhow, I understand why we write the same character's story, over and over, in different ways. As fans, we love the what-ifs, and we love these characters. What I don't understand is how, as readers and writers, we can read dozens of these stories portraying the same event in different ways and... manage not to go insane. And to make it all fit together in our minds and not have it a jumbled mess of events and character threads.

So, because I'm curious to know how other readers/writers of fic deal with this issue, and even if it is an issue at all ~~or if I'm just delusional~~: question period! xD

Questions for Readers & Writers
1. Have there ever been certain fics that establish a "this is what happened" feeling in your mind?
2. Does this personal canon influence what you can/can't accept as "believable" when you're reading a fic that doesn't comply?

Questions for Writers
1. Have you ever found certain ideas/plotlines/themes "bleeding over" from fic to fic, if you write often about a certain character/set of characters?
2. How do you deal with this? If something (i.e. a get-together, a death, a separation) happens a certain way in your mind, and you write it, how can you write another story in which it happens differently?
3. When you write fic, what do you go for? The "snapshot" idea (i.e. focusing on a certain theme, character trait, ship, and developing it) or the "entire life" idea (i.e. long fics, or a series of cohesive short fics, developing an entire character)?

Aside: Um, I'm sorry I didn't get back to all responses on the last meta post. I was busy, but now, suitably contrite, I will try better this time. ;)

FIC | Runaway: 15: Discord and Dissonance

2006-07-24T08:39:06Z

Series title: Runaway: A Story About Sirius Black and Remus Lupin
Series summary: During the sweltering summer of 1976, Sirius Black leaves one family, joins another, and falls in love.
Series authors: The Runaway Writers

Installment title: Chapter Fifteen: Discord and Dissonance
Installment author: expositionary
Word count: 1,430

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen

( Chapter Fifteen: Discord and Dissonance )

This one took me an age and a half to tweak to my satisfaction, and I'm afraid that it's more Regulus-reflects-on-Sirius than Remus/Sirius, but at least it's done now.

FIC | Runaway: 4: A Moonlit Stroll

2006-07-10T01:15:40Z

1 virginia_bell had the brilliant idea of holding a Christmas genfic exchange. ♥ If you're at all interested, pop over to her journal and say so; I'd love for something like this to happen.

2 If you're watching dogdaysofsummer -- and if you're an R/S shipper and not over at dogdays, shame on you! -- you'll have seen this pop up. But if not, I'm directing you thataway!

Six of us (closet_zebra, expositionary, last_radio, magnetic_pole, plumerri, and sazzlette) are writing a Remus/Sirius serial this month, tackling the period of time in which Sirius leaves Grimmauld Place.

I'm having altogether too much fun with this, alongside the stress of living up to much better writers than myself, so if you haven't taken a look already, we're posting everything at dogdays_runaway. ♥

--

Series title: Runaway: A Story About Sirius Black and Remus Lupin
Series summary: During the sweltering summer of 1976, Sirius Black leaves one family, joins another, and falls in love.
Series authors: The Runaway Writers

Installment title: Chapter Four: A Moonlit Stroll
Installment author: expositionary
Word count: 1,970

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four

( Chapter Four: A Moonlit Stroll )

meta | why are you in fandom?

2006-07-02T04:17:45Z

1 I think I may actually start posting in this journal. :O Not so much real life stuff -- go to thelios for that -- but just general fandom-ish thoughts. I feel a bit strange, commenting and reading the f-list, and giving only radio silence in return.

2 Reading fic is interfering with my ability to write in the past tense. -- No, it really is; yesterday I was attempting to write my Regulus train!fic in past tense, just so that I wouldn't get out of practice, and I found myself shifting into the present every few sentences. (Why I'm writing Regulus fic when I have five Remus/Sirius stories in progress I have no idea, but that isn't the point.) Present tense simply seems more natural for me these days, but it's worrying; I'd still like to be able to write in the past, as it's the more generally-accepted tense for most published fiction. :( Which sort of brings me to the actual point of this post.

meta: why are you in fandom?

This is somthing I've been wondering for a while. It was the fic that attracted me to the HP fandom at first, but I've written things for as long as I can remember. (There was a long period of time where it was only journaling, and another when it was only crappy poetry, but for the past half-year I've been into stories again.) The writing and the reading sort of... collided -- oh, I'm writing things, and oh, I'm reading these really excellent fics -- HEY, I could write fic! -- and landed me here.

I must admit to harboring dreams of being a brilliant author someday. Not necessarily rich and famous -- The Great Gatsby was never commended as a great literary work while Fitzgerald was alive -- but I'd like for my work to be discovered and eventually appreciated. And so, in line with my eventual goal, I write. At the moment I probably have as many original fiction pieces on the go as I do fanfiction works.

But I've noticed that a lot of fic writers don't, and that puzzles me a little. Original fiction has always been it, for me; ever since I was young I've wanted to write for a living. Fic is a side project, something that hones my writing skills. I'm of the opinion that one can learn almost all -- if not all, but that's an issue for another time -- aspects of writing by writing fic; but fic is unpublishable, unless you happen to enjoy expensive lawsuits, so eventually my plan is to move on to creating my own worlds.

But most of writing fandom doesn't seem to write original stuff (or, at least, we don't hear about it). So I'd like to pose a few questions to fandom in large...

1. Do you write original fiction in addition to fanfic?

2. If not, is your eventual goal to write original fiction? How does this tie into your fandom involvement?

3. And if your eventual goal isn't original fiction, why are you in fandom? If you stopped writing fic, would you stop writing? Obviously part of your reason for being here is that you like the writing, considering you write, but I'm especially curious of the motivation behind this one... ;)

4. Was it the fandom that attracted you to the fic-writing, or did the writing come first and the collision of it with fandom afterwards?

So, yes. Any thoughts you happen to have on this topic of writing & fandom, I'd be glad to hear. :)

FIC | Remnants of a War (Remus/Sirius, PG)

2006-06-17T03:54:38Z

title: Remnants of a War
pairing: Remus/Sirius
characters: Remus-centric; mentions of Sirius, James, Lily, Peter; cameos by Frank, Dumbledore, and various other Order members.
rating: PG
words: 3,546
summary: In the aftermath of the first war, Remus deals with betrayal, loss, and displacement. This is the series of events, after the end, that led up to his departure.
notes: Huge thanks to the lovely last_radio for the beta job. Amazingly, this fic was originally gen, but somehow R/S managed to insinuate itself. Believe what they tell you, children, slash fanfiction really is subversive...

