something for WiP Amnesty... Week
Aug. 11th, 2004 02:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kraitWIP Amnesty... Week
Since it's been extended till Wednesday, I suppose I should release some of the literary eggs I'm brooding. (Or at least tiny snips of them.)
This is nearly all I have of this; these little bits are part of the half-clumsy, half-unintentional 'courting' that was going to eventually become the relationship, but instead are languishing on my hard drive.
At this point, Harry doesn't even have an inkling of attraction; he's just groping for affection from someone, after Sirius' death, and I think he's just starting to realise that "Lupin is poor" isn't just words.
Remus reached the door, and Harry noticed, as if for the first time, the darned elbows of his robes and the way he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, as though there was warmth crammed into the corners of them like lint. Remus' cloak, as it flapped behind him, sported a subtle patch as well, and there were fraying threads at the hem.
"Pr-Remus," he called, standing up as the man put one hand on the doorknob. Remus half-turned, looking over his shoulder, and Harry blushed at his own impetuous call. "Umm, it's cold. Take this." He tossed his red-and-gold scarf, which Remus caught one-handed with a small flicker of startlement. "I won't be going anywhere before you get back." Rationalisation didn't make his blush fade any, but Remus' small smile warmed him all over, not just his cheeks.
"Thank you, Harry. I'll bring it back safely." The cheerful wrap was wound about his neck snugly, and then Remus was gone, the door shutting in a sharp, icy gust of wind.
Harry buys Remus a cloak. He still doesn't have a real sense of attraction, but his concern and worry have been turned on full power:
The cloak was a beautiful heather-grey, made of soft, warm wool, and the moment Harry saw it his brain kicked an image of Remus wearing it at him.
"Excuse me?" It didn't take him long to decide; Christmas was coming soon, anyway.
"Yes- Oh, Mr. Potter! How may I help you?" Harry swallowed his instinctive reaction.
"The grey cloak, there by the window. How much?" "Ah, a wonderful cloak. We just got it in yesterday, or it surely would have been gone already. Finest Highland wool, with unfading magical dye and charms to ensure long-wearing beauty."
Harry wished the man would stop reciting the catalogue at him and just tell him how much the thing was. It looked to be exactly Remus' height, and he could almost imagine the expression Remus would wear, opening the shiny red box, pulling it out to swing gently in the light of the tree, the surprise and the gr--
"Yes, a fine cloak, only [PRICE] Galleons, for a cloak that will last years."
Harry winced automatically at the price, but paid the man, grateful to be rid of his prattling. The cloak was reverently lifted from its stand, folded neatly, and shrouded in tissue paper inside a sturdy box while Harry waited; the box and a receipt were handed to him with more thanks. He managed a smile and fled the shop, purchase tucked under his arm awkwardly.
Harry awkwardly tries to feed the stray he seems to have adopted, having realised he *likes* the man and desperately wanting to avoid hurting his feelings:
"Would you like a sandwich? I made more than I ended up eating," Harry offered, trying to sound casual, hoping Remus would accept. The man was so thin, though it was hard to tell under the ill-fitting robes; he had faint circles under his eyes, as usual, but at least he didn't look deathly ill, as he had last winter. Remus looked startled, then hesitant.
"They're [ ]," he added, quickly, "I put them in the cold-pantry, but I'm afraid the bread will get stale." He felt vaguely guilty, for trying to, well, Hermione would probably call it "mother hen," a man twice his age, and trying to downplay the significance had only made it sound like he was tossing scraps to a dog. He hoped Remus wouldn't be insulted, or something; Harry didn't know much, self-evidently, about caring for people in any way other than the emotional. He stank at the practical. He decided to go with casual pleading, and repeated his "please," hopefully a little less hastily.
I haven't entirely given up hope on this one, but it looks like it will be a long time in the making. Too, even these snips need some heavy reworking in places, I think. And then there's my inability to decide tiny nit-picky details like prices or sandwiches... Sigh.
