HP - TN/NL - The Weight
Oct. 31st, 2004 11:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveFrom this moment forward, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fearlessdiva shall be held responsible for the majority of my TN/NL as she was the one who insisted there was just *so* much I could cover with them post 'Don't Be Shallow'. The only person who can be blamed more is circe_tigana, who not only makes me icons promoting my pairing of choice, but then makes encouraging noises. Sadly, this is not the story about Theodore & Neville playing Doctor at Nott Terrace (it's coming!). Instead this is the war-verse story inspired by Snow Patrol's video for 'Run'. It includes mud, flares, and death.
Not necessarily in that order.
Harry Potter
The Thousandth Man
The Weight
They were Bonded for this reason alone: to find one another when they were apart.
*
It stopped raining some time ago.
Theodore is cold and wet. His robes are soaked from the puddle he was forced to lay in for hours, and he can't stop shivering. Someone is sniffing and he thinks it might be him -- surely it's just his nose running. His breathing is erratic and shallow, and his heart is leaping around in his chest like a hippogriff refusing to be tamed. He can barely see Blaise beside him in the ditch someone once built when they thought such things would do them any good, but he knows he is there. He can feel Blaise, and he can feel the pull.
This is good.
*
There are three things that Theodore carries in his heart right now:
1) His father is dead
2) Alexandria is safe
3) He has not seen Neville in entirely too many days.
He tries not to dwell on any of these too much lest the weight of his knowledge burden his back, and he become mired in the mud and dreck. It's not very easy, but he is a Nott, and they do what they must when they must -- so he swallows the cough threatening to emerge from his throat and soldiers on. He can't feel his toes terribly well, and he would give a large portion of his inheritance for a warm bath and a pair of dry shoes, but perhaps that's too far off right now. He must have short-term goals.
Survival.
Survival.
Survival.
Neville.
*
The Death Eater flashes of green light have not appeared in the sky for some time, and Theodore assures himself that is a good thing. The further they walk the more sporadic the flares have become, and he can't recall having seen any in some time. His heart is buoyed slightly by this knowledge since it is all that he really has.
His steps are slow and plodding, and while he cannot see whatever is underfoot, his footsteps are encumbered by something sticky and he would rather think it mud than some other viscous substance.
The weight of wet fabric on his shoulders is great now; wool is not a particularly good travelling cloth in the rain without an Impervio, and Theodore was a little pressed for time when he left on this trip. He didn't get a chance to prepare as much as he would've liked to. He pushes on through the muck because something says to.
He can feel the pull. So he pushes back.
*
They're going north. Or perhaps south. Theodore can't tell; they're walking through reeds or extremely tall grass, and he doesn't know if he's going the right way. He can't very well stop somewhere and ask directions or even send up a flare to announce they are in distress. They are not in distress. They are simply somewhat at a loss, but Theodore would die before he would ever admit as much -- more importantly if they're not careful they might. Die that is.
People with lax allegiances to the Dark Lord should never announce their whereabouts, it's foolhardy.
*
The last night Theodore was with Neville was in a barn somewhere in the English countryside. The wooden slats creaked with the weight of a falling rain which they ignored. It was an effort to stay warm, but Theodore was content just to be with Neville and know they were somewhat safe.
There was a time in which that sort of knowledge would not have been enough; he would have insisted on knowing that there was no way anyone could find them, but Current Events didn't allow for such certainty, and he took comfort where he could. It was a cold, empty comfort, but Theodore took it nevertheless.
There was dirt underneath his nails, and beneath Neville's clothing Theodore could feel half-healed scars. Neville flinched when he touched them, but Theodore learned every one that he could. He touched Neville reverently and kissed pale exposed skin when he came upon it. His fingers sought out the warmth of hidden crevices not content with the cheap, threadbare cloth which covered them.
They came together in a tangle of damp clothing shoved down to knees and pushed under arms, and Theodore could taste the bitter fear in Neville's kisses simply because the same taste of bile had taken up residence in the back of his throat.
*
The sky has been black for some time -- not gray with tinges of white clouds nor green with bursts of a yellow and orange sun, just a stark, pitch black that erases everything and everyone. If Theodore were the guessing sort he would conjecture that the sun has been gone for two or three days, but a Nott never wagers unless he already knows the answer, and to this question, Theodore does not have any answers. This unnerves him greatly. His inability to see his surroundings unnerves him more. How can he know where he is going without light? How can he be certain that they are not going in circles? How can he know what he knows without something physical to urge him forward?
'Faith' is a Muggle concept, and some days Theodore wishes he had never heard the word.
At this point in the war, wands do more harm than good, and although Theodore has his wand he would only use it under the most dire circumstances.
They're not quite there just yet.
*
They're in a forest. Theodore can tell by the trees he keeps running into and the roots they're continually stumbling over. Branches are reaching out to grab them and scratching his skin. There's a gash on the side of his neck that hasn't been attended to since he took a wrong step over the side of a small bridge and fell onto a rocky riverbed. He's glad he didn't drown, and he does his best to ignore the aches and pains. The pull of Bonding is a small fire in the pit of his stomach that keeps him going.
