I want to thank those who helped me write this.... William Trevor who has
no idea I even exist but wrote the story that inspired this. To Annabel
Paige, Suzanne Ipe and Oliver. Yes, you Oliver. Mwahahahahahahahahahaha.
Chapter 2: Endless Oceans.
Lily sat next to James at the breakfast table. Sirius watched the two talk animatedly and smiled to himself. He could imagine how James would feel if it turned out that Lily's attention to him was all just a hoax.
*But it was just a joke* -Did you see the guy's face? *Ack, he'll get over it* -As if he'd seen a grim *Getting paranoid, Sirius* -Imagine how you'd feel if someone had done that to you... *Ahhh, who would?* -Severus.
Sirius jerked to life so suddenly, pumpkin juice was jilted over the table cloth. James and Lily gave him enquiring looks, but he shook his head. "Nothing, really..." Pettigrew was eating heartily and trying to talk to Remus. Being, after all a true Belgian through and through, Remus did like to talk even though he was quiet. This morning he had bravely attempted to strike up conversation with the boy. It wasn't a complete failure, however... Only Sirius was in a totally sober mood. And even that made him feel stupid, with no firm footing. Sighing, he lowered his eyes to his breakfast. It had been two days since that trick they had played on Fischer, but, despite it being only two days, a definite look of depression had taken place and hung over Fischer like an ugly, omnious cloud. He sank into ennui greater than ever before and now, even his glances thrown at James were desperate. Severus had gone down with a very serious bout of what had at first looked like flu but now was seeming more and more like TB. Apparently, he had keeled over in the Slytherin common room after coughing up blood for several minutes. Sirius was actually more surprised by the feeling of worry and anxiousness he was experiencing in his gut because of Severus: He never thought he cared for the Slytherin that much.
* * *
As an apparent source of comfort, Pettigrew had turned to Theology. James had told everyone - from giggling girls to the older, wiser sixth years - that Pettigrew had just missed out on his chance for something beautiful to happen to him. He was drowning his sorrows, James would sigh dramatically, in religous and philosophic pursuits. Much sniggering would come after this and when Pettigrew, bleary-eyed from his sleep, would enter, laughter would greet him. In truth, Pettigrew had, actually. Although not in the way it appeared. He had joined a group of boys that had taken after following Professor Dirkes, the Theology master. Amongst this group, he was treated with a certain sort of reverence. Most of the boys were those whom Pettigrew had first known in the days of Fear as little first-years. It was hard to believe they were nearing their second year: only two weeks until the holidays. Professor Dirkes was a thin man with locks similar to those of Dumbledore's. His eyes were a pale brown, sometimes quite watery. Although he rarely smiled, he had a pleasant nature. There was a rumour flying through the school that many of his meetings with his little group of acolytes were ended with 'orange squash and biscuits'. For boys like Sirius, this was a hillarious joke and they often teased the boys dedicated to Dirkes like hell. By the time Severus had recovered, Dirkes and his young acolytes were an almost well-established ethnic minority. It was something that even the serious Brazilian found it was funny. Needless to say, the young Snape would never have admitted to it. Life at Hogwarts continued in it's normal fashion, the sharp light of Spring, followed by the long, lazy stretches of Summer. Of course, there would come the Summer holidays, with freinds departing on promises of visits and numerous owls, or the happy exclamations of "We're going to my aunt's... see you in September!" and such of the like. This did not exclude the Marauders - although perhaps Sirius as there is only so long that the Presbyterian church founded charities would look after eleven ragged orphans all under the age of thirteen - who cheerfully waved Sirius off at Hogsmeade (where he would take a train to Glasgow) and then did likewise to each other at Kings Cross. Since we last saw them, time had flown and they were now older third years. Next year, they would be fourth years. Their educational fate was a triful thrilling. But, by that time, one would be considered a fool, if they did not recognise Fischer's increasing air of gloom and despair. By the time the Marauders and their fellow year mates had reached third year, Fischer had