honora lynch

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Nightingale We Are Not

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healingvance‌ | BOSS IN CHARGE

Emmeline would prefer to not have to go to such extremes, but with everything going on and just what they could be facing, she would much rather be over prepared than to not have enough beds and supplies on hand and ready to go. It was an effort to keep her face neutral and expressionless, to not let her displeasure show in the face of a helper that wasn’t as helpful as they could be. It was similar to when she had a new mediwix onboard, a mediwix that wasn’t aware of just how much was needed and required at any given moment.

“If that’s all there is, then you can start making up the cots for when people need them.” Even if the care wasn’t urgent, it was a place for people to rest without needing to go far, it was the least that she could offer them while she was waiting around for her moment to come, whenever that may or may not be. There was always hope that it wouldn’t be required, but Emmeline knew better than to wish to hard for something as simple as that.

That much Honora could do, even managing to make them look mildly more inviting and comfortable than one would think canvas stretched between metal poles could be. Amazing what you could do with a blanket or two and some practice in making do.

Finishing up the last cot, running out of blankets, Nora fluffed up the pillow and then straightened. Yeah, she knew she wasn’t being the most helpful, but how was she supposed to help? She was no mediwix, trained in triage. “Look, unless someone is gushing blood or has been cursed, I won’t be much immediate help. But I can take orders, if you give them to me.” Following instructions she knew how to do, and do well, when otherwise at a loss. Give her some guidance and she’d manage to get it done and mostly stay out of the way. Isn’t that was every mediwix ultimately wanted: to be helped on the fringed and given room to work.

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silveranddittany‌ | HOW DO YOU CONJUGATE A HOWL?

“Mm. Do leave an impression, don’t they…” Several impressions, in fact. Cracked two of his fucking ribs, by way of welcome. A lone wolf had to take what they got, and be grateful, was the idea. And what he got was bruises. Not much else. Nothing learned, nothing gained. Just half a year in the crags, with those bastards, and fuck all to show. Why would Honora be anywhere near that, though? If the Reek pack wasn’t hers? Didn’t sound like it. From how they talked, most werewolves he’d met seemed to stick with the pack they found. For better or worse. The worse had plenty to do with the few people ahead of them, in the woods; they’d had a hard time of pack living. Too old. Too young. Too gentle. Too scared. Not what those fuckers up the Reeks were after, for instance. 

Remus limped along, listening, brushing a hand over the tall, curling ferns as they passed. Zimbabwe? Rhodesia, right. Had to catch up, there. He’d missed most of the news, while he was working; miles from a newspaper, nevermind a telly, and with too much on his mind, already. “That you do,” he nodded, in some genuine awe. “Never gone too far, myself.” Never seemed like an option, really. And after so much moving about, well… maybe Remus just wanted someplace to stay, as fascinating and massive and beautiful as the world was. If he could manage that, then, then he might start pondering the rest of the globe. So long as he had a real home to come back to. “You’re a spellbreaker, are you? That must be good work.” Made sense. Convenient, he supposed. Could set your own hours, if you freelanced. Avoid those times of the month. Delicate magic, though. Very. Be a hell of an asset, to have on side. If she was. If they’d let her. Really, actually let her, a werewolf, be a part of it all. Imagine that.  

No, Reeks wasn’t her pack, not even properly her fathers, but they were less antagonistic to those they could recognize as a kindred. He would have had too much going against him to get that status easy. Besides, she’d worked for decades to go between the packs,  riding the sometimes thin connections between them, even as they stuck to themselves. Sharing information, spreading news, understanding the community between them all. But trying to explain that to him, the greater fluidity of it all, was something that wasn’t happening one just one cup of coffee.

“It is, if you have the stomach for it.” ‘Good’ here had to mean a very specific shade of its definition. “Rough living, lots of travel, hell of a lot of danger—” said as if not real negatives “—and the pay is plenty to live on.” People tended to shell out when you risked life and limb so they could keep theirs. “What about you? Can’t imagine ‘werewolf interpreter’ pays all that well.”

