Just like that song by Supertramp
18 May 2009 11:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ieuneIt's raining again. More showers than sunshine the last few days. It affects my mood but somehow it's easier to write. That said, I thought I'd post a chunk from the one-shot that's currently got me by the throat. ;) A follow-on around a recent Nape drabble. I went for a different style in this, so it doesn't read like my usual first person. It's also raw text, so, yeah.
“Seen the latest?”
The newest recruit to the werewolf capture unit looked up and skidded his chair back from the interdepartmental memo almost homicidally intent on piercing his cheek. A wand flick and it fell to the floor, inert.
His partner indulged in the lazy snuffling that passed for laughter. “Reflexes like that, Pete, you might even make it through your first year unbitten.”
‘Pete’ half-smiles at the worn-thin joke as he picks up the now-immobile memo but it fades as he reads it through to the accompaniment of other teams’ comments.
“Ah, brilliant—more late nights chasing shadows across the country. The wife’s mother has got her half—convinced I’m having an affair!” Someone sniggered. “Like I have the bloody energy!”
“Tell me about it!”
As if all these reported sightings of You-Know-Who and Death Eaters, wasn’t bad enough, Greyback’s activity has been fomenting panic. The wizarding community is seeing werewolves round every corner, and each report has to be investigated.
Pyotr doesn’t mind long hours; he comes from a line of werewolf hunters and, unlike his father, he does the work because it’s all he knows. He stares at the words and gets that creeping feeling in his gut, the one that sends his hand to touch the obraz concealed under his shirt. He screws the memo into a ball and crushes it tightly in his hand a moment longer with the intention of lobbing it at the bin. On a whim he slides it into his pocket. “This Umbridge, he passes this to public?”
Crippin snorts and shakes his head at Procter, his partner. “We gotta teach him to speak proper.”
“Speak proper? His English is way better than your Russian, Crippin!”
Crippin sends a surge of random objects in Wylie’s direction but they bounce off his Shield charm. Pyotr smiles. Wylie might be the youngest in the unit but he’s a good man.
When he turns back to his partner, Shreeve is considering him, head on one side like some thrush searching for grubs. “This Umbridge, he passes this to public?” he repeats, not knowing how to make himself clearer.
“The Senior Under Secretary?” Shreeve says. “Madam Umbridge?”
Pyotr nods once. “How else they know?” Conversation falters—his first clue that something is amiss. That creeping feeling in his gut grips his stomach with cold hands. The others avoid looking at him or Shreeve and busy themselves shuffling through reports. The sudden silence around him is taut, distancing.
“Where’s my bloody quill?” Crippin mutters, searching the mess on top of his desk. “Adam, have you nicked—Got it.”
Shreeve beckons. “We’re gonna need decent coffee to get through this day.” He weaves through the other desks and cubbyhole work stations towards the door. “You in, Pete, or what?”
Pyotr is on familiar ground with this simple subterfuge. His grandmother did something similar during the time the Bielskis hid them both in the forests of Belarus from Grindelwald’s Death Squads. He leaves the rickety chair that refuses to stay charmed level and follows Shreeve out, meeting him by the lifts.
Shreeve discusses inconsequentialities in a random stream that requires nothing more from Pyotr than a head nod or grunt until they’re out on the streets, walking through the Muggles. Without looking at him, Shreeve says, “It’s not prudent to discuss madam Umbridge in the Ministry building. Walls are charmed and portraits have ears and all that. This way.” He indicates left.
A head taller than his partner, Pyotr picks out their destination from the circular logo; a Muggle coffee shop. The closer they get, the more Shreeve hurries.
The door squeals as Shreeve shoulders it open. His face relaxes into a natural smile. “Oh God, inhale and die happy—liquid heaven.”
It smells of any other coffee house to Pyotr but he needs his partner’s explanation so he humours him. One espresso and americano later, they’re trying to settle in deep seats that are more bucket than comfortable, facing each other across a small brown-topped table. Shreeve cradles his cup in both hands the way a woman would and lets the steam rise into his face. He speaks without preamble.
“Seen the latest?”
The newest recruit to the werewolf capture unit looked up and skidded his chair back from the interdepartmental memo almost homicidally intent on piercing his cheek. A wand flick and it fell to the floor, inert.
His partner indulged in the lazy snuffling that passed for laughter. “Reflexes like that, Pete, you might even make it through your first year unbitten.”
