the woods whispered to me

Smith Remington. Ravenclaw. Seventh Year. Prefect. "A man takes his sadness and throws it away, but then he's still left with his hands." – Richard Siken

[smithremington-blog]

leanderparrish:

“Well, probably not the most conventional of arrangements, but I hope that this is an opportunity to get to know each other better.  If anyone needs help with anything, I’m more than willing to assist.”

“Crushing your spirits is the last thing I want to do, but– it might be a good idea to...adjust your expectations of the Slytherins. Certainly, not all of them are entitled and ungrateful, but enough of them are.”

[smithremington-blog]

two ghosts ⇝ smith & lennox

[smithremington-blog]

lennoxfraser:

Lennox had known that by severing ties with Smith, he was exposing the other boy to a world that he had mostly been buffered from. It wasn’t that Smith was weak, but he’d used Lennox as a crutch for many years - and Lennox hadn’t minded, because what was he if not someone that protected others? Smith had needed people after what happened to his family, and Lennox had been exactly the same - but he’d always been stronger, more adept at holding his own. And when he’d let Smith go - torn the boy straight from his soul - Smith had been left to freefall and land as best as he could. It hadn’t been something that Lennox had thought about, simply because he knew it had been inevitable, in a way - Smith would’ve been in this exact position, on his own, regardless of whether it happened now or in a few months. Better now, Lennox thought, while he still had the support of others around him every day then when he was alone in that house. “You can still talk to me,” Lennox said, watching Smith intently, watching the way his face pinkened. “If you want, I mean. I guess– I guess I was probably something you wanted to talk about and couldn’t, so. Guess you couldn’t talk to me after all.” And there was an apology on his tongue that Lennox didn’t let loose, afraid that it’d start a chain reaction of apologies that he’d never be able to stop. But thankfully Smith kept talking, and it surprised Lennox when he relented to talking about what was on his mind - and that his thoughts were so opposite to what he used to feel. It didn’t thrill Lennox to feel right or justified in his views now that Smith was slowly coming around to his way of thinking - it felt like, finally, the last of what was redeeming about werewolves had just died.

He let Smith finish, the final question hanging in the air as their eyes met. “They’re not people, Smith. They’re not human,” he said quietly. “When they get bitten, something– I don’t know. Changes. Dies, maybe. You can’t think of them as people anymore, and once you let go of that, it’s easier to understand. They’re creatures - animals, and when they turn– they lose whatever was left of their humanity, and it’s pointless when people try to argue that they’re good. Animals run on instinct, it’s not about good or bad. Werewolves, by nature, are predators,” Lennox said, looking down at Aurora, rubbing between her ears, thinking about innocent she is; the perfect prey, exactly like the children that had been killed in Cornwall. “And if they turn at will,” he continued, frowning, “and are aware of their actions when turned and in control of them?” Lennox shook his head. “That’s worse than if they were mindless animals, because they choose to be monsters. No,” and Lennox looked from Aurora up to Smith. “If you accept that they’re going to hurt more people, more children, then you have to accept that maybe they’re beyond saving. It’s less about that now and about making sure no one else gets hurts. That’s all I want,” Lennox said, voice dropping from anger to something tighter. “I don’t want them locked up from prejudice, I never have. It’s because they pose a danger to me, and you, and my family. I think about Loren, barely a month old, and–” Lennox looked away. “It’s not about being cruel. It’s about protecting people, and doing what’s right and what’s going to stop people being hurt. From kids dying.”

Lennox knew he’d broken his own rule, and sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. Leaning down, he picked Aurora up gently and placed her on his chest, shifting over on his bed so that there was room beside him. “The question is,” Lennox said, looking back over to Smith, “what are you going to do about it?”