taken on an apprentiship for Dirkes. Tern had left, quite happily and leaving a slightly relieved Severus, but Fischer was another thing altogether. He would no longer speak to James, but always looked to the boy, his glances, or now, stares becoming more and more desperate and obvious. Still, James fobbed him off. Well, what else would he do? When the Marauders arrived and - late this time by two days - Severus as well, they were too awed by the prospect of fourth year to think much of Fischer. It was only during their first Magical Languages class, when Severus quietly asked, "What has become of Fischer?" Due to the fact that he was late arriving and so had missed out on start of year gossip. Silence had answered his question. After that day, it seemed, rumours began to fly thick and fast through Hogwarts: "Fischer had been fired from his apprentiship and had wandered into the Forbidden Forest," or, "He got bitten by a werewolf - or a vampyre, whichever tickled the gossipers fancy - and Dumbledore had to get rid of him." "I heard he lost his mind in an explosion and had taken a new name and was now one of the representatives for the Ministry of Magic." On and on the rumours went. Truth be told, the students all expected something so bloodcurdingly extraordinary, as the teachers had become secretive and withdrawn. Dumbldore had missed the Sorting and had not been seen. The other teachers were so quiet and whispering. And always on about 'Fish... Fischer...' Then, on the third week of term, Dumbledore arrived. Rather than the expected delighted faces and eager voices, the eyes of the students strained and bulged in unflattering appraisal, watching the old, usually vigorous, teacher walk dejectedly, his skin ashen, his eyes pale. The Hall was silent. Dumbledore went to his seat. He stood and regarded his students, sadly, wondering. They dared not breath. What was the man going to do? The older students whispered of a public beating or the infamous hose of grit being inflicted on them all. Even Squeers, the Flying master, they whispered had been included. Dumbledore was going to punish them all for the underground bijou market, and, no doubt, of the female student equivalent. Dumbledore inhaled. "I stand here, in front of you all, an ashamed and dejected figure," his voice said. It did not boom. There was no hard-won pride in his voice. But all the students could hear him. "I wish that all this would cease. Any students who believes himself unhappy should come before myself or any of the teachers whom you trust and if you wish, it shall remain confidential." Noone understood that assembly. The teachers remained awefully tight- lipped over the matter. The business of bijou continued. The glances, the meetings, the illicit pleasures. Of all this, Pettigrew had no taste or secret dab of. He remained in all repsects, quite the virgin.
Chapter 2: Endless Oceans.
Lily sat next to James at the breakfast table. Sirius watched the two talk animatedly and smiled to himself. He could imagine how James would feel if it turned out that Lily's attention to him was all just a hoax.
*But it was just a joke* -Did you see the guy's face? *Ack, he'll get over it* -As if he'd seen a grim *Getting paranoid, Sirius* -Imagine how you'd feel if someone had done that to you... *Ahhh, who would?* -Severus.
Sirius jerked to life so suddenly, pumpkin juice was jilted over the table cloth. James and Lily gave him enquiring looks, but he shook his head. "Nothing, really..." Pettigrew was eating heartily and trying to talk to Remus. Being, after all a true Belgian through and through, Remus did like to talk even though he was quiet. This morning he had bravely attempted to strike up conversation with the boy. It wasn't a complete failure, however... Only Sirius was in a totally sober mood. And even that made him feel stupid, with no firm footing. Sighing, he lowered his eyes to his breakfast. It had been two days since that trick they had played on Fischer, but, despite it being only two days, a definite look of depression had taken place and hung over Fischer like an ugly, omnious cloud. He sank into ennui greater than ever before and now, even his glances thrown at James were desperate. Severus had gone down with a very serious bout of what had at first looked like flu but now was seeming more and more like TB. Apparently, he had keeled over in the Slytherin common room after coughing up blood for several minutes. Sirius was actually more surprised by the feeling of worry and anxiousness he was experiencing in his gut because of Severus: He never thought he cared for the Slytherin that much.
