(fan): passion. adventure. community. fa·nat·ic- noun. a person with an extreme and uncritical enthusiasm or zeal. fan- (noun) an enthusiastic devotee, follower, or admirer. fan·dom- (noun) a collective of fans.
It would have been the perfect gift. Before – for a decade, Peter Pettigrew had searched for the perfect present for Sirius Black. There was something poetic or ironic - or one of those words Peter never quite grasped but Remus had always explained patiently - at finding just the thing when the man in question rotted away in Azkaban. If there was anything left of the boy Peter had been, he might have felt morose or guiltily for celebrating the birthday of a mate he had driven mad. But nothing could have kept Wormtail from celebrating Padfoot’s birthday at a Pink Floyd Concert.
He rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable with walking on two feet for the first time in years. Muggles were everywhere but not one was looking at him, not one had noticed the man in a too long yet too small black cloak scurrying into the shadows. Sometime in fifth year, Sirius had taught the marauders how to sneak into muggle concerts. It had been bafflingly easy, a flick of a wand here and slipping into a back door there. Peter had always wondered how a pure breed wizard like Black had ever learned how to do it. He remembered the lessons now, like riding a broom, the movements came back easily.
Slipping through a back door with a flickering exit sign as a security guard smoked, hiding in plain sight, and walking towards the noise of the crowds. The Omni was like other venues, concrete halls spilled into crowds. Peter had stolen one of the twins’ wands. The stolen wand jumped with every spell, as if trying to escape its thief’s grasp but a child’s enchantment wasn’t going to beat him. He cast a spell to bring him a beer knowing no one would notice the blatant magic and barely caring if they did. When he sipped, he grinned at the familiar bitter taste.
It was dark and the air had a mist settling Peter had never seen anywhere but rock concerts and cemeteries. The music began, slow and teasing and the crowd began to rumble with clapping and shouting. When the guitar began strumming, the muggles stilled for a moment before all collectively leaning forward. Peter knew he had a minute to find a spot, before the show really began, and he pushed forwarded towards the stage.
Remember when you were young…
The singer began to croon as Peter passed a boy in a black leather jacket, one shockingly familiar to something Sirius had owned. Peter struggled to remember if Prongs had given Padfoot that jacket, allowing himself to do a double-take to jog the buried memory.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom…
Peter Pettigrew had been to four muggle rock concerts before this one in his life, all of them with and because of Sirius Black. Each event had been crowded and loud but undeniably electrifying, pulsing with life and rebellion perfectly in tune and attuned to the marauders but especially to Black. Padfoot had been the cool, reckless, powerful marauder who taught Wormtail about the magic of music.
It was magic, and Peter supposed it could even be a curse. The music and the master of the lesson had driven him to leave the rat behind for one night – for this night. Wormtail had been a boy when Padfoot had taught him about music, about the way a strumming guitar and beating drum felt inside his chest. He could feel it now, with the guitar bubbling in his ribcage.
A redhead girl danced with the lights of the stage up ahead. Peter couldn’t be sure if imagined the man in glasses that laced his fingers around her waist. Memories were floating about just beyond - violently flashing before Peter’s eyes.
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr…
Peter found himself singing the words with the crowd. The Dark Lord who had promised Peter the world, the adoration of all, would have found this excursion ridiculous. He would have punished Peter for leaving his post, for remembering his traitorous mate, and for being among muggles and allowing them to live. But the Dark Lord had abandoned him, and nothing he was promised had come.
You cried for the moon…
Red lights flooded the crowd before sweeping up to the sky. Peter’s eyes followed the light, suddenly searching for Moony. Prongs was dead. Padfoot in prison. But Moony, he might have come – might have realized this was undeniably perfect. But Wormtail knew he wouldn’t find the familiar pale face and graying gold hair in 1500 people. Not even for Padfoot’s perfect present.
Wormtail would have won the gift competition this year, the one that everyone denied existed. This would have been better than James’ leather jacket that Sirius wore for years or Remus’ enchanted Farah Fawcett poster that hung in their dorm from second year on. Wormtail would have beat Prongs and Moony who had never understood Padfoot and the music quite like Peter.