REMNANTS OF A WAR

I. a different kind of unfaithfulness

Remus stirs, blinks, and opens his eyes.

Since August, it has been a regular occurrence to be woken in the dead of night, and he has lost count of how many times it's happened; he rather expects it, by now. Each time, his first thought is, this is it, this is the night, and he wonders whose grave the Order will have to dig this time, as sunrise dispels another Dark Mark from the sky. His own, perhaps, or James', or Peter's, or Sir-- but no, that does not bear thinking about.

When he wakes now, though, there is no Floo summons from Dumbledore in the fireplace; no Sirius hurriedly pulling on his robes, searching frantically for his wand, rattling off a brief synopsis of the latest murder or rape or torture.

There is, however, a note resting on the peeling white paint of the windowsill above his side of the bed. Moonlight filtering through the windowpane -- he and Sirius still haven't found time to buy drapes -- casts the lettering into sharp relief.

Moony--
Stay here, keep safe, don't leave the flat.
--S

The scrawl is nearly illegible in its haste, a far cry from the copperplate handwriting drilled into a six-year-old prodigal heir by a private tutor. Remus reads between the lines of its message -- correctly, though he doesn't know this for truth until twelve years have passed -- as nothing more than a display of Sirius' usual over-protectiveness, cultivated by three years of visiting a battered, bleeding boy in the Hospital Wing and six years of moonlit transformations and companionship after that.

Pushing back the blankets, Remus tumbles off the double mattress to the floor, untangling his ankle from the grasp of a sheet, and pads quietly out of the bedroom.

The front door is ajar; so like Sirius, forgetting to close it tight behind him. Dim light from the single bulb in the hallway beyond filters in through the crack, illuminating the sparseness of the flat. If he checks downstairs, Remus knows, he'll find Sirius' motorbike gone, as he has increasingly over the past month. Either it's a fly, to clear his mind; or a mission he's been forbidden to speak of; or it could be that which the suspicious corners of his mind whisper about when his guard is down: seen in Knockturn Alley, passing information, spy...

There are so many questions that he doesn't ask, so many things that he can't bring himself to say. Last month Remus woke up after the moon alone and aching, and the next morning, over tea and burnt toast, Sirius told him that the Order had brought down a feral werewolf. He never asked who fired the silver bullet, Sirius never volunteered the information, and that, Remus thinks, was when the silences started. These days, silence is more common than speech, even when he and Sirius are in the same room.

Remus runs his hand through sleep-mussed hair, a cascade of brown-gold-silver, and stares down through the glass of the living room window for a long moment into the shadows of the quiet alleyway. Finally he returns to the bedroom, leaving the door wide open behind him, and lies down slowly in a cold bed, alone with his worries and suspicions.

If he's lucky, he won't have his usual nightmare (green light: no, not Sirius, please not Sirius; where are the last of the werewolves? -- a silver bullet on a moonlit night -- Avada... Avada...), because when he wakes screaming, there is no guarantee any longer that there will be warm arms wrapped around his waist, no guarantee of sleep-murmured reassurances: s'only a reflection of the lamp, Moony, go back to sleep...

*

Dawn arrives on the doorstep far too early, but it does not bring the rumble of the motorbike with it. Remus brews tea, butters toast, and tries not to look at the clock too often as he sits down at the battered wooden dining table with some Order paperwork.

When a tawny owl arrives bearing the Daily Prophet and the news of the day -- convict, murderer, traitor: Black -- he chokes on a mouthful of scalding Earl Grey -- the ink on the newsprint is suddenly spidering, blurring in his vision, and it might be because of the spilled tea seeping through the fibres, or it might be because of the tears slipping down his cheeks. Steady hands mop up the spill, but the tea has left a bitter aftertaste in his throat, and it reminds him remarkably of betrayal.

Exactly four and a half minutes of noiseless, shuddering shock, alone with the white walls of the kitchen: this is all he allows himself.

Then, without a falter, he pulls on his coat and Apparates to the Order headquarters. When he arrives to the scene (chaos and celebration bleeding into each other) he thinks distantly that it's lucky he didn't splinch, but he also doesn't think that he would really care. Strange how it's what you don't see coming that gets you in the end.

II. falter, and falter again

Remus is washing the bloodstains out of his robes (might be his, might be someone else's; he's not really sure) when there is a pop! of Apparation in the front entrance of their-- his-- the-- flat.

Perhaps he should be worried, perhaps he should be holding his wand at the ready just in case, but he feels nothing but a sense of void. There have been Muggle torturings and celebrations-turned-riot every night since Voldemort's fall, the collective dying breath of his followers. Remus has been on duty for the past twenty-four hours, running on a combination of adrenaline and desperation, refusing breaks. It isn't as if he has anything to come home to.

Muttering a drying spell over his robes -- it'll have to do, for now -- Remus steps out of the kitchen. It takes a few blinks before his weary mind wakes up and recognizes the man: tall, with a powerful bearing and a shock of untidily thick blonde hair; Auror Frank Longbottom, who has saved Remus' life three times in the past month.

"Remus." There is nothing of Frank's usual affability about him; he looks harried, older than his twenty-six years, like if he hasn't slept in days -- probably hasn't -- as he nods a quick hello and leans against the closed door. "Dumbledore has a few leads on Lucius Malfoy that might --"

"Didn't Malfoy claim that he killed those Muggles under Imperio?" Remus cuts in. Out of habit, neither of the two exchange greetings of pleasantries; there is no time for it, in war.

A sardonic smile twists Frank's face. He begins to pace back-and-forth, between the hallway table and the wall-hook where Sirius left his leather jacket hanging. "Yes; what a bloody mess. Can't prove his guilt without actual evidence, is the thing, although we all know Lucius Malfoy being pure as the driven snow is about as likely as Sirius betraying Ja--"

Frank stops dead in his tracks, and what little colour is left in his face drains out of it. "God, Remus, I'm -- fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Are you --"

It is -- it had been -- a running joke among the Order members, this one; they make lighthearted fun of their circumstances, when they can, in order to remain sane while they risking lives on a daily basis; their own, and also their families', by association.