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone‌ | CAN’T USE SENSE AGAINST THE INSENSIBLE

Edgar sighed. “I should,” he said. He drew his wand; a measure of precaution, and for a moment he wanted to remind Lynch where to find him, if ever she came up with a proper plan, some actual, palpable suggestions. But at times even Edgar was overcome by a sense of hopelessness. Emotions robbed people too often of their sensible thinking, didn’t it? He bowed his head to Lynch. “Enjoy your day with the … horsies.” It wouldn’t stop amusing him, would it? The smirk returning to his lips, shaking his head, he turned and left.  

-FIN-

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silveranddittany‌ | MR. AVOIDING THE INEVITABLE

Those hackles he didn’t have, at present, were smoothing out. Bit by bit. Lynch would stay quiet. From another werewolf, he’d actually trust that. She’d understand. Right? Then again, who was he to guess at what other werewolves understood about a life like his? Most of them hadn’t been so lucky - to carry on with any secrets to keep, in the first place. That had become so painfully clear during all his time away. Those werewolves, out there, they’d wound up known. By family, friends. People who used to be those things, before. Who vanished, after. Or turned them out. Despised them. A betrayal quick as whiplash, in most cases. 

The last thing Remus wanted to wonder after was how fast the Order would turn on him, given reason to. The last fucking thing in the world. 

“Afraid not,” he grimaced, then… “Wish I did, tell you the truth. Could use a bit of that.” A few fingers of whiskey never hurt, when he was. Remus gave her offer a moment’s thought, then another’s. She seemed well. Had some spark, even. Certainly didn’t look as if carrying breakfast would be any imposition. Ran wild, he’d guess. Always made it easier, physically, at least. Remus had to admit that. His nights spent out with the Marauders, the packs, too, hadn’t been anywhere near as brutal as the moons he spent closed in, alone. In the Shack. Or that old cellar, back home. Dark and dank. Claustrophobic. 

But that’s where he went, given the choice. Where he had to go. Because nothing scared Remus as shitless as the thought of the thing under his skin, free beneath the moonlight. That, over everything, was the worst part of his work for Dumbledore. Accepting that he’d have to turn loose, like they did. And he’d done it. Needed to. Fuck, though - every time was just as terrifying as the last. Every damn time.

Honora, she wasn’t half so frightening. Didn’t mean he was certain of her. But he was certain enough, anyway. Remus, sore, grateful, handed the basket over. “If it’s no trouble, ta. Very much.” Then off they went, limping along through the tall paddock grass. He swallowed, nodded, flatly. “Ah… yeah. Rough. That - that about sums it up.” Could it? Please? Sinking his hands into the warmth of his coat pockets, Remus looked over, prepared to swing the small talk elsewhere. “Were you back in Ireland, before here?” No mistaking the accent. “Liked the mountains. You know the Reeks, right? Fuckin’ beautiful…” And too cold and rugged to draw too many visitors. Safer, in other words. For them, and everyone else. 

Settling the basket in the crook of her arm, flashing another smile, more tinged with sympathy—he was still feeling the full moon clearly. Where had he spent it? Not with them down in the woods, she suspected. How did he handle himself? There was a dreadful suspicion that he simply didn’t. 

Jerking her head in a nod, she eyed him speculatively. “Yeah, I know them, and thems that run there.” Hadn’t realized he’d swung through those parts; the Reek pack was far from friendly to outsiders and strangers. Kind of surprising he’d survived in one piece, especially if he went around with that blatantly English accent he was sporting. Proper Irish bastards, the lot of the Reeks, with a tendency to go full feral to keep interlopers away and out of their business.

“But before here, I was in Zimbabwe—Rhodesia,” she supplied for him, if he wasn’t up to date on his global geopolitics. “Working a job. Some wards on an abandoned farmstead were unraveling and running into some of the native magics. Got messy.” She shrugged; there was a lot of that going around, as the former British populace left and the original culture and magics started to bloom again slowly. “I travel a lot,” she offered in explanation.

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Nightingale We Are Not

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healingvance‌ | GLOOM AND DOOM

There were plenty of others that Emmeline would have preferred to help her in this role. She wasn’t even entirely sure what help the other woman was supposed to be, she already had Benjy. Perhaps it had been a case that no one else wanted her, or the fact that Emmeline knew she had already inserted herself here on the farm well before now. Despite her objections, she had set Nora to work, preparing everything for the worst case scenario. 