Well you wore out your welcome…
Peter hadn’t thought about November 3rd since 1980. He suspected he wouldn’t have thought about it this year either, except for overhearing this news. Over the summer, Charlie had been discussing music with an American. A cousin, or a cousin’s cousin, or some ridiculous relation which Peter didn’t bother to understand. But he had been curled up in the open school trunk, feasting on the forgotten chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties when the conversation started about The Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix, and meandered to the Pink Floyd American tour. The American cousin had mentioned The Omni on November 3rd and Peter had known then that he would find a way here.
The band was coming to the end of Shine On You Crazy Diamond, a song Peter had heard countless times the summer in-between fifth and sixth year. He knew the swells and drops of the music, like he knew the words to summon the Dark Mark.
“Come on… you prisoner, and shine!”
Peter shouted the lyrics and lifted his beer. Happy Birthday, Padfoot.
Sirius would have been so surprised; he might have even enjoyed the celebration despite his usual reservations about birthdays. Padfoot had been alive for 28 years today because he was still alive – of that Peter was sure – even if he might wish he was not. Wormtail would have taken great care to point out that Sirius had outlived 27, the infamous age when so many famous musicians, artists, actors, and athletes had died. A muggle superstition that Sirius had taken great pride in telling ghost tales about at Hogwarts. Sirius Black was older than Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison had ever been. Sirius was older than James would ever be.
The song drifted into whistling and cheering. Pink Floyd wasn’t like the other bands Sirius had favored, the sound came in waves and buoyed the audience to the heavens above. It was the kind of music they listened to on rainy afternoons, or early mornings, or after the parties had ended. Pink Floyd was the kind of music that had always been playing when Sirius was intoxicated enough to settle into a deep conversation with Peter.
Music is magic. Sirius had explained, more than once. He insisted the marauders pay attention to how it made them feel, how it made them move.
Peter magicked another beer into his hand, swaying to the music and movement of the crowd around him. Someone nearby handed over a lit cigarette and Peter inhaled the smoke with his eyes closed, remembering how it felt to be alive as a human and not just a rat.
Peter wondered if Sirius had forgotten how to be alive as well. Would Padfoot even know it was his birthday today? Would he know someone in the world was celebrating his birth? Would it matter?
Peter swayed and drank for song after song. Feeling the sweat run down his forehead and back. His feet ache from standing, and sometimes he shrieked with the crowd. The lights flashed and flared, and he didn’t hide from them, or the occasional glance or glare. Peter let the music bring him back to a life he had left behind long ago.
Music is Magic.
It was the only lesson that remained. A persistent memory that festered. The memory vindictively pulsed with every strum of the guitar or beat of the drum beyond.
Sirius Black had learned to celebrate his birthday for James. James was dead.
Peter jerked at the thoughts. It did not matter. He did not care. He had not thought of them for years. The crowd was cheering for an encore. A final song and as the singing began, Peter pushed his way out of the crowd.
Feel the bile rising from your guilty past… The band was singing to him. Music was a curse.
You’d better run. Peter ran out into the night, whispering Happy Birthday Sirius to the wind as he apparated.
“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love! The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like Voldemort’s! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven…” Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Peter Pettigrew hadn’t noticed it first year, hadn’t questioned it second year and by now had learned not to question the eccentric habits of his mates. But even Peter couldn’t quite ignore the oddity of Sirius Black embracing being the center of attention every day – except on his own birthday.
Sirius had a tendency to disappear on this day in a way that drove James stark raving mad.
“AGAIN! EVERY. YEAR. WHERE IS HE?” James roared at the empty bed, swiping his wand angrily at the confetti falling for no one. The bed was perfectly made.
“It looks like he made the bed for you, at least.” Peter yawned sleepily as he shoved his fists against his eyes. James growled and squinted at his mate. But Peter, Remus thought, was just like an overgrown toddler, round around the middle and completely unaware of the dangers around him.
“Maybe he just didn’t want to walk around with glitter in his hair all day. You know how Sirius is about his hair.” Remus carefully joked as he softly shoved Peter out of a direct hex line. Peter stumbled out of the way and plopped back down into his own bed.
“BLACK! If you are in this room, stop being a Hufflepuff and come out. It is your birthday and we are going to BLOODY CELEBRATE IT!” James shouted as he spun around the room, crazily looking for any nook or cranny in which his missing mate might hide.