Remus swallows, then speaks around the sudden tightness in his throat (attempts lightness; fails). "Old habits die hard, Frank, don't worry about it. We didn't know, none of us knew, I'm fine." The words have become rote over the past few days; they sound mechanical to his ears as they fall on the heavy silence. "Are you and Alice joining me?" he asks finally, after a pause.

"No," Frank replies, tracing his finger over the odds and ends littering hallway table (cigarettes, a joke wand, the broken clasp of a dog collar, Sirius' keys). "Sturgis thinks he has an idea of where we can find Rabastan Lestrange; there is evidence against him, the only problem is finding the bastard." Frank flicks his wand, makes as if to Apparate, then stops himself and says, hesitantly, "Remus, if you -- if you need anything, or just want to talk, or, anything -- Alice and I --"

"Thanks," Remus says shortly, cutting him off. "I'm fine," he says again. If he repeats the two syllables often enough, perhaps they will become true, out sheer force of habit.

Frank nods, briefly, and meets his eyes. "No rest for the weary," he says, and Apparates.

*

And the following morning, the Frank and Alice he knew are gone, replaced by vacant shells destined to live out their lives in St. Mungo's. The Order snags the Lestranges, and Barty Crouch Jr. besides. Still: it seems like an unfair sacrifice, especially for little Neville Longbottom, who is, Remus thinks with a pang, Harry's age.

III. the fallout of miscalculation

"Their messiah may be dead," says Albus Dumbledore to the assemblage of grim-faced wizards and witches, "but his beliefs live on -- at least, for a time." His voice echoes in the cavernous spaces of the deserted barn, and Remus wonders cynically if the man conducts these sessions in the half-gloom just for theatricality's sake.

He has to admit that the shadows do help to hide the empty spaces in the small crowd: the ranks of the Order are somewhat more spare than they were three years ago. The organization isn't about to be disbanded, though, far from it. Remus had never given much thought to the end of the war, assumed that Voldemort would fall and that would be the end; he certainly hadn't expected this. Any of this.

"Propaganda and pardons flow from the Ministry offices, as easily as money flows from its coffers, but there are still the shadier aspects of the aftermath to clean up, and that duty falls to us. Investigating wizards of questionable loyalty, searching for suspected Death Eaters who are suddenly away visiting foreign lands" -- a shrewd half-smile twists Dumbledore's expression, at this, and quickly disappears with his next words -- "and finding the bodies of all those who are missing."

As Dumbledore speaks, Remus' gaze is drawn by the hollow grimness twisting Severus Snape's face -- the signature of grief -- and wonders what he's lost. But when Dumbledore finishes, he speaks to Snape privately, and by the time Remus has received his instructions, Snape is gone.

*

Indispensable, the Order members say, warmly and sadly, when they speak of Remus these days, don't know what we would do without him, really -- poor boy, so unfortunate. Their image of him is shaped by what they see when he is in the field, though, when he runs fuelled on adrenaline and the desperation displaced other emotions: a combination of lightning-fast reflexes, steel nerves, a kind gesture here and a just-in-time counter-curse there.

Remus intends to keep it that way. It is only when he is alone (walking down the back alleys of London, buying groceries at the corner store, in the kitchen of the flat) that Remus allows himself to crumble. He closes Sirius' things into cardboard boxes, locking them in the back of a closet only to have to open it again when he stumbles across an old, worn shirt in the laundry (perhaps he holds it to his chest for a fraction too long) or a note slipped into one of his dog-eared novels. And in the evenings, hours pass as he sits unmoving on the living room sofa: in wait, unsure of what exactly he is waiting for. Absolution? Finality? Closure?

Because there's something not quite right about it all, something which has to do with the timing of Secret-Keepers and the look in Sirius' eyes whenever they kissed, whenever he had his hands tangled in Remus' hair and body pressed flush up against the wall, and Remus' instincts continue to say what his mind has refused to think about for a fortnight.

It couldn't have been Sirius, because Sirius loved James and Lily and Harry. It couldn’t have been Sirius, because Sirius loved me.

The boy has always subdued the wolf, though, and Remus overrides his instinct, pushes the no to the back of his mind under a façade of acceptance, because there is really nothing else he can do.

So when Remus finds himself staring at the painted fingernails of the receptionist in the Ministry's atrium, he honestly has no idea how he arrived there, and when Dumbledore arrives to firmly lead him away across its shiny dark floors before he can open his mouth and say something about Sirius Black that would likely land him on the Ministry's watchlist, he thinks, really, what did I expect?

IV. ashes to ashes

No one has had time to mourn for the past year, not when new names were written up under the "Losses" section of the Daily Prophet each day. So, on the twenty-second of November, the Order holds a collective funeral for all those it has lost (far too many, and half of the graves are empty).

It's strange, Remus thinks as Dumbledore intones eulogies under the spreading branches of an oak tree, that this should be happening during the season which begins the descent into the darkness of winter. Much more fitting for Voldemort's Fall to be in spring: sunlight and blossoms and new beginnings. Even so, the chill in the air and the falling leaves whisper life, not death, and there is a something in the air which evokes the feeling of release. This is the last time the Order members will meet en masse; the final sparks of Voldemort's fire have been stamped out, and the Wizarding World is settling into the fragile peace it had Before.

And then: BANG. It's loud, it's sudden, it's off to his left: within moments, Remus has his wand at the ready and a defensive hex on his lips. It takes him a moment to register the cause of the disturbance: Elphias Doge and the scattered remains of the flower stand, lilies and roses crushed and crumbled now.

"Sorry," Doge whispers abashedly, flicking his wand to straighten the mess, and a scattering of embarrassed laughter runs through the crowd. It's somewhat hesitant, though, and rusty from disuse.

As Remus slips his wand back into his robes, he notices six other wizards and witches unobtrusively doing the same.

When James and Lily are remembered, Remus makes the appropriate speeches, but the past is echoes around him, and his mind is on another funeral. Remus' parents died in a Muggle accident, the year after he graduated, and there had been Sirius and James and Peter to fall back on. Now, there are only hesitantly sympathetic gestures and unsure words from near-strangers, and it will have to be enough.