“How many people are out there?” she retorted, posing her own question in return. She would much rather it not be true, that beds wouldn’t be needed for all who were involved, yet she had to be prepared. If she wasn’t, then her lack of preparation could soon return to bite her. “We’ll need more blankets. It’s cold out there.”

How was she supposed to know that? It wasn’t as if they told her anything. Oh, she had her own mental headcount running, but she doubted that number was really accurate, or that they could even fit all the bodies involved in this stupid house, even if she didn’t doubt they could all manage to get themselves hurt. Well, no, that wasn’t purely accurate; more precisely, she didn’t doubt that they could all manage to get themselves killed, just injured required a bit more skill. Regardless, it wasn’t a helpful response.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know where those are.” If she did, she would have taken them already, pilfered for those without the advantage of four walls and roaring fireplaces to keep them warm. No, she wasn’t being particularly helpful, but she was also not being particularly well utilized here.

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone‌ | SMUG FUCKER WITH NO CONNECTION TO REALITY

“Again,” Edgar said, finding his gaze drifting away to the ‘horsies’, no longer captured by the materialistic nature of this conversation, “necessities and warmth serve two different purposes.” This was something he had always appreciated about the Ravenclaw Tower, all those years ago: people didn’t come bother you unless they needed very specific help. No conversations circling around themselves for no other purpose than to express excess emotion, no, if problems arose, they were discussed to be solved.

Maybe that was why his gaze came back, a last twinkle of curiosity, akin to hope, in it. “Arguing about the accommodation,” he repeated, no less patient than before. She couldn’t know on which side of the werewolf-accomodation debate he’d been, but he had no interest in talking about himself, about the past. “So I take you are unhappy with a shelter surrounded by protection charms to keep you safe from those who actively seek your death. I agree that inviting them into the house would’ve been a more human solution, but you do reckon that they’d directly be faced with the hate and fear of the other residents?” Though he was sure she had considered all this before indeed. “My point is, if you have concrete, constructive suggestions to make, I am here now to listen to them. If, however, you just wish to complain about all the things we are doing wrong, then I’ll excuse myself now.”

Because she wasn’t being concrete, clearly, pointing out the obvious, unaddressed issues he and his kind had no desire or reason to address or even acknowledge. He had never spent a night shivering cold sleeping on the ground, that was for damn sure. “Then you should probably leave,” she said, showing too many teeth as she smiled. He could go back and take comfort with all the other so fragile wix who needed to be protected and sheltered, and it would be no skin off her nose; only confirmation of what she already knew.

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silveranddittany‌ | ‘REMUS LUPIN’ —YOUR PARENTS FUCKED YOU OVER, HUH?

She wasn’t wrong. Remus knew she wasn’t. Knew all that - the simple fact that at this point, in this place, his secret meant more than it ever had. He knew, but that didn’t mean he liked admitting it, acknowledging the clear and present reality of… of the way the Order was, and the refugees up there, everyone. How day-to-day the hate was. The disgust. The casual callousness that lurched to the surface whenever talk around the McKinnon house turned towards the forest and who, what, was living in it. Remus walked through those conversations every other day, it seemed. And he told himself to just ignore it. Brush it off. Keep going. But it stuck, like so much shite on your boots, and his skin couldn’t stop crawling. So she wasn’t wrong - blunt as a beater’s bat, that’s all, right to the gut. Remus nodded. Just barely, with an ache of a smile, crooked and cringing. “Something like that, I’d imagine…” At least Lynch wasn’t about to go spilling anything. Only so much of that tension eased away, though. Resting his basket on the grass, Remus took a lean down, careful of that bad leg. (Might’ve stayed on the cane longer. But people had stared, up at the house, and… and the less people stared, the better.) He opened the catches and reached in - carefully, it was rather deeper than it looked - the buttery, bacon-y smells of breakfast wafting up. “Ah, yes, we… yes…” Digging out a thermos and camp mug, Remus offered them out. Trying, despite the nervous, unpleasant prickling of those hackles he didn’t have, to be properly welcoming. “Cream and sugar, too, if you like.” 

