Post by Sphi on Aug 25, 2004 22:02:45 GMT -5
author: Silver Phoenix
age: 17
word count: 1075
The last time we were together lingers about me, like a ghost.
*
I was sitting patiently and transfixed at words that I recently put onto paper. The seat was deteriorating, disgraceful, disgusting...but one could say that about a lot of things. Instead, I kept my attention toward the journal that was propped on the right armrest. The scratching of the quill continued after a few more moments of thought.
Sirius, no doubt as bored and frustrated as ever, entered the room more silently than I could ever remember. He leaned casually against the repulsive, nightmarish, forest-green-papered wall behind my chair, more like a scheming cat than a playful dog. He couldn't see my face, but the corners of my mouth turned upwards. I liked how Sirius wasn't demanding; he never insisted on bothering me or pressing for conversation. Words were just an accessory for him, like when he used to humour the ogling Hogwarts girls that would follow him like a swarm of fleas. But at his core, words were never a necessity. He always understood those closest to him, often better without the burden of words.
After another moment, I scribbled a few more words down. The sound of the scratching--dogs have an amazing sense of hearing--must've intrigued Sirius; I soon felt him behind the chair, craning his neck in an attempt to see what I was writing so eagerly. He didn't move and he didn't make a sound. I knew dogs could be like that sometimes, still and reflective. Padfoot was no exception. For the past two years, we returned to our old habit of transforming together when the moon came to shine full and silver. When we changed, I learned to love Padfoot's company.
"Take a seat," I said, very much out of the blue. "I'll explain."
Rarely did Sirius not listen to me when we were in the drawing room together. Perhaps being a dog did him some good. Casual again, he slid so he was half way onto the left armrest.
"A while ago," I started, "Arthur was kind enough to offer me a stack of yellowing Muggle textbooks that he had finished researching. On top was a physics text, and as I flipped through the pages, I found about a section about waves. Something caught my eye. It said that in higher altitudes, a pendulum clock will run faster than usual due to an increased pressure. And it got me thinking: you know how I've always believed in a sort of human clockwork theory? Well, if intrinsically we all run on clockwork--gears and needles and the like--wouldn't we, too, be affected with great changes in altitudes? And what's the greatest altitude change one experiences but the descent...or ascent...into the afterlife?"
(Going from thought to thought so quickly, it hardly occurred to me that I had only added "ascent" as a sort of afterthought.)
"Except ghosts," offered Sirius. "Let's not forget their sad case. Stuck in some pathetic limbo, not allowed to be completely content with their life. You know, if I should die, my worst nightmare would be to become a ghost. True, we've suffered our losses, we've sacrificed, we've felt terrible pain, but to spend eternity brooding over some petty unfulfillment...it's idiocy. There's too much to smile about to linger on regret and loathing and pain. Think of James and..."
"Don't, Sirius. I know." I had turned my face a little more to the right, towards my journal, away from Sirius. "But let me finish. What I'm wondering is whether people, as their final day approaches, slow down or speed up, in a manner of speaking, just like clocks. Those who've lived wrong, pitiful lives must go through a decay, mentally or physically or psychologically." I paused instinctively. "But those who've done great in their life, they experience glory, aristeia. They remember everything worthwhile in their life, so in their final moment, they are not regretful but proud."
"...You've been thinking too much, Remus."
I turned very suddenly to face Sirius, but this time he was the one who had his face turned away to the left. It might've been like that since his remembering James and Lily, but I couldn't say. I also couldn't be sure that Sirius paid attention as I spoke. But I knew, somehow, that he understood me. And I'm sure he believed it, too, because he knew James and Lily, better than anyone else, and he knew that they regretted nothing.
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the evening, but the scratching of my quill went on. Eventually, when the night got so dark that even I wasn't sure where shadows began and where they ended, Sirius placed his hand on my shoulder and left as silently as he had entered. I was sure he didn't go upstairs to his bedroom, though. He suddenly had a lot on his mind.
*
Holding a candle, I return to the threshold of the drawing room, the one with the serene, beautiful, forest-green-papered wall. It's my first time in 12 Grimmauld since I bid Harry farewell at King's Cross Station. My fading, leather-bound journal lays in peace on the same chair. The same one.
It takes me several minutes to finally allow myself to enter the room, unused since our last moment together. Slowly and far from surely, I approach the chair, tender with its old age and wear. I come up to the left side, set the candle by the journal, crouch down, and open the journal to the last page.
Being so close to him, I feel that so much hesitation isn't quite necessary. I put the quill to paper and the scratching ensues, as if it had never stopped since that night so long ago. The candle, spreading small waves of light over the page, seems to trace the words as they pour right out of me:
I stop. I know. I take out my wand, sweep it slowly over the paper, and the words are gone. Turning away, I don't notice the drop of wax that falls onto the parchment.
age: 17
word count: 1075
Finis
The last time we were together lingers about me, like a ghost.