(The Order members are aware that he is a werewolf who just lost three of his best friends to the Death Eaters -- and a fourth to Azkaban -- but they gauge their condolences without knowing that he has been sleeping with the traitor, the one who brought it all falling down, since James and Lily's wedding.)

Tomorrow night the moon is full, and he doesn't want to think about waking up, wracked with pain and covered in blood and very, very alone. Instead, Remus tries to ignore the sad looks and whispers, the half-started sentences of concern. When McGonagall makes to approach him, he turns hurriedly and --

-- walks straight into Dumbledore.

"Remus," Dumbledore begins, voice low and full of everything Remus doesn't want to discuss, and Remus cuts him off before he can start in with the platitudes.

"I'm all right."

After a moment, Dumbledore speaks. "I regret having to ask this, Remus, but -- what happened, none of us expected it. I understand you may not want to talk about it -- but I must know, and you knew him best. Did you notice anything suspicious? Was there any indication whatsoever in Sirius' behaviour?"

"No," he says aloud, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye. Yes, his mind supplies, hungry kisses of apology which came out of nowhere, long glances which ended in silence, hesitation and hundreds and hundreds of things unspoken, and I thought we would be all right, I thought that we were holding things together, and I suppose I thought wrong but nothing seems right and I don't know what to think.

There is something piercing in the aged wizard's expression -- he's a Legilimens, Remus knows he could press... but he doesn't. "Thank you," Remus whispers, and then it pushes itself past his lips before he can close them: "James and Lily -- Sirius. Did... will there --"

It doesn't take Legilimency to perceive Remus' unspoken question. "There won't be a trial," Dumbledore says, with more gentleness than Remus has seen him show in months, "I tried to persuade the Minister when I spoke to him yesterday, but there won't be a trial. I'm sorry, Remus." He does not speak of the incident at the Ministry.

Why?! Remus wants to scream, but he knows it's useless; all the other significant whys he's ever asked have gone unanswered, no matter the circumstances. In the bewildered voice of a child: why does the moon hate me, Mummy? In anger, at the dehumanizing done by the Werewolf Registry: why should I bother if all it does is brand me and fuck me over? And in marvel, when a grey-eyed man pressed him into a corner after James and Lily's I do's and, quite soberly, traced his jawline with soft lips. After all these years, Remus has learned to stop thinking why at all, and push the no to the back of his mind.

-- Abruptly, Remus asks, "What about Harry?"

"Harry has been sent to his aunt and uncle's, Remus," Dumbledore says, firmly, if not unkindly. "Minerva agrees with me. There is an ancient protection spell which can only be worked with blood magic -- and it will be good for him, growing up away from it all."

Remus has heard whispers of this, and half-expected it. He looks away, and replies, "All right," but what he is really saying is, I couldn't take him anyway, I'm a bloody mess myself.

"Take care, Remus," Dumbledore says, "and remember that this is the beginning, not the end," but Remus has already turned away.

He leaves the reception early, without making his goodbyes, and rain begins to pour from the darkening sky as he walks down empty side-streets. Ironically fitting, that; Sirius once remarked that the weather always seemed to reflect the -- but no. Enough of that, now.

V. displacement

These days, Remus finds solace in dreams -- wraps himself in night and in-between places, comes to hate the tormenting bleak light that comes with morning, along with its unforgiving truths and demands. In his dreams there are James and Lily, holding a small cooing bundle and smiling; Sirius, sitting cross-legged and knee-to-knee with him in front of a roaring fire; scarlet and gold and rich memories from a time before prolonged silences, before Secret-Keepers, before stilted conversation spent deliberately avoiding the questions they all wanted to ask.

*

Remus stirs, blinks, and opens his eyes.

And the dreams are slow in fading: flashes of green light and the harsh countenance of the moon no longer. Rather, now: grey eyes and wicked smiles, sharp cheekbones and lips and hands on his waist, and he almost closes his eyes, almost gives in to the urge to sink back into dreams of better times, because even if he knows now that it must have all been false, he was happy then.

But the bed is empty, and the hallway closet is full of a traitor's things, so Remus breathes around the ache in his chest and stumbles out of a tangle of sheets (clean: he always remembers to do the laundry, still) to the kitchen, flicks his wand at the lightbulb and sits slumped on the linoleum, haloed by its harsh yellow light, until he has managed to wipe from his consciousness all vestiges of the sensual burn in Sirius' eyes.

This is not real. Reality: Voldemort has fallen, the wizarding world is moving on with life, James and Lily and Peter are gone, and Sirius is --

(And so he gives into the deep-seated instinct which pleads for escape from the omnipresent fallen-angel of anguish: to run to the ends of the earth, to never look back upon this mess. Once upon a time, there was the stag and the rat and the dog, and he belonged; now, he beaten and battered, he is driftwood.)

The next day, Remus writes a series of reassuring letters explaining his departure in polite terms, seals them, owls them, and begins to pack his bags. Some of his belongings he leaves behind: the books Peter bought for him, the tea set James and Lily gave them three months ago, the scarlet jumper Sirius borrowed more often than not and wore around the kitchen on lazy Saturday mornings. Before dawn he's set to leave London, and as the first rays of sunlight spread over the city, he locks the door to the flat and makes sure to close it tight behind him.

end.

postscripts:

1. My apologies for not actually directly involving Sirius; it pained me to write Remus/Sirius without the Sirius, but I figured: if I'm going to hurt puppies, I may as well really hurt them. I apologize to Remus for forcing him to suffer through this angst, and promise that I do indeed have a more well-balanced piece on the backburner.
2. I tried twice to integrate the line "and ghosts walk among the empty spaces" during the funeral scene, but then I realized that in this fandom, that could be taken literally, and that was the end of that.
3. What do you all think it is that Severus Snape lost? :P
4. You get chocolate if you can catch the deliberately repeated line...
5. Do all of you do your italics in by hand (i.e. HTML) when you post fic, or is there a faster way? Because it took me twenty minutes to code in the italics after writing, and that is not fun.

Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.

meta | Words vs. Stories

2006-06-15T03:11:15Z

I've been home sick for the past few days, because an entire school year's worth of sleep deprivation destroys my immune system like you wouldn't believe. For the better part of it, I have been reading and writing fic instead of studying for next week's finals. I also read a few H.G. Wells books -- The Invisible Man and The Time Machine -- and have yet to unearth why they are subtitled, respectively, "A Grotesque Romance" and "A Scientific Romance". Anyone care to enlighten me? (Concidentally, A Scientific Romance by Ronald Wright is a gorgeously written book, and everyone should read it.)

Right now I have a full five fics in progress, a huge headache, and three English commentaries to finish (two for Things Fall Apart, one for Twelfth Night), so naturally, I'm posting some of my random, half-coherent ~~rants~~ thoughts on writing instead of actually doing some work. If I fail this year, it's fandom's fault.

words vs. stories

Words are wonderful and brilliant and really quite handy, but sometimes they get in my way when I'm trying to write. (No, this is not just a manifestation of the fact that I've been overdosing on codeine all day -- keep reading, I promise it makes sense eventually.)

The writing process isn't an easy one for me. It involves hard work, blood, and lots of cursing. Generally my ideas don't come to me in distinct scenes or conversations -- they're floaty, intangible things that go something along the vague lines of, "you should write a fic demonstrating prejudice against werewolves in wizarding society!" And then they run away and leave me to do the rest of the work.

So when it actually comes to sitting in front of the keyboard, more often than not, I find I'm trying to shape a fic to fit a concept or an atmosphere rather than a scene. There is no "getting from point A to point B", because I have no idea where the hell point A or point B are. Instead of writing down what actually happens -- instead of actually shaping a storyline -- I end up trying to craft the "perfect atmosphere" or establish a certain tone instead of actually making things happen. Which results in my story becoming too wordy, as per usual, and a lot of the tension is lost, if there ever was any in the first place.

On top of that, I have an Insta!Editor permanently attached to my brain, which means that in the middle of writing a dialogue between two characters, I'll more than likely stop for five minutes and dither over whether or not to use a comma or a period. I also find myself constantly re-reading, checking for flow errors or ways in which I can tweak a sentence to improve it. Combined, these two quirks bog me down in the middle of writing, more than anything else.

I think that, overall, my stories suffer from this. The other day I wrote over five hundred words of epilogue for a short story in history class (instead of watching a crappy documentary, heh), thought the turns of phrase were the best I'd come up with yet, and started typing it up the day after only to realize that all twenty sentences of it could be replaced quite easily with two. And the story would probably be the better for it. *headdesk*

Which raises a vaguely unrelated question. Is it wrong to say something in ten sentences instead of one? Don't readers sometimes read to be wrapped up in the words, not just move through a fast-paced story? I mean, there are some writers I absolutely adore who write ficlets describing a snapshot of a moment in a thousand words. They don't have plot, necessarily, but the writing is gorgeous, and I read it for that aspect. It's like -- to pull some actual examples from my reading list -- Guy Gavriel Kay as opposed to Orson Scott Card. Kay's novels could probably be written in about half the pages they are, and granted, sometimes he's a bit too flowery, but I don't read his books for the twisting plots, I read them for the brilliantly realized settings and atmospheres. Card, on the other hand, has a no-nonsense approach to storytelling. He uses the words to tell the story, not the story to show off his words, and that works for him.

I'm not exactly trying to make a point here, I don't think -- just writing out my thoughts. So I'm going to go finish my schoolwork now. :P

Has anyone else ever given this any thought? Do you sacrifice words to keep the story concise? Do you indulge your big words and your flowery phrases? Is there some sort of happy medium, and can you tell me how to achieve it? ;)

ETA: It's now 1:14 am exactly. Sometimes my procrastination skills amaze even me. O.o

FIC | All the Falling Stars (Remus/Sirius, PG)

2006-05-20T04:57:03Z

title: All the Falling Stars
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: PG
words: 1, 001 (palindrome power!)
summary: Sirius is acting strangely: reticent, composed. James doesn't understand, but Remus thinks that, perhaps, he might. Includes the Marauder dynamic, with undertones and overtones of Remus/Sirius.
notes: Started as part of a multi-era fic, decided to be Sirius gen for a while, and eventually became R/S. (Why is it that R/S always hijacks my genfic for use in its master plan?) Also, thanks to artfulsincerity for the read-over.

ALL THE FALLING STARS

Remus watches Sirius watching: the glint of candlelight on silverware, the irregular pattern of raindrops drumming on the windowpane, the delicate bone of his wrist, exposed as he reaches for a goblet (yes, he might be blushing).

Yet Sirius' eyes remain downcast, defiantly not meeting anyone's eyes. Mute. (The only quiet Sirius is a Sirius waiting to detonate.) He must be able to feel the pressure of their gazes, Remus thinks: his own apprehensive one, James' confusion, Peter's blustering outright worry. But he doesn't look up — if he did, he would also see the way Regulus deliberately avoids staring across at the Gryffindor table, the way Bellatrix deliberately doesn't. Remus folds the cuffs of his sleeves, unfolds them, bites his lip, and says nothing.

"Did you know," Sirius murmurs suddenly, "that when I was ten, Narcissa tried to teach us how to paint?" His tone is conversational: he could be talking about the weather, or the daily news, or pass the pepper, please. "To 'culture us', she said, and the first thing she told us: the colour black is always black. No bloody idea what she meant at the time, of course — Reg said it was the inbreeding, but I think" — he pauses and swallows (not food or drink: he hasn't touched that all evening) and says — "I think that maybe now I get it."

The Marauders are instinctively silent, knowing better than to cut themselves against Sirius' razor-sharp edges. James fidgets: arranges and rearranges the potatoes on his plate, fiddles with his glasses, runs a hand through his hair distractedly, coughs. And Peter takes his cues from James, as always; opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it, and then repeats the entire process.

Remus doles out reassuring looks in exchange for James' concerned ones — and watches, and listens. Conversation flutters past him, reminiscent of owls delivering post in the morning, and he catches snippets of communication from amidst the quiet roar of the Great Hall: whispers, exclamations, ran away, disowned, disinherited. Gossip spreads like wildfire through the corridors of Hogwarts, and today's item is the fallen star of the noble House of Black.