That smile did ache, in a way that arced between them, sunk into her bones. Oh, he knew. Ignored it in an idiotic, self-defacing way every day of his life, thought he deserved it even, but he wasn’t blind to it. Which was sadder in the end. It made Nora relax a bit further, as if her own unclenching could force a sympathetic reaction in him. Offering her own smile, just as crooked but more mocking, she shook her head as she took the thermos.

“Nah, I’m good—unless you’ve got whiskey in that basket,” she said, pouring herself a cup and knocking it back smoothly. Screwing the lid back on the thermos, she jerked her head at the basket. “I’ll carry that, if you wanna keep walking with me. You can tell me about your adventures with the packs. Must have had it rough.” She didn’t envy him that at all. From what she’d heard, he’d gone through the worst of them.

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone | YOU GOT DIRT ON YOUR NOSE THERE, POT

Edgar showed no strong reaction to her anger. He understood it. Understood where it came from, and while it was misplaced right now, it didn’t change the fact that she felt it all the same. He let her speak, listening, as each of those concerns was important, and needed to be said, at one point, in one way or another. Only when she was done, he gave it a nod, a single one, his eyes closing along with it, as though to make sure that his following words wouldn’t sound as though he was contradicting her, or worse, dismissing her anger. “They are all wizards and witches, and, as far as my knowledge goes, some have a wand in their possession. The things you listed are material needs. They can be conjured.” He was aware that those inflicted with lycantrophy from a young age on hadn’t always had a magical education. Conjuring things that lasted for longer than a few nights was part of a magic taught mostly in the later years of one’s education – at least this had been the case in Hogwarts – and therefore not considered simple magic. But those who had been lucky enough to receive education could help others, if they wanted to. He knew Lynch had received education, for example. “Food, tea, and the warmth that comes with certain gestures can’t. That’s why I was asking my question the way I did.”

With the same ease, he proceeded: “I’m not sure we have silver trays large enough, I must admit. Not to mention that silver would feel particularly ironic, don’t you think?” He put his wand away and buttoned up his robe. It was indeed cold out here. “My suggestion was however genuine,” he continued, speaking down to his buttons. “I didn’t decide on where those people should stay, Miss Lynch. Nor am I of the opinion that a monthly affliction should affect a person’s entire life by the judgement of society.” A tug on each of his sleeves, then he buried his hands into his pockets, smiling up at her, not with humor but with this seemingly ever-lasting patience of his. “So if I ask how to help, within my means, I am being serious. And your response wasn’t particularly constructive, if I may say so.” Though he doubted she’d enjoy hearing so, or change her responses to something more constructive now. In a way, he didn’t even expected it. To let go of rightfully placed pain when faced with those who appeared to afflict such pain, it wasn’t easy, and sometimes not even the right thing to do. Still, it had felt important to say it out loud, so she knew where he was coming from.

If he thought his oh so gracious patience and understanding were supposed to instantly make her apologetic for her defensive, standoffish reaction, he didn’t really get how hollow and minuscule his efforts were. If he wanted to talk about ‘constructive’, well --

“If we have magic and enough wands scrounged up to go around to provide ourselves shelter and blankets,” Honora said flatly, reminding the man about the sporadically enforced statutes governing creatures and beings (which still no one could reach a consensus on how to categorize them) being permitted wands, “then we’re capable of making our own tea. And, pardon me, sir, but I haven’t heard you arguing about our assignment of accommodations.” She fell into a mocking imitation of his own accent and infuriatingly smug cadence.

No, his calm patience didn’t do anything to sooth this savage beast. If anything, the calm self assurance only pissed her off more. He was so confident in his own righteous goodness when it was clear to her that he’d never actually done a single damn thing. Beyond maybe give a self-important speech that got nothing done; he seemed that type, reinforced by that little attempted joke about silver which instead hit as incredibly snide and offensive.

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Nightingale We Are Not

@healingvance December 1st McKinnon Farm

To be frank, Nora wasn’t quite sure how she’d been dragged into this. Proximity, perhaps. A tendency to butt herself in to where she shouldn’t be, wasn’t wanted, until they found a chance to use her. It seemed a bit retaliatory to her; a bit ‘making her work for her keep’. She didn’t see any of the other hideaways being put to work (never mind that she’d forced herself upon them and was hardly the same as the rest).