* * *
As an apparent source of comfort, Pettigrew had turned to Theology. James had told everyone - from giggling girls to the older, wiser sixth years - that Pettigrew had just missed out on his chance for something beautiful to happen to him. He was drowning his sorrows, James would sigh dramatically, in religous and philosophic pursuits. Much sniggering would come after this and when Pettigrew, bleary-eyed from his sleep, would enter, laughter would greet him. In truth, Pettigrew had, actually. Although not in the way it appeared. He had joined a group of boys that had taken after following Professor Dirkes, the Theology master. Amongst this group, he was treated with a certain sort of reverence. Most of the boys were those whom Pettigrew had first known in the days of Fear as little first-years. It was hard to believe they were nearing their second year: only two weeks until the holidays. Professor Dirkes was a thin man with locks similar to those of Dumbledore's. His eyes were a pale brown, sometimes quite watery. Although he rarely smiled, he had a pleasant nature. There was a rumour flying through the school that many of his meetings with his little group of acolytes were ended with 'orange squash and biscuits'. For boys like Sirius, this was a hillarious joke and they often teased the boys dedicated to Dirkes like hell. By the time Severus had recovered, Dirkes and his young acolytes were an almost well-established ethnic minority. It was something that even the serious Brazilian found it was funny. Needless to say, the young Snape would never have admitted to it. Life at Hogwarts continued in it's normal fashion, the sharp light of Spring, followed by the long, lazy stretches of Summer. Of course, there would come the Summer holidays, with freinds departing on promises of visits and numerous owls, or the happy exclamations of "We're going to my aunt's... see you in September!" and such of the like. This did not exclude the Marauders - although perhaps Sirius as there is only so long that the Presbyterian church founded charities would look after eleven ragged orphans all under the age of thirteen - who cheerfully waved Sirius off at Hogsmeade (where he would take a train to Glasgow) and then did likewise to each other at Kings Cross. Since we last saw them, time had flown and they were now older third years. Next year, they would be fourth years. Their educational fate was a triful thrilling. But, by that time, one would be considered a fool, if they did not recognise Fischer's increasing air of gloom and despair. By the time the Marauders and their fellow year mates had reached third year, Fischer had taken on an apprentiship for Dirkes. Tern had left, quite happily and leaving a slightly relieved Severus, but Fischer was another thing altogether. He would no longer speak to James, but always looked to the boy, his glances, or now, stares becoming more and more desperate and obvious. Still, James fobbed him off. Well, what else would he do? When the Marauders arrived and - late this time by two days - Severus as well, they were too awed by the prospect of fourth year to think much of Fischer. It was only during their first Magical Languages class, when Severus quietly asked, "What has become of Fischer?" Due to the fact that he was late arriving and so had missed out on start of year gossip. Silence had answered his question. After that day, it seemed, rumours began to fly thick and fast through Hogwarts: "Fischer had been fired from his apprentiship and had wandered into the Forbidden Forest," or, "He got bitten by a werewolf - or a vampyre, whichever tickled the gossipers fancy - and Dumbledore had to get rid of him." "I heard he lost his mind in an explosion and had taken a new name and was now one of the representatives for the Ministry of Magic." On and on the rumours went. Truth be told, the students all expected something so bloodcurdingly extraordinary, as the teachers had become secretive and withdrawn. Dumbldore had missed the Sorting and had not been seen. The other teachers were so quiet and whispering. And always on about 'Fish... Fischer...' Then, on the third week of term, Dumbledore arrived. Rather than the expected delighted faces and eager voices, the eyes of the students strained and bulged in unflattering appraisal, watching the old, usually vigorous, teacher walk dejectedly, his skin ashen, his eyes pale. The Hall was silent. Dumbledore went to his seat. He stood and regarded his students, sadly, wondering. They dared not breath. What was the man going to do? The older students whispered of a public beating or the infamous hose of grit being inflicted on them all. Even Squeers, the Flying master, they whispered had been included. Dumbledore was going to punish them all for the underground bijou market, and, no doubt, of the female student equivalent. Dumbledore inhaled. "I stand here, in front of you all, an ashamed and dejected figure," his voice said. It did not boom. There was no hard-won pride in his voice. But all the students could hear him. "I wish that all this would cease. Any students who believes himself unhappy should come before myself or any of the teachers whom you trust and if you wish, it shall remain confidential." Noone understood that assembly. The teachers remained awefully tight- lipped over the matter. The business of bijou continued. The glances, the meetings, the illicit pleasures. Of all this, Pettigrew had no taste or secret dab of. He remained in all repsects, quite the virgin.