rosie_rues (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rosie_rues) wrote2006-01-29 11:36 am
rosie_rues) wrote2006-01-29 11:36 am
Entry tags:
To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
blanketforts Day 22)
Title: To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 1405
Prompt: Sausages
Notes: Plottiness. Sirius and Remus see somewhere who shouldn't be there. Jan 22 1979 was one of the key dates of the Winter of Discontent. Virtually all public sector workers went on strike on this day and there were marches through several major cities - hence Sirius' problem with the crowd. The BBC have a nice description of what happened. Title from Richard III.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
“Everything smells of blood,” Remus said grumpily.
Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s a meat market. What do you expect?”
“I still don’t understand why we’re in a meat market at whatever hour of the morning this is.”
“Sausages,” Sirius said, grinning at him. “Fat, juicy sausages. Glistening sausages.”
Remus winced. “I just had a moment of Peterness.”
“There’s nothing rude about them. Dirty-minded git.”
“I’m not the one with the sausage-fixation,” Remus said slyly.
Sirius ignored him, taking a deep breath. The air was rich and salty, but he didn’t mind it. There was something real and earthy about it, something honest and brutal and strong. Meat was hanging in slabs in every shop front and the market was bustling with small trucks and trolleys. Men were calling to each other in a thick accent he’d never been allowed to understand. He would have been happy to sit in one of the pubs that opened for this hour, and share breakfast with some of them, listening to stories from an alien world.
“What’s wrong with the supermarket?” Remus grumbled.
Sirius sent him a hurt look. Why didn’t he understand? “It’s atmosphere, mate. It’s an experience. Tradition going back centuries-”
“I thought you didn’t like traditions that went back centuries.”
“Git. Depends on the tradition. Did you know this was where the peasants met in the Peasant’s Revolt?”
“Muggle history?” Remus said blankly. “You?”
Sirius waved his hand airily. “There’s a plaque up somewhere. Now wake up, stop being a grumpy bugger, and let’s buy sausages.”
Remus muttered something, but Sirius ignored him and trotted off across the market. It was still dark, the sky streaked with lighter blues above them, and the lights along the inside of the arches glowed warmly. The tops of the Victorian arches were glittering with frost, and the traders’ breath formed clouds in the air before them. A an old man in a flat cap, with red cheeks and grease in his wrinkles, was leaning against a wall, cupping a cigarette. He gazed out across the market, seeing but unseeing. How long had he been coming here? Was this his entire life laid out before them?
“You know,” Remus said thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to see what you mean. It’s interesting. The longer people have known each other, the less they need to say.”
He was right. There were groups of men here who talked with a shrug and a one syllable taunt. It was like the way he talked to James and Remus and Peter. Would they settle into such a silence as they grew old?
The sausage merchant was a five minute walk away. Sirius, who knew the freezer was empty, intended to buy in bulk. He loved sausages, despite Peter’s unending string of jokes about runaway dogs.
Remus shook his head, and waited by the window, watching the world go by. He was muffled up in his old coat and his Gryffinor scarf, the tips of his ears peeking out coldly. Sirius resisted the temptation to cup his own hands over them to warm them up, and bought his sausages.
As he picked the bag up, Remus said sharply, “Sirius!”
It was his Auror voice, and Sirius tensed and whirled.
“Look!” Remus said, pointing with his hand against his side. “Tell me if you see what I do. Fourth arch, black coat.”
Sirius followed his gesture, narrowing his eyes at the man who’d paused there, blowing on his hands for warmth. He was tall, gaunt, dark-haired, rough-shaven. Then he dropped his hands, and Sirius recognised him.
Alan Radcliffe.
He hurled himself out of the shop, feet pounding against the sticky cobbles. Radcliffe, who should have been dead, looked up at the sound and saw the wand in Sirius’ hand. He turned and ran.
Sirius went after him, shoving his way between trolleys and clumps of men. He heard angry shouts behind him, and the soft thump of Remus’ feet. Ahead of him, Radcliffe was running flat out, coat streaming before him.
