A World of Blue
By Rosin Dubh
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them, but after the last book, I don't know that she deserves them.
Summary: Grief can push even a good man to extremes. How far will Lupin go?
WARNING: Contains non-explicit slash, gratuitous consumption of absinthe, Dark Magic, graphic violence, a very evil Mary Sue, and spoilers for OotP. If you're still with me, read on.
"When did the day with all its light Turn into night? When all the world seemed to sing Why, why did you go?"
-- David Lynch, "Questions in a World of Blue"
+ + +
Had Remus Lupin sobered up, he might have reconsidered the whole thing.
Necromancy was known, after all, as among the darkest of the Dark Arts, and there were reasons why the wizarding world feared it. Remus knew that, of course, and he knew that good wizards did not practice it, nor did they seek out its practitioners. And in times like these, with everything that was at stake, and particularly for a member of the illustrious (if underground) Order of the Phoenix, a moral standard was especially important.
But Remus Lupin was not sober; far from it. He had been staring down his eighth flask of Firewhisky at the Serpent's Tail, wondering if the resulting state of drunkenness would be worth the inevitable, and brutal, hang over.
He decided that it would be.
The woman at the other end of the bar was watching him; she had been watching him since Firewhisky Number Five, and he could feel her eyes on him still. He had glanced at her briefly, once, as he scanned the Serpent's Tail upon entry, and promptly forgot she was there. She was typical of the Knockturn Alley crowd -- decrepit, morose, and probably harmless. The last thing he cared about right now was a woman.
But she was watching him, and as he drained the flask, she sidled over across the stools. It took Remus a moment to focus his blurring vision on her, and he tried to recollect if he had seen her before. He hadn't.
"Come here often?" he drawled. The woman frowned. She was sipping brilliant green absinthe through a long straw, regarding him with heavy-lidded yellow eyes. Besides the eyes (which were, despite all he'd seen, mildly disturbing), she was quite beautiful -- porcelain-pale, her black hair a stark contrast to her dress of old, yellowed lace that draped over the bar stool and almost to the muddy floor.
She raised her lips from the straw. "When I am called," she replied in a hushed whisper, "I come here."
Remus decided that his drink was more interesting, and returned his attention to it. The woman continued to stare at him.
"I've seen you before," she said after awhile.
"I've come here," Remus said, "On occasion."
"Do your friends know?"
Only after he replied, "They don't," did he realize what a strange question that was.
She finished the last, languid sips of the absinthe, and rose to her feet. Standing, she leaned in close so that she breathed in his ear, "I have heard the voices from beyond the veil. Follow me if you wish to hear them too."
And then she was gone. Remus didn't see her leave, but he felt a shiver travel the length of his body, the bar suddenly cold and dark.
And were he sober, he would have known exactly what that meant, and not to follow. In truth, even drunk, he knew better, but the temptation was too great.
Remus slapped down four Galleons on the counter and stumbled out the door into Knockturn Alley.
+
He saw her at the end of the street, and started running. "Wait!"
Her lips (red as blood) pursed in a half-smile. She gestured to a door of rotting wood.
By the time he reached the door, she was gone, as if she had slid out of existence. But he tried the great, brass knob, and found the door unlocked.
He pulled it open, and entered a room lit by scattered groupings of white candles. Tiny bird skeletons were posed on ornate perches in a series of alcoves. In the center of the room, tubes from a giant hookah draped themselves over red velvet cushions like the tentacles of an octopus. The woman herself sat in a high-backed chair, looking in her lace dress and white stockings like a Victorian child's doll.
"Who are you?" Remus asked.
"I am Persephone Dell'Arta," she replied, "Perhaps we can chat for awhile."
+
"You have lost someone recently," Persephone was saying. Remus had found a large skull mounted above the fireplace, and he was trying to determine what sort of animal it had belonged to.
"Is it that obvious?"
"I'll make us some tea." She drifted into the next room, leaving him alone to examine the skull -- a dragon? No, too small. Perhaps a horse... Remus squinted, already beginning to regret his drinking escapade. There was a flash of light and Persephone had returned with what looked like a little girl's tea set.
"What were you doing in Knockturn Alley? You don't seem like the type."
"I'm not," Remus said.
"You were trying to forget."
"No," he said, then added, "Maybe a little."
"Why should you forget? Death is such a great injustice, particularly the death of someone young."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Her smile exposed very white, very sharp little teeth. "Of course you don't. You want to talk to him."
Remus felt a thrill of fear, and of hope. "You can do that?"
"The veil is very thin here. The voices are all around us."
He could sense the haze of drunkenness beginning to leave him with just suggestion that he could talk to Sirius one time, even if it was the last time. "I." He couldn't form words. "I'll do anything," he managed finally, "Will you help me talk to him?"
"No." She answered so abruptly that he wasn't sure at first that he'd heard right.
Remus cursed under his breath. "Then why tempt me? Why lead me here in the first place?" It occurred to him then that he'd never even glanced at her arm, draped as it was in layers of lace. She was probably a Death Eater. She had lured him here to kill him -- and he couldn't say he objected to her plan.
"You didn't come here for a chat." She raised a teacup to her lips. He did the same, but his tea seemed to have gone cold.
"I don't know why I..."
"Of course you do." Persephone's voice remained quiet, but he could detect a tone of impatience. "This world is full of phony seers, mediums who claim they can talk to the dead. Did you think me to be one of those?"
"No." Chagrined, he tried to avoid the yellow gaze.
"I approached you in that bar because I could feel your longing, your grief. It is pure sweetness to me. I could be sustained for a hundred years on the barest whisper of your pain. I want to take that pain from you and give you something in return." She had flung her cup aside and crossed the room in the time it took him to capture a breath and release it.
"I can bring him back, Remus," she said.
