THEODORE LUPIN. 27. ORDER. RYAN GOSLING. ►
”the gods have no mercy. that’s why they’re gods.” cersei lannister, a game of thrones.
here’s what he remembers about childhood:
a) he is ten years old when his grandmother takes him, hand-in-hand, to hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. they watch, heads craned towards the sky, as the last stones of gryffindor tower are being put into place. a war occurred here, evidently, and they rebuilt the castle, stone for stone, in that time. his first birthday saw a rudimentary reconstruction of the structure, held up by wooden scaffolding like crutches, as students filed in for the first re-opening of the school since the battle. his third, a regrowth of the once-scorched grounds, life returning to its viridian expanses once again. and his eighth, the complete, careful re-acquisition of all the artefacts that had been lost in fires and missed aims. he grew as hogwarts did, side-by-side, his temporal brother, the lonely grey sentinel on the mountain. andromeda leans down to whisper in his ear, “now that’s how you take back history.” he had been confused, at the time, what exactly she meant, but as he became older, he learned that his grandmother’s spoken words were often mental distractions from the thoughts that truly plagued her mind. now he thinks she had meant to say, your parents would’ve liked to see this, and didn’t know how.
b) victoire with her long, pretty, blonde hair. that’s one of his first memories, even as a little boy. “teddy, this is victoire,” as their guardians had pushed them close together, and his clumsy english tongue had stumbled over the graceful syllables. he’d blushed. victoire, victoire, victoire. the name escaped him at the worst of times, fleeting at a glancing touch, and he whispered it under his breath, tongue tied around its letters, in an effort to make it stay. he could say her name all day, and never get bored.
c) he was brave enough to ask one day, “what was my father like?” and the once “boy who lived” gave a warm, humble laugh.
“to be honest? he was one of the greatest men i ever knew. and he would be proud to know his son is just as great.”
an empty hole in his heart for the parents he never knew. he’s not a sentimentalist, not entirely anyway, but sometimes on the street he’ll catch a glimpse of a middle-aged couple hand in hand — spin, wildly, on his heel — heart thrumming, eyes wide — and they’d pass, still in love, without even a look in his direction. beautiful. beautiful.
d) it’s a bright and lazy summer afternoon when he teaches james how to skip stones. he’s got an easiness about him, a limberness in his body that makes him move like water, but james, james is stiff, at least when it comes to throwing stones. “no, no,” he says, shaking his head, “you gotta do it like this.” without asking, he presses a new stone into james’ palm, then takes the boy’s hand into his own and bends it back and forth, in one fluid motion. “like this. here, let’s do it together.” he points at the distance, where the lake meets the setting sun. there. “are you ready?”
“yes, i’m ready.” a gulp of breath — hold, hold — and then a sharp snap of the wrist. the stone sails through the air in a perfect arch, skips four times, and disappears into the water like a fish. they exhale as one.
(and now it’s time for war.)
victoire’s hair
victoire’s laugh
james’ hands
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