But there was no point complaining about it to the healer she’d been ‘assigned’ to. Not that she had much time to, kept bustling about in the sitting room turned makeshift clinic, in preparation for... she wasn’t even sure what. Setting down a pile of clean linen with a grunt, she turned and leaned against the table as she eyed the younger woman. “How many casualties are you expecting tonight?” she asked, eyeing the whole set up.

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone‌ | WOW I DIDN’T THINK SOMEONE COULD BE SO STUPID

“Sensing someone making others nervous,” Edgar replied, simply, patiently. “I’m glad it’s only you, though.” Even though he didn’t see why it seemed so improbable to her. People sensed dangers everywhere these days, and not without reason. He should probably not wait too long before returning to the farm, telling them that all was all right. Who knew, perhaps if he stayed out here too long, they’d send even more people out. That was truly unnecessary, as it seemed. Hopefully. He gave Lynch another curious look.

Bringing tea out into the woods? There were certainly no rules about that. “Not a bad idea,” he therefore said in a soft hum. “Do you think there’s anything else they could need? Want?” He wasn’t exactly a masterful cook or baker, but if it was to make someone’s freezing November day a little warmer by offering some biscuits, he’d try his best.

Blinking, Nora stared at him. Was there anything else they could need— “A solid roof over their head, for a start,” she said flatly. Was he really that naive, or was he truly that much of an eejit? “One that doesn’t leak or threaten to blow over. Blankets that aren’t damn and cold, for beds that aren’t on the floor.”   Her temper was starting to rise now a bit. “A supply of food that doesn’t need to be graciously brought down to us every day, so we can decide what to eat when. Running water and a loo instead of having to shit in the woods.”

All the things that would be provided if they were allowed in the fecking house like the rest of the lot. “Think you can bring that down on your silver fecking tea tray?”

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone‌ | SERVICE AT THIS CAFE IS SHIT

Edgar raised an eyebrow, not particularly affected by Lynch’s harsh language. Common sense isn’t reliable when so many slap the words on total shite. An interesting statement. His gaze going to the left, over to the pegases for the split of a moment, he thought it over. If Common Sense was a kind of broom and you asked someone to buy it for you, but instead got another kind of broom which someone had falsely slapped the word on it, then yes. The word in itself wasn’t reliable anymore. However if you were the producer of this broom yourself, the actions of others would become arbitrary. And wasn’t common sense something you made out with yourself and your own life? The moment passed quickly, though, taking less than a breath, and Edgar left his thoughts uncommented. He wasn’t one to argue, not when it seemed futile, or about semantics.

“You didn’t ask for help?” he asked instead, his tone still mostly guided by curiosity. “Then why are you here?” It sounded like a rhetorical or leading question, but it was genuine. And then there was the Horsies again and he had to press his lips together tightly to hold in a laugh. “No, not at all,” he answered, sincerely, clearing his throat. “Truth is, someone back at the Farm was just sensing something unusual, so I went out to see what it was.” Every charm had a counter-charm, and one could never be too careful these days. “You’re all right then? Just going about your day?” And after a second: “If you tell me when you plan on coming back, I can have some tea prepared.”

She was here to try and actually help the people who had asked for it and blatantly weren’t getting it. Not that she expected him to understand that; that she was here for the same simple reason he was, if not for the same people. “Sensing something unusual about someone wanting to see the horses on a horse farm?” she said blandly. Shaking her head, she scoffed. “Yup, just going about my day. Ordinary day.” The offer got a strange look from her, half disbelieving, half dismissive.

“...how about, if you’re being so generous, instead of waiting around on your ass, you think about bringing some of that tea down to us folks in the woods." Because it wasn’t a matter of ‘coming back’; they were here. Living here, just as much as anyone in the house was. Only, out in the forest, in ramshackle tents and makeshift structures. Hard to take his offer as genuinely well meant when no one, him included, was coming round with the tea tray. No, it was only when Nora came to them and made herself a nuisance that they got any consideration.

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone‌ | WHO FUCKING LEASES A PERSON?