By Rosin Dubh
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them, but after the last book, I don't know that she deserves them.
Summary: Grief can push even a good man to extremes. How far will Lupin go?
WARNING: Contains non-explicit slash, gratuitous consumption of absinthe, Dark Magic, graphic violence, a very evil Mary Sue, and spoilers for OotP. If you're still with me, read on.
"When did the day with all its light Turn into night? When all the world seemed to sing Why, why did you go?"
-- David Lynch, "Questions in a World of Blue"
+ + +
Had Remus Lupin sobered up, he might have reconsidered the whole thing.
Necromancy was known, after all, as among the darkest of the Dark Arts, and there were reasons why the wizarding world feared it. Remus knew that, of course, and he knew that good wizards did not practice it, nor did they seek out its practitioners. And in times like these, with everything that was at stake, and particularly for a member of the illustrious (if underground) Order of the Phoenix, a moral standard was especially important.
But Remus Lupin was not sober; far from it. He had been staring down his eighth flask of Firewhisky at the Serpent's Tail, wondering if the resulting state of drunkenness would be worth the inevitable, and brutal, hang over.
He decided that it would be.
The woman at the other end of the bar was watching him; she had been watching him since Firewhisky Number Five, and he could feel her eyes on him still. He had glanced at her briefly, once, as he scanned the Serpent's Tail upon entry, and promptly forgot she was there. She was typical of the Knockturn Alley crowd -- decrepit, morose, and probably harmless. The last thing he cared about right now was a woman.
But she was watching him, and as he drained the flask, she sidled over across the stools. It took Remus a moment to focus his blurring vision on her, and he tried to recollect if he had seen her before. He hadn't.
"Come here often?" he drawled. The woman frowned. She was sipping brilliant green absinthe through a long straw, regarding him with heavy-lidded yellow eyes. Besides the eyes (which were, despite all he'd seen, mildly disturbing), she was quite beautiful -- porcelain-pale, her black hair a stark contrast to her dress of old, yellowed lace that draped over the bar stool and almost to the muddy floor.
She raised her lips from the straw. "When I am called," she replied in a hushed whisper, "I come here."
Remus decided that his drink was more interesting, and returned his attention to it. The woman continued to stare at him.
"I've seen you before," she said after awhile.
"I've come here," Remus said, "On occasion."
"Do your friends know?"
Only after he replied, "They don't," did he realize what a strange question that was.
She finished the last, languid sips of the absinthe, and rose to her feet. Standing, she leaned in close so that she breathed in his ear, "I have heard the voices from beyond the veil. Follow me if you wish to hear them too."
And then she was gone. Remus didn't see her leave, but he felt a shiver travel the length of his body, the bar suddenly cold and dark.
And were he sober, he would have known exactly what that meant, and not to follow. In truth, even drunk, he knew better, but the temptation was too great.
Remus slapped down four Galleons on the counter and stumbled out the door into Knockturn Alley.
+
He saw her at the end of the street, and started running. "Wait!"
Her lips (red as blood) pursed in a half-smile. She gestured to a door of rotting wood.
By the time he reached the door, she was gone, as if she had slid out of existence. But he tried the great, brass knob, and found the door unlocked.
He pulled it open, and entered a room lit by scattered groupings of white candles. Tiny bird skeletons were posed on ornate perches in a series of alcoves. In the center of the room, tubes from a giant hookah draped themselves over red velvet cushions like the tentacles of an octopus. The woman herself sat in a high-backed chair, looking in her lace dress and white stockings like a Victorian child's doll.
"Who are you?" Remus asked.
"I am Persephone Dell'Arta," she replied, "Perhaps we can chat for awhile."
+
"You have lost someone recently," Persephone was saying. Remus had found a large skull mounted above the fireplace, and he was trying to determine what sort of animal it had belonged to.
"Is it that obvious?"
"I'll make us some tea." She drifted into the next room, leaving him alone to examine the skull -- a dragon? No, too small. Perhaps a horse... Remus squinted, already beginning to regret his drinking escapade. There was a flash of light and Persephone had returned with what looked like a little girl's tea set.
"What were you doing in Knockturn Alley? You don't seem like the type."
"I'm not," Remus said.
"You were trying to forget."
"No," he said, then added, "Maybe a little."
"Why should you forget? Death is such a great injustice, particularly the death of someone young."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Her smile exposed very white, very sharp little teeth. "Of course you don't. You want to talk to him."
Remus felt a thrill of fear, and of hope. "You can do that?"
"The veil is very thin here. The voices are all around us."
He could sense the haze of drunkenness beginning to leave him with just suggestion that he could talk to Sirius one time, even if it was the last time. "I." He couldn't form words. "I'll do anything," he managed finally, "Will you help me talk to him?"
"No." She answered so abruptly that he wasn't sure at first that he'd heard right.
Remus cursed under his breath. "Then why tempt me? Why lead me here in the first place?" It occurred to him then that he'd never even glanced at her arm, draped as it was in layers of lace. She was probably a Death Eater. She had lured him here to kill him -- and he couldn't say he objected to her plan.
"You didn't come here for a chat." She raised a teacup to her lips. He did the same, but his tea seemed to have gone cold.
"I don't know why I..."
"Of course you do." Persephone's voice remained quiet, but he could detect a tone of impatience. "This world is full of phony seers, mediums who claim they can talk to the dead. Did you think me to be one of those?"
"No." Chagrined, he tried to avoid the yellow gaze.
"I approached you in that bar because I could feel your longing, your grief. It is pure sweetness to me. I could be sustained for a hundred years on the barest whisper of your pain. I want to take that pain from you and give you something in return." She had flung her cup aside and crossed the room in the time it took him to capture a breath and release it.
"I can bring him back, Remus," she said.