Smith knew this was how Lennox felt about werewolves. He’d known it for years, and yet, every time he heard Lennox say things like this – They’re not people, Smith. They’re not human – he felt a fresh wave of disappointment and humiliation. But today, he just felt numb. This was the closest he’d ever come to understanding why Lennox felt the way he did, to understanding what spawned such a heartless way of looking at the situation. Children were dead. No one with any value for human life would go after the innocent. “There has to be another way,” Smith said, a note of desperation in his voice. As much as Lennox was making sense – and that alone was alarming for Smith – he couldn’t simply ignore what he knew and Lennox didn’t. His housemate thought he was speaking in the hypothetical, about werewolves far away, scattered across the country, that he would never have to know. Lennox didn’t realize that he’d let a werewolf sleep in his bed, crawl into his heart, and become one of his best friends, and Smith had no intention of telling him. There had to be another way. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt, Lennox, you know that, but– doesn’t that apply to wolves too? There have to be good ones. Ones that take their Wolfsbane every month and live quietly and don’t cause trouble. Right?” He couldn’t believe he was turning to Lennox, of all people, to reassurance about this, and he knew he was setting himself up for disappointment, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I just– don’t want anymore kids separated from their parents. For any reason,” he added quickly to throw Lennox off his true intentions. Of course, he knew the last thing Lennox would ever assume was that Smith was a werewolf, but you could never be too careful.

Smith watched Lennox settle on his bed, Aurora on his chest, and something twisted inside of him that he hadn’t felt in months. It was that familiar tug, that riptide that always brought him crawling back, even when he knew he should resist. But it was so familiar, and Smith ached with how much he wished things could go back to the way they were before everything had fallen apart. Lennox’s question jerked him back to reality, and he glanced away immediately, eyes finding the floor, as though the other would be able to tell what he’d been thinking just by looking at him. “I don’t know,” Smith shrugged, noncommittal. It was the truth after all. “We can’t really– do anything, can we? I mean. We’re stuck here. For a few more months at least.” His gaze flickered up to Lennox, eyeing the other boy with a healthy amount of skepticism that he wouldn’t have had before. “Why? What are you going to do about it?” he asked, leveling the other with a steady, unflinching look. If Lennox had some grand plan for justice, Smith wanted Lennox to look him in the eye when he said it, no matter how masochistic that was. He knew he was probably picking a fight that he couldn’t win, what with the wavering of his conviction, but he didn’t particularly care. A vindictive part of him just wanted to know exactly what the world had in store for him and his kind, straight from the mouth of someone who wished to do them harm.

[smithremington-blog]

summerharlowe:

Summer never read the Quibbler, it was a quack of a newspaper, but she still had heard about the werewolf attack. It was pretty terrifying, and the fact that it had been kids who had been killed made it that much worse. “Yeah, I heard. The attacks are happening more often, aren’t they? There seems to be something every other week lately.” Summer was terrified of werewolves, she couldn’t imagine being put in a position where she had to face one. As tough as she was, she would probably freeze, unable to do a thing if every put in such a position. Smith looked rugged, clearly tense from the news. She rarely showed any kind of affection towards anyone, but Smith was nice, and a fellow Prefect. Still, it must be surprising when she reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, offering a sad smile. “If we ignored it and moved on, that would make us less human. It’s only natural to be affected when something tragic happens.” She gave his shoulder a light squeeze before letting her hand fall away. “Do you need anything? Water or something?”

As shaken as he was, Smith still found himself surprised at the comforting touch of Summer’s hand on his shoulder. They weren’t exactly friends, but nevertheless, a twinge of guilt went through him at the thought of deceiving her like this. If she knew what he was, she wouldn’t be offering him solace. She would be trying to lock him up – or worse. But he managed a smile of gratitude nonetheless because it was what he had to do. “I feel kind of stupid,” he said quietly, lips quirking into a small frown. “It’s not like– I knew the people who were attacked. But you’re right. If we didn’t feel anything, we’d be like them.” He knew she’d take his sentiment wrong. She was angry with every werewolf in existence while Smith was angry with the ones that made it harder for him to justify his own right to life and happiness. “I think I’m feeling better now. Physically at least. But thank you,” he added, giving her a kind smile. “You didn’t have to stay with me or anything. You could’ve left. Most people would’ve too, and I can’t blame them. Dealing with someone else’s feelings is a tricky thing.”

