Had Remus arrived at the Tonks' starter flat merely ten minutes later, Ted would not have been home to help bodily ferry him from the door to the sofa bed in their spare room. It's a modest distance to cover, but if she'd done that first part by herself, magically or otherwise, perhaps the enormity of the task ahead would've sunk in sooner.
It's only Remus, Andromeda recalls saying, with the astonishing overconfidence typical of her bloodline. This was what she needed to say to convince her husband not to be late for his own shift. Ted hadn't wanted to leave her to deal with this crisis on her own.
What problem could Remus possibly have that would be beyond her ability to solve? Her unbothered tone conjured up the image of a plain schoolboy, inconspicuously huddled under the boughs of a tree with his head in a book. So; Ted goes, Andromeda stays, and the misshapen, bloodied form of Remus Lupin presents its own evidence.
Her floor-length, long sleeve paisley dress might give the false impression that she has someplace else to be. It looks a bit much for sitting around at home. All secondhand clothes and costume jewellery for her now, regardless. School robes had once been a welcome reprieve from the state of sartorial readiness required to receive guests.
Ted's departure robbed the room of much of its warmth. Andromeda sometimes feels best understood in his presence, with her aristocratic bearing balanced out by his unassuming joviality. It concerns her less with Remus than most. Right in front of her, Sirius has told his friends not to hold her snobbery against her.
Her grand gesture was one thing. The rest has to be worked at gradually; a slow unweaving of the same tapestry her likeness was burnt from. She retreats into learned poise whenever she feels self-conscious, which is unhelpfully often around Ted's friends and Muggle family. She was mortified to have brought nothing to her marriage except herself. By increments, she's come to understand that her in-laws neither expect nor value the same things she was always told that a husband's family would.
Her long hair ties itself in a bun as she moves to stand over Remus, wand drawn. It is unfair to him that it's her and not the team of fully qualified healers he most likely needs and deserves. She'll only be surer of that once she makes a proper assessment. Already, she sucks a breath through her teeth in sympathy with the first impression.]
Oh, Merlin. What have you gotten yourself into?
[It isn't very professional of her to say, but he's not just anyone, and this is all happening very quickly in her place of safety. It can still form part of the communication by which she'll establish his state of consciousness. Remus isn't expected to answer that in facts and details.
They're not members of the Order. They're just sympathetic civilians whose flat happens to be bursting at the seams with protective enchantments. Andromeda always stays one step ahead of the precautions other people take against dark magic. That's how anyone would be if the person they once loved most, now feared most, vowed to kill them. She wouldn't stake Ted's or her own life on the fact that the threat was made in a moment of anger, shock and profound betrayal, and possibly not meant.
The residence as a whole is fastidiously neat, with only small pockets of concession to mess in Ted's most visited spots. What initially appears to be clutter in nearby cabinets and boxes reveals itself, under any scrutiny, to be necessary potion ingredients.
If she darkened her hair and sneered with enough cold contempt, she could likely infiltrate the Dark Lord's cabal without the use of a Polyjuice Potion. Her favourite cousin, a charming liar, used to claim that he couldn't see any resemblance between her and her elder sister. Later, she'll wonder if it's possible that she willed a Metamorphmagus into existence using only pregnancy hormones and the heartfelt desire to have a wholly new, unrecognisable, unreminiscent face. No child of hers would be eclipsed by the strength of a larger personality.
Infiltration is more the forte of the damaged man in front of her anyway, not that she's to know it.]
They wouldn't have any nice reasons for separating one werewolf from the pack, now would they?
Remus Lupin is spread flat on his back against the cold stones of a cellar floor, bolted down in four places. The heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles are connected to each other and to all four points, with enough slack left in the chains for him to writhe about to his captors' delight. When the time comes, perhaps. They've not done anything yet besides leave him for a full half-hour in this dehumanising surfeit of chains. It's not a matter of believing he might avail himself of transformed strength in his human form. It's about illustrating how lowly and bestial he is, regardless of his physical state.
"What does it claim its name is?"
A female Death Eater—the tall, slim figure standing over him, hooded and masked—makes him sound unworthy of being spoken to directly, yet there's no one else around to answer her question. If not for the obvious disdain with which she speaks, her cut-glass accent might be pleasing. It would help if she made a point to speak always at this quiet volume; alas, she becomes shrill and sharp whenever she's agitated, and agitates easily. He might well recognise that voice.
Her wand passes by her face, revealing the contemptuous countenance of Bellatrix Lestrange. If anyone else unmasked themselves, it wouldn't bode well for his chances of escaping alive. With her, it makes no difference. She's too proud to seek refuge in deniability. Few in the wizarding world wear their allegiances as openly. She's just daring someone to name her, to bring charges against her for her righteous cause. (They won't, until the wind changes.)