Since it's been extended till Wednesday, I suppose I should release some of the literary eggs I'm brooding. (Or at least tiny snips of them.)
This is nearly all I have of this; these little bits are part of the half-clumsy, half-unintentional 'courting' that was going to eventually become the relationship, but instead are languishing on my hard drive.
At this point, Harry doesn't even have an inkling of attraction; he's just groping for affection from someone, after Sirius' death, and I think he's just starting to realise that "Lupin is poor" isn't just words.
Remus reached the door, and Harry noticed, as if for the first time, the darned elbows of his robes and the way he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, as though there was warmth crammed into the corners of them like lint. Remus' cloak, as it flapped behind him, sported a subtle patch as well, and there were fraying threads at the hem.
"Pr-Remus," he called, standing up as the man put one hand on the doorknob. Remus half-turned, looking over his shoulder, and Harry blushed at his own impetuous call. "Umm, it's cold. Take this." He tossed his red-and-gold scarf, which Remus caught one-handed with a small flicker of startlement. "I won't be going anywhere before you get back." Rationalisation didn't make his blush fade any, but Remus' small smile warmed him all over, not just his cheeks.
"Thank you, Harry. I'll bring it back safely." The cheerful wrap was wound about his neck snugly, and then Remus was gone, the door shutting in a sharp, icy gust of wind.
Harry buys Remus a cloak. He still doesn't have a real sense of attraction, but his concern and worry have been turned on full power:
The cloak was a beautiful heather-grey, made of soft, warm wool, and the moment Harry saw it his brain kicked an image of Remus wearing it at him.
"Excuse me?" It didn't take him long to decide; Christmas was coming soon, anyway.
"Yes- Oh, Mr. Potter! How may I help you?" Harry swallowed his instinctive reaction.
"The grey cloak, there by the window. How much?" "Ah, a wonderful cloak. We just got it in yesterday, or it surely would have been gone already. Finest Highland wool, with unfading magical dye and charms to ensure long-wearing beauty."
Harry wished the man would stop reciting the catalogue at him and just tell him how much the thing was. It looked to be exactly Remus' height, and he could almost imagine the expression Remus would wear, opening the shiny red box, pulling it out to swing gently in the light of the tree, the surprise and the gr--
"Yes, a fine cloak, only [PRICE] Galleons, for a cloak that will last years."
Harry winced automatically at the price, but paid the man, grateful to be rid of his prattling. The cloak was reverently lifted from its stand, folded neatly, and shrouded in tissue paper inside a sturdy box while Harry waited; the box and a receipt were handed to him with more thanks. He managed a smile and fled the shop, purchase tucked under his arm awkwardly.
Harry awkwardly tries to feed the stray he seems to have adopted, having realised he *likes* the man and desperately wanting to avoid hurting his feelings:
"Would you like a sandwich? I made more than I ended up eating," Harry offered, trying to sound casual, hoping Remus would accept. The man was so thin, though it was hard to tell under the ill-fitting robes; he had faint circles under his eyes, as usual, but at least he didn't look deathly ill, as he had last winter. Remus looked startled, then hesitant.
"They're [ ]," he added, quickly, "I put them in the cold-pantry, but I'm afraid the bread will get stale." He felt vaguely guilty, for trying to, well, Hermione would probably call it "mother hen," a man twice his age, and trying to downplay the significance had only made it sound like he was tossing scraps to a dog. He hoped Remus wouldn't be insulted, or something; Harry didn't know much, self-evidently, about caring for people in any way other than the emotional. He stank at the practical. He decided to go with casual pleading, and repeated his "please," hopefully a little less hastily.
I haven't entirely given up hope on this one, but it looks like it will be a long time in the making. Too, even these snips need some heavy reworking in places, I think. And then there's my inability to decide tiny nit-picky details like prices or sandwiches... Sigh.