Regulus Black, Remus notes, has no qualms about meeting peoples' eyes; he matches each furtive glance with an indifferent glare (perfected at the draughty dining tables of pureblood manors) and the words which tumble from his snide smile cause Snape to laugh aloud. Remus catches the last few words — "she regrets he was ever born" — and, judging from the sudden tautness in Sirius' posture, he does, too.

"Bastard," James spits furiously, "bloody hell, how could —" and fumbles his wand out into his hand. His elbow angles in to Sirius' side: a cue to draw out confrontation. It is a form of catharsis Sirius and James are all too fond of, and one which Remus refuses to participate in.

From across the hall, Regulus recognizes the thrown gauntlet, arches an aristocratic eyebrow. The surrounding din lessens to a quiet roar as expectant heads turn one-by-one — a ripple effect, and Gryffindor table is its source. If he opened his mouth, Remus thinks, he could taste the storm brewing between scarlet-gold and green-silver.

But tonight Sirius doesn't take James up on the invitation. His lips form the shapes of "just stop, just leave it alone", and no sound passes his lips; Remus blinks, and realizes, oh, so that's it.

"James," Peter says — tremulously, because one doesn't admonish one's admiral, oh no. "You, you already have detention twice this week, you should..." He is obviously unnerved, and Remus commends him for showing forethought; but it's no use. Peter is the only one of the three who has not yet learned the techniques of successful James Potter deflection: one has to divert the tide of his will, can't halt it entirely; anyway, in this mood, James is unstoppable.

— Or, nearly. Remus allows himself a split-second of calculation before the possibilities coalesce into a course of action. "James," he hisses quietly; then, louder, "Prongs." Remus can't speak the James-and-Sirius as effortlessly as they can, of course, but he's picked up a few phrases here and there, and the eyebrow-lift/head-jerk to the right which he discreetly executes says, stop it, she's watching.

Sure enough, something like anger glints in the green eyes of a certain redhead, a few places down. Usually, with Sirius and James feeding off of each other's energy, there's enough collective spirit that James can contend with Evans' disapproving stares. But Sirius is reticent, and James, missing his other-half, falls apart in mumbles of futile, blushing apology. He shoots Remus a Look: this isn't the end of it, I'll talk to you later — but that is all.

And just like that, the tension is gone, like crackling electricity draining from the atmosphere after a thunderstorm.

"Thanks, Moony," Sirius murmurs, leaning across the table a bit so that James won't catch it. Remus feels the radiance of Sirius' mesmerizing smile, spreading slow and secret — he doesn't look at it directly, doesn't have to; after six years, he has its every curve and quirk memorized.

Abruptly a mass of the Slytherins rise from their table to sweep past and out of the Hall, deliberately taking a circuitous route which leads them directly by Gryffindor table. Phalanx, Remus thinks, and Sirius says (almost) nonchalantly, "I knew what it felt like to be part of that. ...Bella and Cissa and Sirius, on my first day at Hogwarts, veni vedi veci, until —"

"— the Sorting Hat said Gryffindor," James cuts in firmly, faultlessly picking up from Sirius' hesitation as he tucks away his wand a tucks into his potatoes. "And thank Merlin for that, mate."

"Yeah," Sirius says finally, "yeah," and finally looks up and to his right, meeting James' eyes with a grin. When he shifts a little in his seat, though, it's Remus' right knee which he brushes softly; in reply, Remus gently hooks his ankle around Sirius' and allows it to remain there, a constant pressure, a steadfast I am always here.

end.

Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.

Question for the flist: would you rather read something justified or right-aligned? I justified this, because I like to see my paragraphs justified; but is it awkward/difficult for anyone to read?

ETA: I am so indecisive I deserve to be shot. Goodbye, justified paragraphs.

ORIGINAL FICTION | an autobiography, in aprils

2006-05-08T21:19:25Z

title: an autobiography, in aprils
summary: A conceptual sketch: three years, three Aprils. Interesting, how things change.
words: 459
notes: No, it's not fic. It'd be stretching it a bit, even, to say that this was original fiction -- it's sort of autobiographical, it's sort of not; it's embellished slightly (what writer doesn't embellish?), and contains various references to a) book quotes, b) lyrics, c) my life. I told myself that I would archive everything I wrote here, just for posterity's sake, even insane stream-of-consciousness pieces written at midnight: so I will, but I warn you, it makes no sense, and it abuses commas.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, IN APRILS

'06 nothing / infinity / lack thereof

She never used to like the feeling of void, before. But her muse won't visit unless her mind is a blank canvas, sends half-illegible postcards from exotic alternate realities instead, so she clears her calendar, pushes life to the sidelines, and thinks instead of does. Life passes by in its ever-frenetic motion while she writes, ballpoint pens on white unlined paper, letters shaping transience into concrete tangibility as she wraps herself up in Amory Blaine, in Paul Atreides, in R.J. Lupin. She listens to explosions in the sky and waits patiently for the sound of rain to pass through the open window -- trying to create something out of so much nothing -- and wonders, beginning to question if perhaps there is/isn't something greater out there, after all. Still, epigrams and aphorisms are a poor substitute for the meaning of life.

'05 solitude / self / singular

She used to believe in people, once upon a time. Now it seems wiser to keep her distance, cauterize all of the bleeding wounds, and cut her losses before she ends up losing herself. Her bus pass is trade in for a ticket to Arbonne, where she discovers secondhand the futility of romance and falls in love with a languishing troubadour, and upon her return empty rows of desks and lines of fluorescent light blunt any resolve she once had to find the missing lifeline. People come and go, but mostly go; why, they ask when they begin to suspect; why not, she replies when she deigns to answer -- or, sometimes, just because. Spring should be a time for new beginnings, she thinks, for life and birth of vitality, but the bleak sterility and sleepless nights of winter have followed her through the equinox to spring, and the only thing which changes is the weather. When infinity comes to an end, she knows herself, but that is all.