[smithremington-blog]

ainsley-morse:

Ainsley pressed forwards slowly, making her way towards Smith at the sink. Her arms hung in front of her, books bouncing against her lower stomach as she walked before she pushed the onto the sink. The hardcover scraped quietly against the porcelain, the blonde letting them balance one basin over from her schoolmate. “I think…” she started, turning on the spot and letting her bum rest against the sink as she leaned against it, “…that they believe they have a cause to fight for - life or death - and certain people can often believe it must come at any cost… but the actions of a few cannot define the many. And it is awful; it’s sickening. And… I’m scared. We both know these individuals are giving werewolves a poor reputation; worse than they have now, if that’s even possible.” The Gryffindor paused, considering what she had said, knowing that she was purely just rambling for the most part, but she felt comfortable with Smith to allow her thoughts to flow straight from her mouth without any conscious filter, her usual air of formality falling away from her demeanour. “But…” she started again, bunching her shoulders in consideration, “…when you live in fear and without hope, they’ve won. You can’t let them win. Because when they win it’s over.” She folded her arms, jumper sleeves bunched up at the elbows with shirt cuffs sticking out. Rubbing a hand over her face and returning it to her folded posture, she sighed. “The same applies with Tegus and I don’t–… I don’t know, Smith. It’s fucked up. It’s really fucked up. I’m sorry. I wish I had an answer.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Smith said, glancing over at the blonde and giving her a weak smile. “It’s– complicated and difficult, and there are no easy answers. But thank you for trying,” he added earnestly. Turning his gaze back to the mirror and wrinkling his nose at the haunted look that still hadn’t left his expression, he bent over the sink, splashing some more water onto his face and wiping it off with a fresh wash cloth – thank Merlin for the amenities of the Prefect’s bathroom. “It’s hard to be hopeful,” he said after a long, quiet pause, turning back to Ainsley. “You were always so good at it. And– I thought I was too, but now. I’m not so sure.” He raised one of his hand to his mouth, chewing at a hangnail as he turned over words in his head, picking his words carefully when he finally did decide to speak. “It feels like there’s only a finite amount of times you can push back against this crap. Like, maybe– maybe they’re right. Maybe, no matter what we do, no matter what we say, they’re going to win anyways, so what’s the point? Obviously,” he added quickly, “I don’t want them to win. I don’t want you to have to live like that.” I don’t want to live like that either. “But it’s hard to stay optimistic,” he finished, voice quiet.

[smithremington-blog]

theorpingtonmirage:

She was tired, stressed, exhausted. The whole debutante gala thing was starting to get on every single one of her nerves. Her mother’s constant bullying made her stomach turn and crack and she couldn’t make through any of her meals without leaving almost everything. The hallways rushed conversations about that day’s headline was making her headaches even worse - people were terrified, feeling everything all the time, loudly so. Standing there in the Prefect’s bathroom doorway, she blinks at the sudden urge coming from Smith Remington’s mind and forgets for a whole moment how much she dislikes him, family feuds, opposing ideals and blood statuses apart.

She crosses the distance between them and cradles his fuzzy face between her own cold hands made of thin fingers and Quidditch calluses. “Your face is burning–” His question makes her blink. Oh. Mira pauses for a long moment and presses her lipstick-red lips into a thin line. “Yes, of course– you’re safe here, you know that right? You need to sit down, come sit down.”

Smith couldn’t even find it within himself to be surprised by Mira’s kindness, following her blindly as she guided him to a nearby bench. Once he was seated, he felt his vision stabilize and his breathing return to him, although his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. A distant part of his brain recognized that he was probably in shock or having a panic attack – or both. The last thing he ever wanted to be was a killer, but the headlines burned into his brain only served to remind him that anything was possible. “Thank you,” he managed, unable to meet Mira’s gaze. Now that some of his wits were returning to him, Smith was acutely aware of the need for damage control, especially considering who had just come to his rescue. “I think I just– haven’t been sleeping properly, and then I forgot to eat breakfast, and I had too much coffee–” He cleared his throat, hoping she wouldn’t remember his question about the papers. If she thought he was a fall down mess, Smith didn’t particularly care. But Mira Orpington was clever. If she knew about his concern over the werewolf attacks, she might start getting ideas, and, at times like this, he couldn’t afford to draw any more attention to himself.