*
I was sitting patiently and transfixed at words that I recently put onto paper. The seat was deteriorating, disgraceful, disgusting...but one could say that about a lot of things. Instead, I kept my attention toward the journal that was propped on the right armrest. The scratching of the quill continued after a few more moments of thought.
Sirius, no doubt as bored and frustrated as ever, entered the room more silently than I could ever remember. He leaned casually against the repulsive, nightmarish, forest-green-papered wall behind my chair, more like a scheming cat than a playful dog. He couldn't see my face, but the corners of my mouth turned upwards. I liked how Sirius wasn't demanding; he never insisted on bothering me or pressing for conversation. Words were just an accessory for him, like when he used to humour the ogling Hogwarts girls that would follow him like a swarm of fleas. But at his core, words were never a necessity. He always understood those closest to him, often better without the burden of words.
After another moment, I scribbled a few more words down. The sound of the scratching--dogs have an amazing sense of hearing--must've intrigued Sirius; I soon felt him behind the chair, craning his neck in an attempt to see what I was writing so eagerly. He didn't move and he didn't make a sound. I knew dogs could be like that sometimes, still and reflective. Padfoot was no exception. For the past two years, we returned to our old habit of transforming together when the moon came to shine full and silver. When we changed, I learned to love Padfoot's company.
"Take a seat," I said, very much out of the blue. "I'll explain."
Rarely did Sirius not listen to me when we were in the drawing room together. Perhaps being a dog did him some good. Casual again, he slid so he was half way onto the left armrest.
"A while ago," I started, "Arthur was kind enough to offer me a stack of yellowing Muggle textbooks that he had finished researching. On top was a physics text, and as I flipped through the pages, I found about a section about waves. Something caught my eye. It said that in higher altitudes, a pendulum clock will run faster than usual due to an increased pressure. And it got me thinking: you know how I've always believed in a sort of human clockwork theory? Well, if intrinsically we all run on clockwork--gears and needles and the like--wouldn't we, too, be affected with great changes in altitudes? And what's the greatest altitude change one experiences but the descent...or ascent...into the afterlife?"
(Going from thought to thought so quickly, it hardly occurred to me that I had only added "ascent" as a sort of afterthought.)
"Except ghosts," offered Sirius. "Let's not forget their sad case. Stuck in some pathetic limbo, not allowed to be completely content with their life. You know, if I should die, my worst nightmare would be to become a ghost. True, we've suffered our losses, we've sacrificed, we've felt terrible pain, but to spend eternity brooding over some petty unfulfillment...it's idiocy. There's too much to smile about to linger on regret and loathing and pain. Think of James and..."
"Don't, Sirius. I know." I had turned my face a little more to the right, towards my journal, away from Sirius. "But let me finish. What I'm wondering is whether people, as their final day approaches, slow down or speed up, in a manner of speaking, just like clocks. Those who've lived wrong, pitiful lives must go through a decay, mentally or physically or psychologically." I paused instinctively. "But those who've done great in their life, they experience glory, aristeia. They remember everything worthwhile in their life, so in their final moment, they are not regretful but proud."
"...You've been thinking too much, Remus."
I turned very suddenly to face Sirius, but this time he was the one who had his face turned away to the left. It might've been like that since his remembering James and Lily, but I couldn't say. I also couldn't be sure that Sirius paid attention as I spoke. But I knew, somehow, that he understood me. And I'm sure he believed it, too, because he knew James and Lily, better than anyone else, and he knew that they regretted nothing.
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the evening, but the scratching of my quill went on. Eventually, when the night got so dark that even I wasn't sure where shadows began and where they ended, Sirius placed his hand on my shoulder and left as silently as he had entered. I was sure he didn't go upstairs to his bedroom, though. He suddenly had a lot on his mind.
*
Holding a candle, I return to the threshold of the drawing room, the one with the serene, beautiful, forest-green-papered wall. It's my first time in 12 Grimmauld since I bid Harry farewell at King's Cross Station. My fading, leather-bound journal lays in peace on the same chair. The same one.
It takes me several minutes to finally allow myself to enter the room, unused since our last moment together. Slowly and far from surely, I approach the chair, tender with its old age and wear. I come up to the left side, set the candle by the journal, crouch down, and open the journal to the last page.
Being so close to him, I feel that so much hesitation isn't quite necessary. I put the quill to paper and the scratching ensues, as if it had never stopped since that night so long ago. The candle, spreading small waves of light over the page, seems to trace the words as they pour right out of me:
Mr. Moony would like to send his last farewell to Mr. Padfoot and let him know that
I stop. I know. I take out my wand, sweep it slowly over the paper, and the words are gone. Turning away, I don't notice the drop of wax that falls onto the parchment.
So well written and descriptive!
), so I'm just wondering from which part you got that idea.
If you didn't realize it, the whole story with the exception of the first line and the last four paragraphs is a flashback. (The asteriks enclose the flashback, and I also changed the tense, if you pay attention.) So Sirius has already died and Remus is reflecting on that in a way.