The fact that Lynch – it was Lynch, right? They had talked about her in the Order at one point, it had to be her – neither showed signs of regret nor of immediate attack, had Edgar make sure to not leave her with his eyes. It wasn’t her he mistrusted, not really, more the people who could’ve used her little walk past the pastures to steal her body. Be an intruder without anyone noticing.

He was contemplating her air of disdain, trying to decide whether it was a reaction to him or his own wariness, when something had him halt. “Horsies?” he asked, almost barely mouthed it, and curiosity took fully over. “You came out here to see the … pegases?” It wasn’t a ridiculous idea, but the way she had said it. The pretty horsies… Perhaps it should’ve made him wary – for who in a situation of danger spoke like this? – but it was simply too strange for him not to adore it.

The sarcasm in Lynch’s question had him tilt his head to the side, look her up and down once more. Taken on a walk like a good puppy. It was getting stranger. He tried not to smile. “Usually we call our leash Common Sense and hope those who asked for our help will also actually let us help them,” he said, his voice remaining serious, “but if you wish to be taken on a walk properly, I’m sure we can find a way to put a leash on a person.” Perhaps he did it on purpose, perhaps it was something that just came out of him, but the ‘person’ was emphasized. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that the ‘taken out on a walk’ question was a response to the way people talked about werewolves (and those with werewolf blood), and somewhere it was important to him to emphasize that despite his joke about leashes, she knew he believed her a real person. Not a damned creature. Not a dirty monster. As all werewolves were, for at least 340 days a year.

Bit slow, wasn’t he? Why else would someone come out to the pastures except to look at the pegases. And yet he seemed so shocked. Nora couldn’t tell whether it was surprise at something so obvious and non-nefarious, or the fact that a werewolf might like winged horses.

Either way, he wasn’t making a great impression, between that surprise, the still raised wand, and then the further comment about leashes. Perhaps it was just a crack back following the theme of her dismissive half-joke, but it didn’t land well, emphasis or not. There were too many teeth on display in Nora’s smile as she replied lightly, “Unforuntaley, ‘common sense’ isn’t reliable when so many slap the words on total shite. And I wasn’t asking for help.” Because asking for help was often inviting a backhand from the wix. “Wasn’t asking for anything. Just minding my own, looking at the pretty winged horsies. Problem?”

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You Could See Me

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spellnbone‌ | I LIKE THE HORSE BETTER

‘Someone is out there,’ one of the shelter-seekers had hissed, walking up and down the fence near the McKinnon Farm. A fence that kept people out by magic and kept people in by common sense. ‘I tell you, there’s someone here, too close’. So Edgar had closed his book with a sigh and taken his wand. On his way out, people cast him surprised looks, doubtful, skeptical. Of course. An ex-Ravenclaw. Not exactly a house famous for bravery.

But for curiosity. And this wasn’t the first time that curiosity had driven Edgar into the same situations an ex-Gryffindor would run because of their courage.

He followed the whisps he conjured, their voiceless calls guiding her to where the pegases lived, and while he didn’t recognise the voice that spoke into the silence immediately, he thought it too casual to be of any threat. Still he raised his wand and came closer.

“I could do with a tea instead,” he replied to what had clearly not been addressed at him, and positioned himself in front of, ah, what was her name again, Lynch. “May I ask what you’re doing out here?” The wand was lowered now, but still held firmly, and there was no hostility in voice – rather an air of actual curiosity.

No hostility in voice, but still in posture—wand lowered or not, it was still out, pointed at her, and frankly that was a bit more spine-full hostility than Nora had expected. Even with being pointedly where she probably wasn’t welcome, but hey, wasn’t that just her life? Used to hostility, wariness, that instant ‘on-edge’ attitude; that mixed with the instinct honed dealing with unpredictable curses and old magics let her greet the unwarranted surprise with collected calm, even if her wand did drop into her hand from her sleeve, still have hidden at her side as she eyed the man and the wand with open disdain.

“Looking at the pretty horsies,” she drawled. “Or is that not fecking allowed without prior permission?” Nora wasn’t even sure who this one was. Not one of the McKinnons, for sure; nor any of those others she’d seen before. Not the most surprising; she didn’t think she had a grasp on the whole organization’s membership. “Should I have made an appointment to be taken on a walk like a good puppy?”