‘Pete’ half-smiles at the worn-thin joke as he picks up the now-immobile memo but it fades as he reads it through to the accompaniment of other teams’ comments.
“Ah, brilliant—more late nights chasing shadows across the country. The wife’s mother has got her half—convinced I’m having an affair!” Someone sniggered. “Like I have the bloody energy!”
“Tell me about it!”
As if all these reported sightings of You-Know-Who and Death Eaters, wasn’t bad enough, Greyback’s activity has been fomenting panic. The wizarding community is seeing werewolves round every corner, and each report has to be investigated.
Pyotr doesn’t mind long hours; he comes from a line of werewolf hunters and, unlike his father, he does the work because it’s all he knows. He stares at the words and gets that creeping feeling in his gut, the one that sends his hand to touch the obraz concealed under his shirt. He screws the memo into a ball and crushes it tightly in his hand a moment longer with the intention of lobbing it at the bin. On a whim he slides it into his pocket. “This Umbridge, he passes this to public?”
Crippin snorts and shakes his head at Procter, his partner. “We gotta teach him to speak proper.”
“Speak proper? His English is way better than your Russian, Crippin!”
Crippin sends a surge of random objects in Wylie’s direction but they bounce off his Shield charm. Pyotr smiles. Wylie might be the youngest in the unit but he’s a good man.
When he turns back to his partner, Shreeve is considering him, head on one side like some thrush searching for grubs. “This Umbridge, he passes this to public?” he repeats, not knowing how to make himself clearer.
“The Senior Under Secretary?” Shreeve says. “Madam Umbridge?”
Pyotr nods once. “How else they know?” Conversation falters—his first clue that something is amiss. That creeping feeling in his gut grips his stomach with cold hands. The others avoid looking at him or Shreeve and busy themselves shuffling through reports. The sudden silence around him is taut, distancing.
“Where’s my bloody quill?” Crippin mutters, searching the mess on top of his desk. “Adam, have you nicked—Got it.”
Shreeve beckons. “We’re gonna need decent coffee to get through this day.” He weaves through the other desks and cubbyhole work stations towards the door. “You in, Pete, or what?”
Pyotr is on familiar ground with this simple subterfuge. His grandmother did something similar during the time the Bielskis hid them both in the forests of Belarus from Grindelwald’s Death Squads. He leaves the rickety chair that refuses to stay charmed level and follows Shreeve out, meeting him by the lifts.
Shreeve discusses inconsequentialities in a random stream that requires nothing more from Pyotr than a head nod or grunt until they’re out on the streets, walking through the Muggles. Without looking at him, Shreeve says, “It’s not prudent to discuss madam Umbridge in the Ministry building. Walls are charmed and portraits have ears and all that. This way.” He indicates left.
A head taller than his partner, Pyotr picks out their destination from the circular logo; a Muggle coffee shop. The closer they get, the more Shreeve hurries.
The door squeals as Shreeve shoulders it open. His face relaxes into a natural smile. “Oh God, inhale and die happy—liquid heaven.”
It smells of any other coffee house to Pyotr but he needs his partner’s explanation so he humours him. One espresso and americano later, they’re trying to settle in deep seats that are more bucket than comfortable, facing each other across a small brown-topped table. Shreeve cradles his cup in both hands the way a woman would and lets the steam rise into his face. He speaks without preamble.
no subject
Date: 25 May 2009 08:19 pm (UTC)I did get a bit confused trying to keep up with who was who early on, but I think that would not be the case if this were part of a longer story. I also might be a little dense for wanting things spelled out more at the end, but that too might clear itself up if this fed right into the Nape scene.
I'm impressed by the originality of this cast of characters. They feel like a interesting bunch and they were entertaining to read about. The dialog was very natural. I especially liked the reflexes jab and the mother-in-law quip.
Were you, by chance, making fun of Starbucks? (Not a fan myself.)
no subject
Date: 1 Jun 2009 09:09 am (UTC)Yes, going back to it some time later, I saw how it would be confusing so I do take your point, and, to my eye, the edit made things clearer, and longer, but why that surprises me, I have *no* idea! This scene is part of Nape's past but also introduces a character who will cross paths with Mike again. (Dun dun duh! lol) That scene will be Nape's POV.
It could have been Starbucks, or Costa, or another clone. They're all over the nearest main city, rather like a rash. :/ I patronise small independants wherever possible.