'04 collective / solidarity / as one, and many

She is caught in the moment: unthinkingly contented, doesn't know why, doesn't really care, and it is all right. Days are a blur (and sometimes a blush): witticisms, books whose pages whisper the secrets of life, triple-digit scores; she laughs without thinking, never regrets it, and records the whole of it in a coil-bound notebook. -- Are you happy now? Yes. -- Sometimes she lives in the ventilation, sometimes in room 114; sometimes she entertains notions of saving the world and (foolishly, innocently) believes it to be possible. Oh, there are obstacles and challenges aplenty, but she hasn't fallen down yet, only tripped once or twice. (Later: that comes later.) And later, she will reflect upon the golden days (so dated, already!) nostalgically and think, I was happy, then, and I belonged.

end.

Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.

FICLET | A Definition of Longing (Remus/Sirius, PG)

2006-05-02T02:26:43Z

title: A Definition of Longing
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: PG
words: 530
summary: On the consciousness of a werewolf and the meanings of emotions.
notes: More like a number of introspective pieces strung together instead than actual fic in which things happen; Plotline and I have a long-standing feud.

A DEFINITION OF LONGING

Being a werewolf necessitates that one is fully tuned to the body's subtleties and responses. Remus Lupin may not be fire and grace on the Quidditch pitch, like Sirius Black or James Potter, but he is self-possessed in his own way.

He knows things about himself, knows what they mean: the individual location of each scar that marks him (they all represent pain, and shame, even if the stories of the origin remain clouded by animalistic rage), the subtle burn and subdued anger of his limbs in the days leading up to the full moon (inescapability, he thinks), and which muscles not to put strain on, afterwards (weariness).

So when the sight of Sirius' hair catching in the morning light sends a shiver down to the base of his spine, or when the unintentional brush of Sirius' wrist against his causes the carefully-regulated breath to catch in his throat: he is aware, and he knows.

Yet he cannot categorise, cannot understand; logical proceedings fail him. Remus knows firsthand the meaning of crush (blushing, trembling, tongue-tied idolization; and, notably, female) and he knows the meaning of friend (James, Peter, the Map, animagi running rampant on a full moon's night). Sirius refuses to fall under either definition (he would, that better-than-thou aristocrat). A separate definition for Sirius is in order, Remus decides, but the descriptors contradict each other and, vaporous, refuse to stick: cruelty, compassion, enigma, humour, rage, haughtiness, reserve, love—oh, Remus thinks, is that it, then?—and he understands.

The next question which follows is why. When Remus weights and tallies the facts in his mind he concludes that it is more probable that, all things considered, he fall in love with Professor McGonagall than one of his best mates. (Though, he cannot help but wonder what the lesser of the two evils is.) Late nights spent pondering, and staring at the curve of Sirius' shoulder in History of Magic, still do not yield answers. And Remus has never been one for outright denial (really, who can ever deny Sirius Black for long?), so he gives in—or, as he likes to tell himself, he accepts it, and allows the voice of longing in his mind free rein.

He feels like a child in an antiques shop: look, but don’t touch. Temptations, enticements, dangled in front of him and accordingly snatched away: a glimpse of collarbone in the morning as Sirius buttons up his shirt, a casual arm dropped over his shoulders as they walk unhurriedly in an empty corridor, the reflection of the midnight fire in grey eyes. But a constant reminder makes its presence felt, separating fantasy-from-reality, a whisper of you can't have all this. He files Sirius away in the back of his mind, next to the other things he desperately wants (a life not built on foundations of lies and a body which doesn't tear itself to shreds once a month). Carefully, Remus builds barriers and excuses and explanations, and Sirius carelessly shatters them, one by one, with his brilliant smiles.

But Remus Lupin maintains his self-possession, because being a werewolf not only necessitates that one is familiar with oneself, but also with secrets and denial.

end.

Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.

And also, a question to fandom in general: where does one find betas? :( I suspect that I need one.

FICLET | The Consequences of Springtime (Remus/Sirius, G)

2006-04-27T04:55:50Z

title: The Consequences of Springtime
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: G
words: 439
summary: Remus Lupin has decided that he cannot stand spring, and this is why.
notes: Inspired, in part, by wellymuck's prompt for day three; I may or may not end up posting it there. This ficlet uses something I like to call point-collapse -- the actual piece is set at one specific point in time, and the narrative collapses down to that point (if that makes any sense whatsoever). Unfortunately, I have yet to pull this off successfully, ever.

THE CONSEQUENCES OF SPRINGTIME

Remus Lupin has decided that he cannot stand spring.

It isn’t because of the long-awaited sunlight which filtered through the dorm’s drapes this morning, waking the bloody terrors that are Sirius Black and James Potter a full two hours earlier than usual and thus ensuring that the entirety of Gryffindor house was roused by boisterous whoops and bellows at five forty-five AM. Remus’ ears are still ringing with Sirius’ imitated birdcall, which caused a) a first year to fall down two sets of stairs, breaking her collarbone, and b) the death of Peter’s pet fish (“Sorry, mate -- but what kind of self-respecting wizard keeps a bloody fish, anyway?”).

It isn’t because of the spring pollens cause James Potter to sniffle and sneeze and moan and complain. (Who would have known -- the great Potter, champion of the Quidditch field, allergic to dandelion fluff?) His state of suffering has somehow led James to the conclusion that he is morally obligated to pull twice as many pranks. Remus doesn’t understand his logic -- isn’t sure that Prongs has any -- but somehow thinks that “if I have to be miserable, Snivellus sure as hell has to be” is an inadequate excuse.

It isn’t even because the warm breeze and trickles of melting snow entice James or Sirius (or even Peter, the traitor!) to pull Remus outside at random points during the day (“c’mon, Moony, people already think you’re some kind of bibliophilic vampire”) to play Quidditch, walk, run, or do something that doesn’t involve any thinking -- but does involve about six tonnes of mud and a single rubber boot.

It’s because the castle is temperature-controlled in wintertime, thanks to the house elves’ careful attention to the boilers, but spring -- damn it -- creeps in through the drapes and the windows and the open doors, bumping up the temperature a few degrees and causing Sirius to undo the top three-and-a-half buttons of his shirt during History of Magic (the fourth is thisclose to slipping out), which categorically ensures that Remus’ attention will not be directed towards goblin rebellions.

So far this lesson, Remus has caught exactly three phrases: “caste system”, “penguins in Africa” (who knows, with Binns?), and “full moon on Saturday” (whispered out of the corner of Sirius’ mouth to James, and sending a thrill up Remus’ spine at the notion that Sirius is thinking not about the five girls -- who also happen to be staring at Sirius, and don’t hide it half so well as Remus can -- but rather about him).