“I don’t think he’s here, James.” Remus sighed patiently. James Potter had a quick to ignite temper and he hated having his plans spoiled and it was usually Peter who ended up hexed. James kicked at Sirius’ trunk and grabbed the beater bat laying on the ground and started swinging.
“He didn’t seem like he wanted to celebrate much…” Peter squeaked, worrying if he said too much James would blame him for this mess.
“I don’t care.” James stated through gritted teeth as he took a swing at the posters of his bed.
“James,” Remus sighed “breaking the bed won’t make him appear.”
“Why does he do this! It’s his birthday!” James whined, as he dropped the beater bat. Peter fidgeted with his ear wondering if James really didn’t know or just really didn’t want to believe that anyone could dislike their own birthday.
“Sirius doesn’t much like today, he’s told us that.” Remus was patiently explaining, as he pulled on a ratty old jumper.
“BUT he promised!” The young voice cracked, “Remus, he promised to celebrate.”
James threw himself into Sirius’ now messy bed and impatiently kicked his sock toe at one of the posters. There was nothing more sacred among the marauders than a promise, especially a promise to James.
“It is only sunrise, maybe he didn’t think you’d get up this early.” Peter suggested, following Remus’ lead and starting to scrounge through his trunk in search of his favorite trousers.
“Pete’s right, you are always the last one out of bed in the mornings.” Remus laughed effortlessly teasing James. Peter still couldn’t do that, tease James or Sirius. James perked up, shaking one of his hands through his hair in the way he did every time Lily Evans got within five steps of him. Peter suspected it was becoming much more habit than practiced gesture.
“He probably went to the astronomy tower, he likes it up there.” Peter nodded stepping into his trainers. He wasn’t the cleverest marauder, or the most handsome, or the most charming, but he was observant.
“Maybe I can still plan a party for tonight while he’s up there.” James yawned and stretched.
“He asked you not to. ” Remus reminded, forever the patient and level headed one.
“Well, I asked him not to take off. So maybe this is what he gets.” James pouted.
“Do you think he’ll like the LP I got him?” Peter nervously questioned, as he pulled out the wrapped record.
“The one of the muggle band he’s crazy for?” James grinned disbelievingly as he muttered a spell to dress himself magically.
“If we don’t have to listen to it three times today, it would be a birthday miracle.” Remus rolled his eyes. He was combing his fair hair, trying to swoop it off his forehead.
“He’ll love it, Pete. Too bad I might kill him before he gets to listen to it.” James rolled out of the bed and tumbled onto the floor. Remus stepped over the dramatic James to conjure a birthday banner.
“He’s likely already heard It. And it’s been on the muggle radio all summer.” Peter argued.
“And you think the most ancient and noble house of Black listens to a lot of muggle radio, do you then?” James was poking around under Sirius’ bed now.
The door creaked open and invisible footsteps quietly echoed. A resigned groan escaped the air, before a the perfect curls of Sirius Black popped into existence to glisten in the morning light. Peter was sure his hair was never going to look quite like that, on any morning.
“Good morning, men.” Sirius’ grin appeared, floating in the air, like the Cheshire Cat in the picture books Peter had once seen in a muggle nursery school.
“That’s my cloak!” James pointed his wand and hissed a spell through his teeth. The invisibility cloak fell off of Sirius’ shoulders and to the boy’s feet. As the oldest, Sirius was the tallest of the marauders but not yet tall enough that the indivisibility cloak didn’t drag.
“It’s my birthday.” Sirius shrugged unapologetically back at his best mate.
“You weren’t here.” James crossed his arms and stretched out his legs, still on the ground.
“It’s 6:15 in the morning”
“We have plans for our plans!” James interrupted.
“James, you’ve never been up this early in your life.” Sirius shrugged again. Remus laughed and nodded, twisting a Gryffindor scarf around his neck.
“You weren’t trying to hide out and not celebrate?” James squinted his eyes at Sirius.
“You lost your glasses again?” Sirius sighed exasperated. “Accio eyeglasses!”
The black rimmed, stylish eyeglasses of James Potter flew through the air and Sirius Black caught them easily. The boy swaggered across the room and threw his arm out to help James up. Peter watched as Sirius carefully placed the eyeglasses on James’ face, and counted exactly three seconds before James threw his arms around Sirius’ shoulders.