[smithremington-blog]

by your side ➵ smith & solo

[smithremington-blog]

am-flying-solo:

Most ravenclaws read books.

Solomon Renfield read people.

While his housemates had their noses buried in ancient volumes, deciphering little scribbles on yellowed out pages, Solo liked to be out and about - locking eyes with strangers in dark rooms, following the soft curls of their lips like a map, unfolding the hidden secrets in the smallest tremble of their fingers. He prided himself in reading them well - he knew desire like one knows an intimate friend, and he knew rage like an old lover. Solomon had learned to read Smith when they were eleven, and he kept coming back - picking up that book and devouring the pages again as they grew up, looking for new chapters. He read Smith through the passion and heartbreak of their youth, and he read Smith through the anger and disgust of their fall outs. He had read Smith better than he had read Lennox all those years - a comforting book he’d always go back to, in the silence of his own fears. 

Smith was something certain in the teenage wasteland of their wars. 

Smith was good. 

Solo recognized his anxiety in the fleeting glances, the way he held onto the joint like a lineline, the softest quiver of his lips - words he wanted to say, but couldn’t let out, chained to his tongue like a death sentence. In the expanding silence of their meeting, something akin to fear started to breed under Solo’s skin, but he couldn’t yet recognize it for what it was - that uncertainty, that doubt sinking deeper. He could read Smith like an open book, so why did he have no idea of what was coming? “Why were you on the Forbidden Forest?” He asked, slowly. Solo would have expected this from Flora - they shared the same sort of impulsive nature that defied logic and fear. But Smith? That was not like him. “Shit, mate.” was all he could say at the end of Smith’s retelling of a Valentine’s Day tragedy. 

“I– I saw a werewolf on the Forest too. Maybe it was the same one? I told you about that, right? I was out there at night with–” Solo waved the name away, as if it were not important. This was a story about boys and wolves, not about teeth and blood. “I know what I saw. There’s definitely a wolf ‘round here, but why–”

The words died on his lips as he watched Smith take off his scarf, revealing thin, jagged scars.

“Holy fuck,” was all he could manage, fingers moving forward to touch the tender flesh softly, almost as if to make sure they were real. At that moment, Solo took a step back to look at Smith - really look at him. He knew Smith, and he’d always had read him well, but this was hard to reconcile with the shy, quiet boy he knew. There were more questions than answers in Smith’s wild Valentine’s tale, and Solo found himself doubting it. But there was a plea for help underneath his lies, and Solo was weak for those sad, dark eyes. “You sure as well can’t. The fuck you did to yourself, mate.” Solo brought his wand out, facing an unusual choice - to believe in Smith or not. He knew bullshit when he heard it, but there were many reasons to lie, and the ravenclaw was no hypocrite. He could either let it slide and help, or push for answers and scare Smith away - the decision was waiting on the tip of his wand. 

But this was Smith.

And Smith was good - right?

“C’mere. I know a kickass concealing spell. Got me through fifth year when I had that bout of dragon herpes, remember? That shit was turning me into Quasimodo.” He made light conversation as he conjured the spell, touching the wand to the wounds carefully. “It won’t make them go away, just hide them, so make sure you treat those nasty ass cuts before you get an infection, yeah? Go to Pomfrey if you have to. Tell her I got custom claws from this Sex Shop in Knockturn - the Pleasure Point. I bet she knows it, naughty lady, that one.” He hummed, inspecting the results of his handiwork. “Tell her I was teaching you a thing or two.” He winked, and tapped Smith’s shoulder, smile slowly dissolving into a concerned frown. 

“The fuck is going on, Smith? What’s all this, mate?” Solomon had known Smith for seven years. He’d know if Smith had been bitten, if he’d turned. How could he not? 