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silveranddittany | ASSFACE MCWOLF

Well, that - that was… Remus drew his hand back, pocketed it, as she listed names. That was something they’d gone over, each of the werewolves in those trees ahead. There’d been apologies, heartfelt: that he’d lied, given them a fake name, a different one for every far-flung pack. Something unmemorable, to protect himself and the people he was connected to. The Order. His father, even. His mother, when… when she was there, to worry about. They’d understood, the people who’d taken him up on that offer, that way out. Hadn’t they? It made sense, didn’t it? Even if it felt like utter shit, at the time - it made sense. This all made sense, to him. Not that he had everything sorted out, not that he was happy with it, as it was, but… but…

To have it thrown at him, and hard, and by somebody out of the woods? How the hell did she have so many of those names, anyway?  And why the fuck was she here, if she didn’t want to be?  “Remus Lupin,” he started, a wariness there. At the big house. They let you - she knew, all the werewolves knew, obviously. About him. But again, they understood, out there. Right? Because it made sense. Again. He could only hide them from Fenrir, and the Death Eaters, by hiding his secrets from the Order. It was as simple as that. Meaning they wouldn’t tell. No reason to. None. Honora, though. She was new. And he hadn’t brought her, and he didn’t know her, for all she seemed to have filed away about him. Meaning he had no reason to trust her. Meaning - no. No. Getting ahead of himself. Was he? Maybe she was just… plenty of them were rough, out there. Couldn’t blame them, what with how hard they’d had it. 

Couldn’t blame most of them, anyway. But that might be it. No need to jump to conclusions, to fear the worst. That they’d been found. That she was one of Fenrir’s, or the Dark Lord’s, or… who knew what sort of trouble, these days.

He took a step closer, unsteady, glancing around, voice falling to a hoarse, tense whisper. “They - they don’t know.” Remus could feel the thud of his heart, right up against the back of his eyes. “And they won’t be finding out.” That, that had more solidity. “They can’t. Or this stops.” The this was clear enough; he jerked his chin in the direction of the forest, looming over the hills. The pack. 

Even with the clear ‘not-very-impressed’ opinion the woman already had, it visibly dropped farther as he made subtle threats against the audacious idea that she would be outing him. Honora might not care much about her own secrecy—granted, it wasn’t worth much given that her’s had been blow at thirteen—but there was a sort of sacred status to the secrecy of fellow wolves. A precarious one at times, true, but ultimately there was a sens of taking care of ones own that Nora strongly prescribed to. All which made his implication highly insulting to her and did nothing to set her at ease or soften her at all.

“Because if they knew you were one of those nasty, gross werewolves too, all support for you would instantly evaporate, and thus all support for the werewolves they already barely tolerate,” she said, supplying the rest of the threat for him. It was that, or the threat was to turn them all out if he was outed; even with her abysmal evaluation of the man, she didn’t think he was that much of a bastard. “Figures,” was all she said, with a shake of her head. “Fucking wix,” she grumbled under her breath. “Unclench, lad, I’m not about to out you.”

Her weight shifted again, attention moving back to the basket. “You got coffee in there?”

[honoralynch-hrarchive]

You Could See Me

McKinnon Farm November 20th, 1981

Per usual, Nora was where she wasn’t supposed to be. “Stay away from the pastures,” was a pretty loudly unspoken rule, followed by “Don’t disturb the pegases.” There was no misconception in her mind that her quietly leaning on the fence, watching the pretty horsies with wings idly amble about, would be construed into something antagonist and destructive. After all, she was with the werewolves and they had destruction in their very nature. Really, it was a miracle the horses weren’t all panicked and twitchy from her mere presence, would no doubt be the concern; she was stressing them out.

Yes, they looked very stressed, like the one wandered over only to quickly ascertain Nora had neither apples nor sugar, dismissively flicked their tail, batted one big brown eye at her and proceeded to shit.