“Stupid git.” James muttered. “Happy Bloody Birthday.”
“I wouldn’t break my promise.” Sirius whispered, just loud enough for Peter and Remus to hear. After first year, James Potter had made the marauders swear they would all celebrate their birthdays because they were important to him. Peter had found it strange until he realized the promise had always been about James and Sirius.
Before Hogwarts, before the marauders, Sirius Black had never had a good birthday. Sometimes the marauders wondered if Sirius had many good days at all. But for all his devil-may-care attitude, Sirius would do anything for James and James demanded Sirius allow the celebrations.
James believed the way to show a person you loved them was to celebrate them on the day of their birth. At first, James had celebrated the marauders like a child, selfishly imposing his likes upon his mates. But after eight birthdays and some chats with his mum, James learned how to celebrate not for his friends but with them. Which is how the clever third year had arranged for his best mate’s 14th birthday to be their first ever Hogsmeade trip. Even Sirius Black was excited.
“Last year, you got detention.” Peter pointed out.
“Because you couldn’t put your wand away fast enough after those pumpkins exploded, prat.” Sirius laughed stretching out his arm to catch Peter around the scruff of the neck. James reached out to catch Remus around an elbow and before the boys really knew what was happening, they were piled on the ground.
“Remus did you tire of all your defense notes and tear them up?” Sirius laughed picking a piece of confetti from Remus’ shoulder.
“You wouldn’t be passing Defense if not for my notes, Black.” Remus shoved Sirius.
“Pete, you cast the confetti spell.” James whispered conspiratorially. Peter laughed as he whispered the spell. As the confetti popped, James and Remus started singing Happy Birthday, loudly and slightly off key.
“If there’s glitter in my hair Pete, I swear I’m going to hex yours to be a bright pink for at least a week.” Sirius laughed.
The four boys roughed around for a couple more minutes before there was a loud aggravated knock. The sixth year, Fabien Prewett poked his wild red hair into the room and blinked owlishly at the group on the ground.
“If you blokes are going to keep arsing around at this ungodly hour, on the first Hogsmeade Saturday of term, at least go outside. I won’t save you from Gideon if you don’t bog off, even if it is your birthday Sirius Black.”
It had become a habit, like the others, like the man himself. This birthday was the first Remus Lupin had ever celebrated for a mate. November 3rd, Sirius Black’s birthday had been a wonderful adventure, an extravagant escapade, and a dependable habit for over a decade.
What a bittersweet thing, Remus realized, that the first would become the last. He knew, had known that this birthday would be the last he would ever celebrate.
He didn’t know how he had arrived. Motion had been happening for hours, days, maybe weeks without his consent. But the rough apparition left his knees quaking and his head reeling in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was seventeen.
Inhale and focus... There’s a good mate.
A faint echo stirred in the back of his mind and Remus shook his head violently. Plunging his wand back into his robes, he kept his glare trained on the ground as he stormed past the open garden gate. The young man refused to notice how the wood hung off its hinges unable to close properly. He refused to be confronted with harsh truths and harder realities.
Lean into it. Remember Moony, kick near the lock not at the lock itself. Drive your heel into the door…
The instructions surfaced in his mind instantly, almost before Remus even registered the surprise of seeing the front door closed. In a fit of rage, he pushed one heel into the peddles of the path and pushed the other into the fading red door.
He had only been indulging them, when they insisted on teaching him how to break down a door like a muggle. But they had insisted, in that obnoxious and unrelenting way of theirs, that the skill would be useful. So Lupin kicked at the wood, repeatedly, trying to kick the patient voice of Padfoot away as the wood splintered and the door creaked open.
It is dark and the stench of death hangs heavily in the air. But he couldn’t, or wouldn’t accept what his eyes refuse to settle on and with a reckless abandoned defined by marauders he runs into the cottage.
Swishing his wand the window shutters fly open, allowing light to pour into a cozy sitting room. A game of wizard’s chest is set up in one corner, the pieces fidgeting to finish the game. Useful Potions for New Mothers lies still open to its reader’s last page over the arm of a plush armchair. A familiar pair of quidditch boots lay forgotten near the fireplace with mud still drying on them. The picture of a home waiting for life to continue.