“Petrificus Totalus,” Remus gasped behind him.
Sirius saw the air ripple faintly as the spell slid past him. Remus had always been good at making his spells unobtrusive.
Radcliffe glanced back and dodged, swearing. Then he reached into his pocket and hurled something towards them. Sirius saw it glitter dangerously, but then Remus hit his back, shoving him down. He hit the cobbles with dizzying force, Remus warm and heavy on his back, and drew a breath.
Then the street blew up.
Sirius dropped his head down, hissing, “Protego!”
As soon as the flames died down he rolled, dragging Remus to his feet. “Are you alright?”
Remus nodded, coughing. “Go!”
He could just see Radcliffe in the distance and threw himself into the run, wishing he was able to transform. Padfoot could control the wolf – he would easily bring down a man.
Radcliffe burst out of the market, head ducked. Sirius hammered after him. There was no one ahead of him now. Everyone had rushed back towards Remus and the fire.
He hurled himself out of the market…
…and found himself surrounded.
There were Muggles everywhere, marching in a slow and endless crowd. The murmur of their voices drowned everything, and he couldn’t see past the banner and signs they carried. Sirius swore and tried to shove through in the direction Radcliffe had been running.
He was rebuffed, and he swore again.
They’d lost him.
For a moment, he stopped and watched the march, in case Radcliffe tried to double back. His breath was harsh and heavy in his lungs. Then he turned and stalked back into Smithfield Market.
The fire was out and a crowd was gathered around Remus. He was using his Auror voice again. Sirius began to push through the crowd as he heard him say, “…wanted for questioning in relation to a number of murders.” Then he saw Sirius and looked up, raising an eyebrow.
“Bastard got away.”
There was a mutter from the crowd.
“Shit,” Remus said. “Right, if he comes back, don’t approach him. Call this number.”
Sirius phased it out again, scowling. He’d watched enough police shows to work out what Remus was doing, sneaky bastard. Well, let him be the clever one. That just meant Sirius had to be the bad-tempered, sexy one. That suited him. It let him think.
Alan Radcliffe was dead. He’d seen the body, cold and stiff. Nobody survived a slit throat. That meant that either the man had a twin, which was worthy of the most lurid Muggle telly, or somebody was using polyjuice. But who? Was somebody pretending to be a dead man or was Radcliffe alive? Alan Radcliffe, who might have been in the Order of the Phoenix, and who might have been a traitor. Could he have faked his own death? Whose face was the body wearing? Did people transformed by polyjuice change back after death?
“If you’ll excuse us,” Remus said politely. “DS Black and I need to report. We’ll be sending someone to talk to you within the next half hour. Is it possible for you all to stay around that long?”
One of the men snorted and said, “No longer. Got businesses to run.”
“Good,” Remus said. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. Black?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Cheers.”
Remus dragged him round the corner until they were out of sight, and hissed, “Ministry.”
They apparated quickly, and split up in the foyer. Remus dashed off in search of an obliviator to send to Smithfield and Sirius took the stairs up to the office two at a time. Ted wasn’t it yet, but there was a message fire free. Sirius pushed to it, and grabbed for Floo powder, snarling, “Number Ten, Church Road, St Paul’s Cray.”
A ear-splitting shriek greeted him. “Sirius! Mummy, Sirius is in the fire!”
Andromeda, still in her dressing gown, black hair loose down her back, rose from the kitchen table, her face narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Is Ted still there?”
“One moment. Nymphadora, get daddy.”
Nym went scuttling out, and Andromeda came to crouch by the fire. “Are you alright? Your face is bleeding.”
“Is it?” Sirius said. He hadn’t noticed. “Might just be cow blood.”
Andromeda looked worried. “Sirius.”
Ted stumbled into the kitchen, yawning. “What’s up?”
“Remus and I just saw Alan Radcliffe.”