“Well, same to you, buddy,” Nora muttered, grimacing and leaning back to try and escape the smell. No luck, she’d have to move upwind a bit. “I’d feed you if I could—but they’d probably accuse me of trying to poison you.” Wasn’t that the latest thing, as they all recovered from what dreadful plague had gripped them and they pieced themselves back together. Mysterious that none of the wolves had gotten sick, right? Filthy animals that they are. Shifting her spot, she grinned as the pegasus followed her. “All right Stinker, next time I’ll see if I can’t slip you a carrot or something.”

[honoralynch-hrarchive]

silveranddittany‌ | ASSFACE MCWOLF

Of all the things he’d expected, and all the questions he’d been fielding - and avoiding - since he made it back to the farm, Remus hadn’t expected this. A new addition. Not to the house, but to the woods, to the werewolves. The questions? Who she was. Where she’d turned up from. Not all that relevant, to Remus. If she needed someplace to be, well, that was the idea. Just - was it a good sign, that people were turning up out of the blue? ‘Til now he’d had to go out and find them, those werewolves who hadn’t struck him as sympathetic to the Death Eater cause. Find them, reassure them, personally bring them back. As quietly as possible. Secrecy was a werewolf’s friend, after all; whether you were fleeing the Ministry, your neighbors, or the Dark Lord. The only way for the McKinnon ranch to stay remotely safe, for anyone, was to keep it hidden. 

So. Strangers, appearing - even a werewolf, a new member for the so-to-speak pack in the woods - was a cause for some concern. Lot of sharp looks his way, already. Might as well sort this one out as soon as he could, eh? That was the theory, the hope, that pushed him out of bed that morning. Early, aching. Still. He’d given the house elves a hand (because, of course, they couldn’t stand to just let him do anything himself) with putting together the usual basket of breakfast, then headed out across the paddocks, down, down, down to the forest. Or nearly, anyway. A new face, a new walk. A new scent, as she got closer - the moon hadn’t waned far enough for him to help noticing that. Honora Lynch, he’d been told. Introduced herself to a few of the folks up at the house, it seemed. They’d been… well, they hadn’t expected to actually meet any werewolves, obviously, so. She’d caught them off guard, to say the least. As if she were a feral dog who’d strolled in out of the hills. Which, far as they were concerned, they might as well be. Remus coughed into his shoulder, racked by the force of it. “Ey up,” he rasped - carefully, pushing his tone someplace brighter than this foggy field, than his equally murky thoughts. Somewhere welcoming. “You’re Honora? Glad you made it,” limping forward, Remus offered out a hand. “I, ah - I suppose word’s got round, has it?” Time to see how far. How worried they had to be. Fuckin’ hell - he’d figured werewolves, of all people, would be better with secrets. 

Nora knew she’d caused something of a fuss when she went up to try and get some food yesterday from the big house. To be fair, they’d tried to warn her that she would. Even the ones who realized that was the point. She hadn’t seen much of it herself—it seemed most of the house was laid up sick with something, but a very concerned house elf had squawked satisfactorily when she said she was with the werewolves in response to asking who she was. Also explained why no one came storming down to the makeshift camp that evening to yell at her. Maybe she was pushing her luck, going back again today but, well, if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be her.

Less than halfway there, her luck ran out. Some poncy Midlander coming towards her with a bloody picnic basket. Pulling up short, hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket, she eyed the offered hand. Glancing from it up to his face, she snorted. “You must be Nathan-John-Michael Harrison-Bell-Parker whose crack-brained idea this was.” She didn’t know which of those, if any, was real, but it didn’t particularily matter. Point was, she knew who he was. Gaze flickered to the basket for a second as she drawled, “See they let you up at the big house.”

[honoralynch-hrarchive]

A Small Starting Primer

Honora arrives at the McKinnon Farm around the 16th of November, not too many days after the first full moon having werewolves at the farm. She does not bother with the main house and goes straight to the werewolves. With the Order being fully in the grips of the Mysterious Plague and the werewolves not being welcomed at the house, it is a little while before anyone from the Order realizes she is there, at which point she’s fairly entrenched among the werewolves, not going anywhere, and highly skeptical of all those coming from the big house to ‘help’. The fact that they’re all too sick and miserable to expend too much energy arguing with her is a plus as far as Nora is concerned. Order members ought to know she’s there but perhaps be at a loss for what to do about or with her.