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branchandroot
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Date: 2024-11-04 05:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2025-05-06 08:56 pm (UTC)Had Remus arrived at the Tonks' starter flat merely ten minutes later, Ted would not have been home to help bodily ferry him from the door to the sofa bed in their spare room. It's a modest distance to cover, but if she'd done that first part by herself, magically or otherwise, perhaps the enormity of the task ahead would've sunk in sooner.
It's only Remus, Andromeda recalls saying, with the astonishing overconfidence typical of her bloodline. This was what she needed to say to convince her husband not to be late for his own shift. Ted hadn't wanted to leave her to deal with this crisis on her own.
What problem could Remus possibly have that would be beyond her ability to solve? Her unbothered tone conjured up the image of a plain schoolboy, inconspicuously huddled under the boughs of a tree with his head in a book. So; Ted goes, Andromeda stays, and the misshapen, bloodied form of Remus Lupin presents its own evidence.
Her floor-length, long sleeve paisley dress might give the false impression that she has someplace else to be. It looks a bit much for sitting around at home. All secondhand clothes and costume jewellery for her now, regardless. School robes had once been a welcome reprieve from the state of sartorial readiness required to receive guests.
Ted's departure robbed the room of much of its warmth. Andromeda sometimes feels best understood in his presence, with her aristocratic bearing balanced out by his unassuming joviality. It concerns her less with Remus than most. Right in front of her, Sirius has told his friends not to hold her snobbery against her.
Her grand gesture was one thing. The rest has to be worked at gradually; a slow unweaving of the same tapestry her likeness was burnt from. She retreats into learned poise whenever she feels self-conscious, which is unhelpfully often around Ted's friends and Muggle family. She was mortified to have brought nothing to her marriage except herself. By increments, she's come to understand that her in-laws neither expect nor value the same things she was always told that a husband's family would.
Her long hair ties itself in a bun as she moves to stand over Remus, wand drawn. It is unfair to him that it's her and not the team of fully qualified healers he most likely needs and deserves. She'll only be surer of that once she makes a proper assessment. Already, she sucks a breath through her teeth in sympathy with the first impression.]
Oh, Merlin. What have you gotten yourself into?
[It isn't very professional of her to say, but he's not just anyone, and this is all happening very quickly in her place of safety. It can still form part of the communication by which she'll establish his state of consciousness. Remus isn't expected to answer that in facts and details.
They're not members of the Order. They're just sympathetic civilians whose flat happens to be bursting at the seams with protective enchantments. Andromeda always stays one step ahead of the precautions other people take against dark magic. That's how anyone would be if the person they once loved most, now feared most, vowed to kill them. She wouldn't stake Ted's or her own life on the fact that the threat was made in a moment of anger, shock and profound betrayal, and possibly not meant.
The residence as a whole is fastidiously neat, with only small pockets of concession to mess in Ted's most visited spots. What initially appears to be clutter in nearby cabinets and boxes reveals itself, under any scrutiny, to be necessary potion ingredients.
If she darkened her hair and sneered with enough cold contempt, she could likely infiltrate the Dark Lord's cabal without the use of a Polyjuice Potion. Her favourite cousin, a charming liar, used to claim that he couldn't see any resemblance between her and her elder sister. Later, she'll wonder if it's possible that she willed a Metamorphmagus into existence using only pregnancy hormones and the heartfelt desire to have a wholly new, unrecognisable, unreminiscent face. No child of hers would be eclipsed by the strength of a larger personality.
Infiltration is more the forte of the damaged man in front of her anyway, not that she's to know it.]
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From:anyway, here's more trouble
Date: 2025-05-30 02:41 pm (UTC)Remus Lupin is spread flat on his back against the cold stones of a cellar floor, bolted down in four places. The heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles are connected to each other and to all four points, with enough slack left in the chains for him to writhe about to his captors' delight. When the time comes, perhaps. They've not done anything yet besides leave him for a full half-hour in this dehumanising surfeit of chains. It's not a matter of believing he might avail himself of transformed strength in his human form. It's about illustrating how lowly and bestial he is, regardless of his physical state.
"What does it claim its name is?"
A female Death Eater—the tall, slim figure standing over him, hooded and masked—makes him sound unworthy of being spoken to directly, yet there's no one else around to answer her question. If not for the obvious disdain with which she speaks, her cut-glass accent might be pleasing. It would help if she made a point to speak always at this quiet volume; alas, she becomes shrill and sharp whenever she's agitated, and agitates easily. He might well recognise that voice.
Her wand passes by her face, revealing the contemptuous countenance of Bellatrix Lestrange. If anyone else unmasked themselves, it wouldn't bode well for his chances of escaping alive. With her, it makes no difference. She's too proud to seek refuge in deniability. Few in the wizarding world wear their allegiances as openly. She's just daring someone to name her, to bring charges against her for her righteous cause. (They won't, until the wind changes.)