Ted woke up, his eyes growing sharp. “Alan’s dead.”
“Then somebody else with his face just tried to kill us.”
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 1405
Prompt: Sausages
Notes: Plottiness. Sirius and Remus see somewhere who shouldn't be there. Jan 22 1979 was one of the key dates of the Winter of Discontent. Virtually all public sector workers went on strike on this day and there were marches through several major cities - hence Sirius' problem with the crowd. The BBC have a nice description of what happened. Title from Richard III.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
“Everything smells of blood,” Remus said grumpily.
Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s a meat market. What do you expect?”
“I still don’t understand why we’re in a meat market at whatever hour of the morning this is.”
“Sausages,” Sirius said, grinning at him. “Fat, juicy sausages. Glistening sausages.”
Remus winced. “I just had a moment of Peterness.”
“There’s nothing rude about them. Dirty-minded git.”
“I’m not the one with the sausage-fixation,” Remus said slyly.
Sirius ignored him, taking a deep breath. The air was rich and salty, but he didn’t mind it. There was something real and earthy about it, something honest and brutal and strong. Meat was hanging in slabs in every shop front and the market was bustling with small trucks and trolleys. Men were calling to each other in a thick accent he’d never been allowed to understand. He would have been happy to sit in one of the pubs that opened for this hour, and share breakfast with some of them, listening to stories from an alien world.
“What’s wrong with the supermarket?” Remus grumbled.
Sirius sent him a hurt look. Why didn’t he understand? “It’s atmosphere, mate. It’s an experience. Tradition going back centuries-”
“I thought you didn’t like traditions that went back centuries.”
“Git. Depends on the tradition. Did you know this was where the peasants met in the Peasant’s Revolt?”
“Muggle history?” Remus said blankly. “You?”
Sirius waved his hand airily. “There’s a plaque up somewhere. Now wake up, stop being a grumpy bugger, and let’s buy sausages.”
Remus muttered something, but Sirius ignored him and trotted off across the market. It was still dark, the sky streaked with lighter blues above them, and the lights along the inside of the arches glowed warmly. The tops of the Victorian arches were glittering with frost, and the traders’ breath formed clouds in the air before them. A an old man in a flat cap, with red cheeks and grease in his wrinkles, was leaning against a wall, cupping a cigarette. He gazed out across the market, seeing but unseeing. How long had he been coming here? Was this his entire life laid out before them?
“You know,” Remus said thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to see what you mean. It’s interesting. The longer people have known each other, the less they need to say.”
He was right. There were groups of men here who talked with a shrug and a one syllable taunt. It was like the way he talked to James and Remus and Peter. Would they settle into such a silence as they grew old?
The sausage merchant was a five minute walk away. Sirius, who knew the freezer was empty, intended to buy in bulk. He loved sausages, despite Peter’s unending string of jokes about runaway dogs.
Remus shook his head, and waited by the window, watching the world go by. He was muffled up in his old coat and his Gryffinor scarf, the tips of his ears peeking out coldly. Sirius resisted the temptation to cup his own hands over them to warm them up, and bought his sausages.
As he picked the bag up, Remus said sharply, “Sirius!”
It was his Auror voice, and Sirius tensed and whirled.
“Look!” Remus said, pointing with his hand against his side. “Tell me if you see what I do. Fourth arch, black coat.”
Sirius followed his gesture, narrowing his eyes at the man who’d paused there, blowing on his hands for warmth. He was tall, gaunt, dark-haired, rough-shaven. Then he dropped his hands, and Sirius recognised him.
Alan Radcliffe.
He hurled himself out of the shop, feet pounding against the sticky cobbles. Radcliffe, who should have been dead, looked up at the sound and saw the wand in Sirius’ hand. He turned and ran.
Sirius went after him, shoving his way between trolleys and clumps of men. He heard angry shouts behind him, and the soft thump of Remus’ feet. Ahead of him, Radcliffe was running flat out, coat streaming before him.