*
What you can't see can't exist, and Theodore can hardly see in front of his face. He only knows Blaise is still next to him because he can hear him breathing, and because when the attack came they were together. They haven't spoken in some time, but when he stops, Blaise runs into him and they speak for the first time in an age.
"All this for a Gryffindor?" Blaise's words are soft and low. His voice is scratchy with disuse, and when Theodore turns he can just make out the scratches marring Blaise's always perfect visage. He cannot begin to imagine how he himself must look to other eyes.
When Theodore licks his lips all he tastes is dirt and blood. "Yes," he says.
Blaise says nothing in return, but Theodore grapples for his hand and tugs Blaise forward nonetheless.
The pull is still there. They're going on.
*
Theodore cannot worry about Neville and his insistence that he is doing the right thing. Theodore cannot pause and worry about Neville at all or he'll never survive, and he promised he would.
Notts don't make promises they can't keep.
*
Theodore laughed when Neville told him what he wanted to do. He laughed.
He rolled over in the bed they shared and focussed his eyes on the bedclothes pooled around Neville's naked form and laughed. Not a laugh of derision or bewilderment but of amusement. He took in the freckles across Neville's nose and the faint stubble dotting Neville's jaw that had rubbed his skin raw on more than one occasion. He took in Neville's flaccid penis and the light dusting of brown hair that led from Neville's navel downward. He reached out and tweaked one dusty-coloured nipple and chuckled when Neville twitched and then frowned.
And then he said yes.
He could never imagine being Bonded to anyone else.
*
He smells the sulphur before anything else. It's acrid and faint, but it hangs in the air like a signpost, and in the blackness Theodore can't see anything. He trips over something that could be a log or a body or hole big enough to twist an ankle and hobble random passersby. He lets go of Blaise's hand rather than dragging him down too, and the pain is startling in its sharpness. It's been so long since Theodore has truly felt anything apart from the wet and the cold, but Blaise is there, because he always is, and he yanks Theodore to his feet before he can say that this is enough.
The red flare is blinding when it ignites and they both recoil, falling over each other in their haste to get away.
Theodore coughs and Blaise covers his mouth, and when the smoke clears Neville is there.
For a moment Theodore thinks he's dead, but the weight that's dragged him all this way is gone, and he knows he must be wrong.
He's come all this way just for Neville and they're still alive.
Nothing else will matter in this lifetime.
-end-
fearlessdiva shall be held responsible for the majority of my TN/NL as she was the one who insisted there was just *so* much I could cover with them post 'Don't Be Shallow'. The only person who can be blamed more is circe_tigana, who not only makes me icons promoting my pairing of choice, but then makes encouraging noises. Sadly, this is not the story about Theodore & Neville playing Doctor at Nott Terrace (it's coming!). Instead this is the war-verse story inspired by Snow Patrol's video for 'Run'. It includes mud, flares, and death. Not necessarily in that order.
Harry Potter
The Thousandth Man
The Weight
They were Bonded for this reason alone: to find one another when they were apart.
It stopped raining some time ago.
Theodore is cold and wet. His robes are soaked from the puddle he was forced to lay in for hours, and he can't stop shivering. Someone is sniffing and he thinks it might be him -- surely it's just his nose running. His breathing is erratic and shallow, and his heart is leaping around in his chest like a hippogriff refusing to be tamed. He can barely see Blaise beside him in the ditch someone once built when they thought such things would do them any good, but he knows he is there. He can feel Blaise, and he can feel the pull.
This is good.
There are three things that Theodore carries in his heart right now:
1) His father is dead
2) Alexandria is safe
3) He has not seen Neville in entirely too many days.
He tries not to dwell on any of these too much lest the weight of his knowledge burden his back, and he become mired in the mud and dreck. It's not very easy, but he is a Nott, and they do what they must when they must -- so he swallows the cough threatening to emerge from his throat and soldiers on. He can't feel his toes terribly well, and he would give a large portion of his inheritance for a warm bath and a pair of dry shoes, but perhaps that's too far off right now. He must have short-term goals.
Survival.
Survival.
Survival.
Neville.
The Death Eater flashes of green light have not appeared in the sky for some time, and Theodore assures himself that is a good thing. The further they walk the more sporadic the flares have become, and he can't recall having seen any in some time. His heart is buoyed slightly by this knowledge since it is all that he really has.
His steps are slow and plodding, and while he cannot see whatever is underfoot, his footsteps are encumbered by something sticky and he would rather think it mud than some other viscous substance.
The weight of wet fabric on his shoulders is great now; wool is not a particularly good travelling cloth in the rain without an Impervio, and Theodore was a little pressed for time when he left on this trip. He didn't get a chance to prepare as much as he would've liked to. He pushes on through the muck because something says to.
He can feel the pull. So he pushes back.