Solomon could read people well.

Right?

Smith’s pulse quickened, the thudding of his heart overwhelming his every sense as Solo spoke. I saw a werewolf in the Forest too. Had Solo seen him, as a wolf, one night during the full moon? He couldn’t have. Smith would remember something like that, Wolfsbane or not. It had to have been the other wolf, the wolf that Smith had been trying to find for years because he was that achingly, painfully lonely for someone else who understood him. “Aurora ran away,” he said quietly, in lieu of explanation as to why he was in the Forest. It was a terrible lie, but a believable one at least. All the Ravenclaw boys knew that Smith harbored an alarming amount of affection for his pet rabbit, so at the very least, Solo couldn’t question that. “She went into the Forest. I had to go after her. It’s all just – sort of a blur at this point.” He tried to school his features into something resembling ignorance, shrugging noncommittally at Solo’s theory. He didn’t know for sure that the wolf that Solo saw wasn’t the wolf that attacked Professor Vector, but even if he did, he couldn’t confirm either way. It would look too suspicious.

But Smith knew all of this was suspicious. Solo wasn’t a just a blundering, drunken idiot, as much as people liked to see him that way. There was a reason he was sorted into Ravenclaw, a reason he always seemed twelve steps ahead of any conversation. It had disconcerted Smith when he first met Solo because he could never reconcile his roommate’s intellect with his behavior, but then again, Solo had always been clever where Smith was smart – a small, but important distinction. Sometimes, he wondered if he would be here, with claw marks on his throat, memories of a murder in his head, and no friends to tell, if he was Solomon Renfield, rather than Smith Remington. Solo always seemed to find a way out of any situation while Smith always seemed to fall on his face.

He looked away, eyes flicking to the ground, as the other boy stared at the scars ripped into his throat. Smith couldn’t bring himself to see all the confusion and shock on Solo’s face, and what was more, he felt the other’s eyes probing him, trying to find any scrap of information that would explain what Smith couldn’t say himself. He felt guilt rising up within him, knowing exactly what he was doing to Solo because Solo had done it to him – Solo showed him that Lennox wasn’t who he thought he was. And now, Smith had pulled the rug out from underneath any understanding that Solo had had of him up until this moment.

People like Smith Remington didn’t show up with werewolf claw marks on their throat. That just didn’t happen.

“I can’t go to the Hospital Wing,” Smith said quickly. “No one can know, not even Madam Pompfrey. Just you, okay? People talk, and if they see this– it’s over for me. They’ll ship me to Greyfield the second it opens and leave me there to rot, and I can’t do it, Solo. I can’t.” He sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly, his mouth dry. “I don’t know anything about what happened to Vector,” he insisted, getting more worked up by the second. “I swear. If I did, I would tell you. Hell, I’d tell the Prophet and the Headmaster and anyone who would listen. But I don’t know anything. So, what’s– what’s the point of getting everyone worried and worked up about something that’s not even going to matter in the long run?” He shifted uncomfortably where he sat as Solo performed the charm, a strange tingling sensation crawling across the skin of his neck. Perhaps Solo had meant it as a joke – he always did that, filling any silence or uncomfortable situation with lovable but crass comments, and usually Smith found it annoyingly endearing, but no amount of levity could reach him now.

“Please, Solo,” he said desperately, finally meeting the other’s eyes. “I just want this to go away.” But, of course, it never would. Smith’s existence was one nightmare after another, and he found himself thinking that maybe Greyfield wouldn’t be so bad after all. At least there, he wouldn’t always have to hide. He quailed under Solo’s questions, not knowing how to answer without giving away even more than he already had. He had carried this secret for so long that he’d forgotten how to talk about what he was, and, for one fleeting moment, he considered just telling Solo everything. After all, there was an unspoken camaraderie between the Ravenclaw boys dorm, given everything they’d been through together. If Smith was going to trust anyone with his secret, if he was going to tell anyone first, it was going to be Solo.

“Do you really want to know?” Smith asked before he could stop himself, the words escaping his lips and taking him by surprise. Maybe it was time. Smith had been carrying this alone for nearly a decade, and he was exhausted.