Crunching glass under his foot draws his attention.
James died first. That’s what the Daily Prophet had said.
Remus suddenly drops to his knees as the reality hits him. Tiny shards of glass push through his trousers and pierce his skin as he chokes back a sob.
“James. Your glasses.” Lupin cries helplessly. He scrambles to find the old rims, the ones he was sure he saw James in last. Bits of glass prick against his hands and he can feel the overwhelming grief bubbling in his chest. He is crying again, he can feel the familiar damp of his cheeks.
James Potter is dead. Remus howls, a wolfish and wild sound of sadness ripping through him as he gives up searching for what will not be found.
Lupin knows the stillness is a mistake that if he doesn’t start moving again, he might die in the same spot as his mate had from the grief of it all. It is only when he stops, when the habitual haze isn’t propelling him forward, that everything becomes unbearable.
It’s the meowing that saves him. Jerking up his head he searches for the source of the sound.
We’ve got a kitten. Lily had written. James pretends to hate it.
“I believe Prongs was allergic and afraid to tell you.” Remus whispers as the kitten wobbles out from one the quidditch boots.
Lupin scrambles across the floor, letting his palms still drag along the broken glass, as if it might be the last way he will ever feel James Potter again. His hands are aching and bleeding when he reaches out for the kitten.
“What’s your name? Something ridiculous?” Remus croons.
He picks up the kitten as he stands. Tucking the creature into the crook of his elbow, the purring begins almost instantly and it brings the young man a strength, a steadiness, a calmness in knowing he is not alone any longer.
“Daffodil, was it?” Remus forces a jovial tone. An angry meow replies.
“No, then. You’re rather gray, Stormy?” He tries. The angry meowing continues, even as the purring intensifies.
“Are you hungry?” Remus moves to the kitchen. He doesn’t dwell on the baby bottles, or the half-finished wine bottle sitting on the counter that looks suspiciously like Sirius’ favorite vintage. Instead the man throws open the cabinets, with a false joy and hope, at seeking to find something other than a haunting emptiness.
But then a darting mouse.
Would you eat me when you’re a werewolf, do you think Moony?
The memory roars to life without permission. Months underground, with only the recollections of his friends to keep him company make it impossible to ignore them now. Peter Pettigrew, round face with cheeks puffed out in agitation.
An index finger is all that was found, among twelve dead muggles. That’s how the Daily Prophet had described him in the end.
Lupin jolts at the vision dancing in the unwelcomed tears and slams the cabinet shut.
The kitten jumps from his arms and saunters out the open window.
“Decided you’d best find your own food?” He muses. But he doesn’t stop his own search, throwing open the pale mint fridge.
Pumpkin juice. Two eggs.
His eyes move over the regular items quickly, registering favorite foods or regular habits. A jar of blackberry jam that James had to have every morning for his scones, or the chunk of cheddar cheese that was Lily’s preferred midnight snack. And then, right there, sits a cake.
Lupin greedily reached out for it, pulling out the treat. Covered in fluffy pink buttercream frost, the kind that would have made Sirius loudly protest but that he would have secretly loved. The cake smells freshly baked, enchanted to keep perfectly, in what was likely one of the last spells Lily ever cast.
They had planned this, James and Lily, a celebration of their shared habit. The war and the danger be damned.
Padfoot can say he doesn’t want to celebrate until he’s blue in the face, but he doesn’t get a say in the matter.
Every year James Potter had said those words. For a decade, this day had been a marauder high holy day.
“Accio candles!” Lupin summons the sparklers, the kind they had used on Sirius’ seventeenth birthday.
He flicks and flips his wand, casting every summoning non-verbal spell he can form in his mind. Streamers and banners, fire whiskey, gifts, a record player jumping to life, everything set for a party.
Mere minutes later, Remus Lupin stands huffing amidst the festivities. Red and gold streamers hanging above him, a glittering banner floating around him, a small stack of gifts laying at his feet. The record player crackling for a moment before that blasted ABBA record that was playing in every club in London starts – Super Trouper.
A wand flick and the record scratches, in a way that Lily might never forgive.
She died defending her infant…. the boy who lived. The Daily Prophet had heralded.
The piano melody begins of the track that Sirius and James belted out drunk to a bouncing and giggling Harry on his first birthday months before. When Remus had seen them, all of them, last.