“Petrificus Totalus,” Remus gasped behind him.
Sirius saw the air ripple faintly as the spell slid past him. Remus had always been good at making his spells unobtrusive.
Radcliffe glanced back and dodged, swearing. Then he reached into his pocket and hurled something towards them. Sirius saw it glitter dangerously, but then Remus hit his back, shoving him down. He hit the cobbles with dizzying force, Remus warm and heavy on his back, and drew a breath.
Then the street blew up.
Sirius dropped his head down, hissing, “Protego!”
As soon as the flames died down he rolled, dragging Remus to his feet. “Are you alright?”
Remus nodded, coughing. “Go!”
He could just see Radcliffe in the distance and threw himself into the run, wishing he was able to transform. Padfoot could control the wolf – he would easily bring down a man.
Radcliffe burst out of the market, head ducked. Sirius hammered after him. There was no one ahead of him now. Everyone had rushed back towards Remus and the fire.
He hurled himself out of the market…
…and found himself surrounded.
There were Muggles everywhere, marching in a slow and endless crowd. The murmur of their voices drowned everything, and he couldn’t see past the banner and signs they carried. Sirius swore and tried to shove through in the direction Radcliffe had been running.
He was rebuffed, and he swore again.
They’d lost him.
For a moment, he stopped and watched the march, in case Radcliffe tried to double back. His breath was harsh and heavy in his lungs. Then he turned and stalked back into Smithfield Market.
The fire was out and a crowd was gathered around Remus. He was using his Auror voice again. Sirius began to push through the crowd as he heard him say, “…wanted for questioning in relation to a number of murders.” Then he saw Sirius and looked up, raising an eyebrow.
“Bastard got away.”
There was a mutter from the crowd.
“Shit,” Remus said. “Right, if he comes back, don’t approach him. Call this number.”
Sirius phased it out again, scowling. He’d watched enough police shows to work out what Remus was doing, sneaky bastard. Well, let him be the clever one. That just meant Sirius had to be the bad-tempered, sexy one. That suited him. It let him think.
Alan Radcliffe was dead. He’d seen the body, cold and stiff. Nobody survived a slit throat. That meant that either the man had a twin, which was worthy of the most lurid Muggle telly, or somebody was using polyjuice. But who? Was somebody pretending to be a dead man or was Radcliffe alive? Alan Radcliffe, who might have been in the Order of the Phoenix, and who might have been a traitor. Could he have faked his own death? Whose face was the body wearing? Did people transformed by polyjuice change back after death?
“If you’ll excuse us,” Remus said politely. “DS Black and I need to report. We’ll be sending someone to talk to you within the next half hour. Is it possible for you all to stay around that long?”
One of the men snorted and said, “No longer. Got businesses to run.”
“Good,” Remus said. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. Black?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Cheers.”
Remus dragged him round the corner until they were out of sight, and hissed, “Ministry.”
They apparated quickly, and split up in the foyer. Remus dashed off in search of an obliviator to send to Smithfield and Sirius took the stairs up to the office two at a time. Ted wasn’t it yet, but there was a message fire free. Sirius pushed to it, and grabbed for Floo powder, snarling, “Number Ten, Church Road, St Paul’s Cray.”
A ear-splitting shriek greeted him. “Sirius! Mummy, Sirius is in the fire!”
Andromeda, still in her dressing gown, black hair loose down her back, rose from the kitchen table, her face narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Is Ted still there?”
“One moment. Nymphadora, get daddy.”
Nym went scuttling out, and Andromeda came to crouch by the fire. “Are you alright? Your face is bleeding.”
“Is it?” Sirius said. He hadn’t noticed. “Might just be cow blood.”
Andromeda looked worried. “Sirius.”
Ted stumbled into the kitchen, yawning. “What’s up?”
“Remus and I just saw Alan Radcliffe.”
Ted woke up, his eyes growing sharp. “Alan’s dead.”
“Then somebody else with his face just tried to kill us.”