They're going north. Or perhaps south. Theodore can't tell; they're walking through reeds or extremely tall grass, and he doesn't know if he's going the right way. He can't very well stop somewhere and ask directions or even send up a flare to announce they are in distress. They are not in distress. They are simply somewhat at a loss, but Theodore would die before he would ever admit as much -- more importantly if they're not careful they might. Die that is.
People with lax allegiances to the Dark Lord should never announce their whereabouts, it's foolhardy.
The last night Theodore was with Neville was in a barn somewhere in the English countryside. The wooden slats creaked with the weight of a falling rain which they ignored. It was an effort to stay warm, but Theodore was content just to be with Neville and know they were somewhat safe.
There was a time in which that sort of knowledge would not have been enough; he would have insisted on knowing that there was no way anyone could find them, but Current Events didn't allow for such certainty, and he took comfort where he could. It was a cold, empty comfort, but Theodore took it nevertheless.
There was dirt underneath his nails, and beneath Neville's clothing Theodore could feel half-healed scars. Neville flinched when he touched them, but Theodore learned every one that he could. He touched Neville reverently and kissed pale exposed skin when he came upon it. His fingers sought out the warmth of hidden crevices not content with the cheap, threadbare cloth which covered them.
They came together in a tangle of damp clothing shoved down to knees and pushed under arms, and Theodore could taste the bitter fear in Neville's kisses simply because the same taste of bile had taken up residence in the back of his throat.
The sky has been black for some time -- not gray with tinges of white clouds nor green with bursts of a yellow and orange sun, just a stark, pitch black that erases everything and everyone. If Theodore were the guessing sort he would conjecture that the sun has been gone for two or three days, but a Nott never wagers unless he already knows the answer, and to this question, Theodore does not have any answers. This unnerves him greatly. His inability to see his surroundings unnerves him more. How can he know where he is going without light? How can he be certain that they are not going in circles? How can he know what he knows without something physical to urge him forward?
'Faith' is a Muggle concept, and some days Theodore wishes he had never heard the word.
At this point in the war, wands do more harm than good, and although Theodore has his wand he would only use it under the most dire circumstances.
They're not quite there just yet.
They're in a forest. Theodore can tell by the trees he keeps running into and the roots they're continually stumbling over. Branches are reaching out to grab them and scratching his skin. There's a gash on the side of his neck that hasn't been attended to since he took a wrong step over the side of a small bridge and fell onto a rocky riverbed. He's glad he didn't drown, and he does his best to ignore the aches and pains. The pull of Bonding is a small fire in the pit of his stomach that keeps him going.
What you can't see can't exist, and Theodore can hardly see in front of his face. He only knows Blaise is still next to him because he can hear him breathing, and because when the attack came they were together. They haven't spoken in some time, but when he stops, Blaise runs into him and they speak for the first time in an age.
"All this for a Gryffindor?" Blaise's words are soft and low. His voice is scratchy with disuse, and when Theodore turns he can just make out the scratches marring Blaise's always perfect visage. He cannot begin to imagine how he himself must look to other eyes.
When Theodore licks his lips all he tastes is dirt and blood. "Yes," he says.
Blaise says nothing in return, but Theodore grapples for his hand and tugs Blaise forward nonetheless.
The pull is still there. They're going on.
Theodore cannot worry about Neville and his insistence that he is doing the right thing. Theodore cannot pause and worry about Neville at all or he'll never survive, and he promised he would.
Notts don't make promises they can't keep.
Theodore laughed when Neville told him what he wanted to do. He laughed.
He rolled over in the bed they shared and focussed his eyes on the bedclothes pooled around Neville's naked form and laughed. Not a laugh of derision or bewilderment but of amusement. He took in the freckles across Neville's nose and the faint stubble dotting Neville's jaw that had rubbed his skin raw on more than one occasion. He took in Neville's flaccid penis and the light dusting of brown hair that led from Neville's navel downward. He reached out and tweaked one dusty-coloured nipple and chuckled when Neville twitched and then frowned.
And then he said yes.
He could never imagine being Bonded to anyone else.
He smells the sulphur before anything else. It's acrid and faint, but it hangs in the air like a signpost, and in the blackness Theodore can't see anything. He trips over something that could be a log or a body or hole big enough to twist an ankle and hobble random passersby. He lets go of Blaise's hand rather than dragging him down too, and the pain is startling in its sharpness. It's been so long since Theodore has truly felt anything apart from the wet and the cold, but Blaise is there, because he always is, and he yanks Theodore to his feet before he can say that this is enough.
The red flare is blinding when it ignites and they both recoil, falling over each other in their haste to get away.
Theodore coughs and Blaise covers his mouth, and when the smoke clears Neville is there.
For a moment Theodore thinks he's dead, but the weight that's dragged him all this way is gone, and he knows he must be wrong.
He's come all this way just for Neville and they're still alive.
Nothing else will matter in this lifetime.
-end-
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Date: 2004-10-31 12:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-11-01 11:25 am (UTC)