“I don’t want to talk about….”
One of the blondes from ABBA, Remus never could remember their names, sings and the lyrics bring on a rage.
“You baked HIM a cake, before he BETRAYED YOU!
Remus roars as he smashes the cake into the mint fridge door.
“ALL HE LEFT OF WORMTAIL WAS HIS FINGER!”
In a fury he rips and tears at each of the gifts, allowing the tears and anger to blind him. He destroys them.
“HOW COULD YOU BETRAY US?”
He lights sparklers, and sets the remains of each gift on fire.
“YOU ALL LEFT ME HERE! To read in the BLOODY DAILY PROPHET how all my mates… how all of YOU had died!” Remus heaves a sob.
Prongs was dead. Wormtail was dead. Padfoot was…
He was alone.
The last marauder.
Taking a shaky breathe, Lupin mutters a clearing spell.
Never look back, that’s when you give up how you are going to miss them.
A teasing confident Padfoot echoes in his mind and Moony knows he will never quiet the memories. Leaving the cottage, he doesn’t look back.
“Happy Birthday, Padfoot.” The wind whispers as the last marauder apparates.
tumblr awards prizes: sirius black for @jordietveld ♥
“Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger.”
As a professor, may I ask you what you think about fanfiction?
I think fanfiction is literature and literature, for the most part, is fanfiction, and that anyone that dismisses it simply on the grounds that it’s derivative knows fuck-all about literature and needs to get the hell off my lawn.
Most of the history of Western literature (and probably much of non-Western literature, but I can’t speak to that) is adapted or appropriated from something else. Homer wrote historyfic and Virgil wrote Homerfic and Dante wrote Virgilfic (where he makes himself a character and writes himself hanging out with Homer and Virgil and they’re like “OMG Dante you’re so cool.“ He was the original Gary Stu). Milton wrote Bible fanfic, and everyone and their mom spent the Middle Ages writing King Arthur fanfic. In the sixteenth century you and another dude could translate the same Petrarchan sonnet and somehow have it count as two separate poems, and no one gave a fuck. Shakespeare doesn’t have a single original plot–although much of it would be more rightly termed RPF–and then John Fletcher and Mary Cowden Clarke and Gloria Naylor and Jane Smiley and Stephen Sondheim wrote Shakespeare fanfic. Guys like Pope and Dryden took old narratives and rewrote them to make fun of people they didn’t like, because the eighteenth century was basically high school. And Spenser! Don’t even get me started on Spenser.
Here’s what fanfic authors/fans need to remember when anyone gives them shit: the idea that originality is somehow a good thing, an innately preferable thing, is a completely modern notion. Until about three hundred years ago, a good writer, by and large, was someone who could take a tried-and-true story and make it even more awesome. (If you want to sound fancy, the technical term is imitatio.) People were like, why would I wanna read something about some dude I’ve never heard of? There’s a new Sir Gawain story out, man! (As to when and how that changed, I tend to blame Daniel Defoe, or the Modernists, or reality television, depending on my mood.)
I also find fanfic fascinating because it takes all the barriers that keep people from professional authorship–barriers that have weakened over the centuries but are nevertheless still very real–and blows right past them. Producing literature, much less circulating it, was something that was well nigh impossible for the vast majority of people for most of human history. First you had to live in a culture where people thought it was acceptable for you to even want to be literate in the first place. And then you had to find someone who could teach you how to read and write (the two didn’t necessarily go together). And you needed sufficient leisure time to learn. And be able to afford books, or at least be friends with someone rich enough to own books who would lend them to you. Good writers are usually well-read and professional writing is a full-time job, so you needed a lot of books, and a lot of leisure time both for reading and writing. And then you had to be in a high enough social position that someone would take you seriously and want to read your work–to have access to circulation/publication in addition to education and leisure time. A very tiny percentage of the population fit those parameters (in England, which is the only place I can speak of with some authority, that meant from 500-1000 A.D.: monks; 1000-1500: aristocratic men and the very occasional aristocratic woman; 1500-1800: aristocratic men, some middle-class men, a few aristocratic women; 1800-on, some middle-class women as well).