[daily-men]

The thing is, I am a loving person. I am super sappy when it comes to romance. But I’m not the Antonio Banderas, swashbuckling, Pierce Brosnan, smooth-talking type.

[smithremington-blog]

Do you like to be in serious relationships or just flings?

         “For me personally, I find…committed relationships to ultimately be more fulfilling and meaningful than casual ones. Which isn’t to say casual relationships can’t be meaningful, but for me– I’ve realized I’m not very good at keeping my emotions out of a relationship, and I tend to get…more invested than my partners.”

[smithremington-blog]

Have you ever cheated?

         “No. I would never disrespect someone like that.”

[smithremington-blog]

Have you ever changed for someone?

         Smith forced a smile. He’d changed fundamental parts of himself to be a person that his mother could love, a person that could attend Hogwarts as a werewolf without drawing suspicion, a person that Lennox could be with. He’d rather force himself to change than accept the inevitability of his situation. “Yes,” he sighed finally. “When you want something, sometimes it feels like the easiest way to get it is to change who you are to accommodate it rather than letting it figure out how to slot perfectly into your life, just the way it is.”

[smithremington-blog]

Do you have a crush at the moment?

         “Not at the moment, no. There’s too much going on for me to be thinking about my romantic life.”

[smithremington-blog]

How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust?

         “Is there something about women that’s particularly untrustworthy that I’m not aware of? I don’t usually pick my confidantes based on gender, but to each their own, I suppose. You might want to unpack that for yourself, though.”

         “I trust Ainsley with my life.”

[smithremington-blog]

What are you excited for?

         “Professor Longbottom is going to let me collect the seeds from the Venomous Tentacula all by myself next week. I haven’t been this excited since I grew my own gillyweed.”

[smithremington-blog]

Have you taken someones virginity?

         “No. I’m afraid that’ll have to be left to people bolder than I will ever be.”

[smithremington-blog]

Turn on's?

         Boys who treat him like dirt and girls who were out of his league. “I like honest people. I like kind people. Um, physically speaking? I like dark hair.”

[smithremington-blog]

Do you know anyone who has any STDs?

         Smith lived with two of the most notorious playboys in Hogwarts. Of course he did. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “No one I can think of. Besides, that’s none of my business.”

[smithremington-blog]

ainsley-morse:

The other Gryffindor had whizzed past her with speed, wisps of hair leaping from her shoulders as Smith disturbed the air. His face had looked positively green on the approach and Ainsley was concerned for his well-being. Turning on her heel, a handful of books clasped to her chest, she made her way to following Smith to wherever it was he was going. She poked her head around the corner, door hinges squeaking as she peeked into the Prefect’s bathroom with curiosity and purpose. “No; sorry. For practically barging in. I just wanted to check that you’re okay, which… you’re not,“ she replied with a nod after his admission of a rough morning. The question caused her spine to straighten and her shoulders square, Ainsley now standing to attention, “I did, yeah.” The tall blonde moved, pulling her body completely into the room and pressing the door shut behind her before she leant her weight against it. “It’s horrid. Makes you wonder…” what kind of world we live in, how far people will go to get their point across, how long before it’s one of us, she wanted to say. Maybe Smith would understand her hung silence.

If anyone was going to find him, Smith was grateful that it was Ainsley. Although he’d never told her his secret – even though she’d told him hers – he knew that, if he wanted to, if he needed to, he could, and she would stand by his side, without judgement or hatred or fear. Smith took a deep, shaky breath, splashing his face with water in an effort to make his skin feel less clammy and to stop his head from spinning. “They were kids, Ainsley. Kids. I just– I don’t understand. Why bring them into this? What purpose does that serve?” He swallowed thickly, wiping his face dry on the sleeve of his robes, before turning to her. “Are– are people like...Lennox and Fitz and Summer and Mira right? I always thought the wolfsbane potion would stop things like this from happening. If you’re in your right mind, if you’re in control– why would you hurt kids?”