Remus suspects that his next exam will earn him a failing mark, unless the questions somehow involve the curve of Sirius Black's collarbone.

end.

Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.

meta | The Evolution of Fanon

2006-04-27T04:29:43Z

Explanations and Clarifications

This wasn't intended as an argument so much as a conglomeration of many of my thoughts on fanon and fanfiction, in terms of evolution. I've tried to organize my ideas as clearly as possible in writing, but apologize beforehand in being verbose (the meaning of "less is more" is lost on me). It's helpful, but not at all necessary, if you know at least a little bit about evolution and natural selection before reading. Much as I hate biology class, these concepts somehow wormed their way into my discussion on fanon, and I do make reference to them, if rather obscurely.

Definition of certain terms I use... because I know that these, can change slightly in connotation depending on which part of fandom you inhabit. Canon is a collection of ideas/facts/concepts which are part of the universe a writer creates when writing a book. Fanon—I have no idea where this term came from, but I think it's quite clever—is the opposite: all of the aspects of a fandom which have been developed by the fans, are not necessarily supported by the actual texts, and have no place in canon. Therefore fandom, I suppose, includes both canon and fanon (not to mention all of its other elements: meta, graphics, discussion, etc.).

META: The Evolution of Fanon

Something which has always fascinated me about fanon is its ability to evolve. Canon is definite—what an author writes as fact in his/her universe is what is; there is no discussion, there are no uncertainties, and there is no autonomous development of characters and concepts. The universe of fanon, however, is as inherently organic and mutable as language (well, all languages except for Latin, anyway). Have you ever found yourself reading a fic and realizing, "hang on, that's not canon, is it? Well, could've fooled me!" simply because the conclusions the writer has reached and details s/he has added fit so naturally into your idea of canon as a whole?

For example, it isn't canon that Remus Lupin tends towards the studious and bibliophilic side of the spectrum—and I had to double-check this, to be certain!—yet I would say that about three-fourths of the fic which features him represent him as such. Canon? No. Fanon? Most definitely. But how? Perhaps writers of this type of Remus read him with bookish character traits in other fic and, consciously or unconsciously, incorporated these ideas into their own work because it simply seemed to fit his character. This Remus "stereotype" could then have became more and more common—until it was almost universally accepted. Or perhaps the combined pressures of canon evidence and simple reasoning have led many writes to reach this conclusion independently of outside sources; bookish Remus is a natural choice for many, considering the studiousness he exhibits in the brief MWPP-era flashback (OotP; chapter: Snape's Worst Memory), his prefecture in fifth year, and the fact that he later becomes a professor. This explanation is rather like convergent evolution: two groups reaching the same concluding point due to similar environmental pressures. (Yes, I just finished studying my biology textbook; how did you ever guess? ^^) Most likely, however, the fanon-developed representation of Remus Lupin is a combination of the two processes.

Especially regarding subjects which are not fully fleshed-out in canon (ex. there are few details about the MWPP era, and those that exist are rather hazy and open to interpretation), other pieces of fanfiction influence a writer's conception of a certain character or event. All writers aim to write an original piece, ideally—at least, I hope they do—yet, just as archetypes in traditional storytelling recycle themselves and reappear in new, almost-unrecognizable forms, ideas and vestiges from other areas of the fanon universe invariably find themselves worked subtly into original creations. It can be something as simple as Remus Lupin liking chocolate, or something as complex as the character of Regulus Black.

Regulus Black, in JKR's universe, is merely a sketchy outline of a character: Sirius Black's brother; the "good" son, a Death Eater. Point in case: I can't actually remember if, according to canon, Regulus Black was indeed a Death Eater—yet another example of how fanon incorporates itself into canon in the minds of writers and readers. Even through Regulus is more of a hasty mention than an actual character, in the books, there are many communities and groups which involve Regulus-centric fic or discussions; the character has somehow managed to develop on its own. While fanon's conception of Regulus is not exactly homogeneous—understandable, considering the fact that his character is a blank slate—certain characteristics crop up quite often: involvement in Blackcest (that's a whole other topic, though, which I won't get in to!), a sense of competition and hostility between Regulus and his brother (especially after Sirius' sorting into Gryffindor), the idea that he was the one who stole Voldemort's locket horcrux, etc.

Interestingly, ideas regarding certain characters tend to be similar within tightly-knit communities, and slightly different from the ideas about the same character in the next community over. If (as I've previously argued) fanon-developed characteristics and ideas were indeed influenced by reading and synthesis of other fanfiction, then the explanation for this would be very simple. Readers who all draw from the same pool of reading material and discussion incorporate those same ideas into their writing; therefore, similarities surface within those communities. Therefore, separate communities will evolve separate conceptions of a character/event which have both differences and similarities, as they are both influenced by canon and by overall fandom (I don't think that any fandom community operates completely in seclusion from all the others) but also by different environments. (One gets the impression, for example, that the predominantly Harry/Ginny writers over at The Sugar Quill regard the character of Harry Potter quite differently than do the Harry/Draco slashers which live on livejournal... :D) I don't have enough experience in different communities to judge whether there exist any overarching, fanon-specific ideas which pervade all of fandom; perhaps someone out there has, and can enlighten me?

There are no hard and fast rules in the universe of fanon, and I suppose we like it for both its malleability and its structure. It provides us a framework within which to begin—nothing is more daunting than creating something from nothing—and, at the same time, gives us plenty of room within which to expand and develop our own ideas and concepts. ...And thus proceeds the evolution of fanon...

(… Thoughts? Rebuttals? Clever repartees?)

Unrelated Endnote: You probably have no idea who I am; for the past few months I've been more of a passive observer in fandom rather than an active participant... because I'm shy, because I'm busy, and because I'm still fumbling my way around this place. It's a bit strange I should write meta before I actually finish a single piece of fic; I blame this on the overload of literary analysis in English this term, which appears—sadly enough—to be shaping my brain. Also, I had ideas which I wanted to discuss, and the unfortunate truth is, my real-life bookworm friends say "fanfiction" like it's a dirty word.