What’s amazing is how many people who didn’t fit those parameters kept writing in spite of the constant message they got from society that no one cared about what they had to say, writing letters and diaries and stories and poems that often weren’t discovered until hundreds of years later. Humans have an urge to express themselves, to tell stories, and fanfic lets them. If you’ve got access to a computer and an hour or two to while away of an evening, you can create something that people will see and respond to instantly, with a built-in community of people who care about what you have to say.
I do write the occasional fic; I wish I had the time and mental energy to write more. I’ll admit I don’t read a lot of fic these days because most of it is not–and I know how snobbish this sounds–particularly well-written. That doesn’t mean it’s “not good”–there are a lot of reasons people read fic and not all of them have to do with wanting to read finely crafted prose. That’s why fic is awesome–it creates a place for all kinds of storytelling. But for me personally, now that my job entails reading about 1500 pages of undergraduate writing per year, when I have time to read for enjoyment I want it to be by someone who really knows what they’re doing. There’s tons of high-quality fic, of course, but I no longer have the time and patience to go searching for it that I had ten years ago.
But whether I’m reading it or not, I love that fanfiction exists. Because without people doing what fanfiction writers do, literature wouldn’t exist. (And then I’d be out of a job and, frankly, I don’t know how to do anything else.)
Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favourite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player, but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going. | Lily’s letter to Sirius
James is just too happy his son is already a quidditch player
Every now and then, the Marauders fandom gets upset that James was chosen to be a Head Boy when he wasn’t a Prefect.
But of course he was.
It started in the autumn of his fifth year. The fifteen-year-old marched through the corridors, feeling rather important, a badge pinned to his robes.
Filch caught him within the first five minutes. To be fair, James hadn’t tried to run. (If he had, he would have gotten away). He had no reason to. Still, the caretaker grumbled threats of torture as he dragged the Chaser to Professor McGonagall’s office.
“Pretending to be a Prefect,” Filch snarled.
“I’m not pretending you old—” James eventually broke off as he realized that there was no use shouting at the lump of clay that was the caretaker. And so, he turned to Professor McGonagall and said, “I’m a temporary Prefect for the night.”
“Are you?” she asked, with a flicker of amusement. “I don’t seem to recall appointing you as such.”
“You know, Sirius’ brother told me something interesting the other day,” James said. “Did you know that if you looked at the night sky, you could see a star that represents them both? Isn’t that strange. Look for yourself, Professor.”
And she glanced out the window and saw the stars in question. Right next to the nearly full moon. Her face gave away nothing, but she curtly dismissed the caretaker, who seemed surprised if not furious.
“Surely you want me to stay to deliver the punishment?” Filch asked.
“There will be no punishment,” Professor McGonagall said curtly. “You caught a Prefect out of bed. That’s not exactly against the rules, is it?”
James could have hugged her.
As soon as the caretaker was gone, she pushed the tin of biscuits towards James. It didn’t even need saying at this point. He grinned and took his favorite kind. She always had them.
“I didn’t even think…” she whispered. “It’s not full for another three days.”
“I know,” said James. “But he’s really sick this time.”
“He should have told me,” she said. “I would have given him the time off.”
“Yeah, well,” James shrugged. “You know Remus.”
She smiled; she did indeed.
“Did he brief you on your responsibilities?” the professor asked.
“If by ‘briefed’ you mean ‘went into a three-hour lecture on what I should or should not do’ then yeah.”
“You know that I can’t make this official,” Professor McGonagall said. “People would talk.”
“Nah, I know,” James said.
“You can’t brag about this.”
“I know.”
“You can’t abuse your privileges.”
“I know.”
“Take another biscuit.”
He grinned and did so.
“I believe you have work to do,” she said.
James gave her a mock salute and marched away. He performed Remus’ duties all night, never once abusing the power, knowing that doing so would tarnish Remus’ reputation. He performed them the next two nights as well and told a very skeptical Professor McGonagall that he was sick on the night of the full moon. (”Oh dear,” she said. “I hope your illness stagnates.”)
Truth be told, James was a Prefect almost as much as Remus was.
They were some of the only times in his term at Hogwarts that he solemnly swore that he wasn’t up to no good.
Lately, I’ve been struck with the concept of being supportive to others through talking as portrayed in stories. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been a Dick Grayson fan.
snowghoul
titsay
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
