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wildestrangerWell, the monster is done. Although I'm still not convinced it will make sense in anyone else's head. So constructive criticism is particularly welcome.
Title: The Truth of Masks
Pairings: Remus/Sirius, some Remus/Lily
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9331
Warnings: Bondage and various sexual acts. Also way too much poetry.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the characters in Harry Potter. Poetry owned by Milton, Byron and Shakespeare. I have no permission to use them, I make no money out of this, and no infringement of copyright is intended.
Summary: In the Marauders sixth year, Hogwarts hosts a Masquerade Ball. Mistaken identities and entanglements ensue. Also poetic snarking, angsty sex, and a devious Green Man.
Feedback is most appreciated.
Thanks to all who answered my questions about masquerades and writing!
All characters are over 18 here.
The Truth of Masks
Man is least himself when he speaks in his own person, but give him a mask and he’ll tell you the truth
Oscar Wilde
When Remus first hears about the Hogwarts Masquerade tradition, he thinks about the heroic costumes James and Sirius will wear, warriors, Quidditch-players, kings, sorcerers. That he could do that himself doesn’t occur to him, nor does he want to, later, when it does. Sixth year students are required, as part of their Transfiguration coursework, to create a Mask and a Costume from a blank face and a suit of clothes. They wear their Costumes to the Great Masquerade Ball on May 1st, the connection between Celtic fertility festivals and drunken students being undoubtedly intended. Remus knows why his classmates are thrilled, why they think dressing up as Robin Hood or Merlin or a pirate is the best thing ever. All personal imperfections smoothed over, and the spell enforcing suitable behaviour from everyone; it is a seductive possibility. There is freedom in such a performance, freedom from responsibility as well as freedom to be somebody else for one night. At midnight the spell will end, and they will all be turned back to their usual selves.
Remus knows that Dumbledore is determined to continue the tradition despite complaints from the older wizarding families. Masquerade Balls used to be popular centuries ago, with Muggles as well as wizards, but they had gone out of fashion for being too liberal. After all, anyone with enough magical talent could create their own costume, and peasants and prostitutes could mingle with high society without their knowledge. The Hogwarts May Ball is the last remnant of a once glorious tradition. Yet there are traces of wilder festivities in the ancient language of the spell, which isn’t Latin, or Gaelic, but a form of ancient Thracian. The drink they are given, barely alcoholic but rumoured to produce hallucinations, is only produced in Europe for this festival. Remus studies the history of the tradition, and finds stories of spells gone wrong, unsuitable alliances made, and families and friendships broken at the Masquerade. He wonders why Dumbledore allows the festival, even insists on it. But the Headmaster’s motivation is a mystery, as ever, and what Remus finds makes him curious, as well as determined. Freedom from the self can be a terrible thing.
The task itself is simple. Students are given a blank mask with generic human features on which to mould a Face, and white linen shirt and trousers and a scalp-fitting cap, which they are then expected to Transfigure into a masquerading costume of their choice. They must produce an image to which their work can be compared, a painting or a photograph or a sculpture. The spell ensures that they perform their part, and since most people choose admirable characters (their choice must be approved by McGonagall), problems are rare. What they don’t talk about is how the enforcement of an alien personality can affect the student in question. Remus suspects the teachers consider this a humbling exercise, and approve of any such learning experiences. The spell does not cause the person to behave in an unnatural way, but it can nudge speaking patterns and thoughts to a different direction, reveal things one might prefer not to admit.
He listens to James, Peter and Sirius talk about their costumes while he lies in bed with his curtains closed. Some suggestions are obvious (“The greatest pranksters in history! Pads, Wormtail, what do you say?”), some frankly bizarre (“Napoleon? How do you even know who he is, Peter?”), but they all want to be somebody cool. Famous people through the ages, both Muggle and Wizarding, are popular, and mythological figures as well as fictional characters are acceptable as long as the student can show the visual image to McGonagall. The Masks have to be ready the day before the Ball for inspection, and must be kept hidden from others so as not to ruin the surprise.
McGonagall had been suspicious when Remus told her about his costume, but he had the image (a beautiful drawing by Gustave Doree) and as the spell can only influence his thoughts, not give him different abilities, it was determined safe (at least as safe as a Merlin or a Mordred, as Remus had argued). And unlikely to be recognised by most students, and as such it would serve his purpose.
: :
Remus is sitting on his bed, reading, when the others arrive to the dormitory. They are used to not paying attention to him by now, and he has learned not to slow the movement of his eyes on the page. James is telling a story, something he said to Lily this afternoon after Transfiguration, and how she refused to appreciate his genius. Peter is making encouraging noises and Sirius is looking at James with such rapt attention that Remus knows he is faking it. He turns the page.
He manages to actually read a page before becoming aware of the silence in the room.
“Hey Remus, can I ask you something?”
Peter’s voice betrays its hesitancy by slight breathlessness and a blurring speed. Remus remembers that he resents Peter less than the others, and for less personal reasons. He looks up, tilts his head at his former friend, and raises an eyebrow.
“You know that book with the Green Knight, that we read in Muggle Studies? With King Arthur and stuff?”
Remus nods. He occasionally consents to answer scholarly requests.
“Do you know about any pictures? Where I could find some, I mean, there’s nothing in the cover and I was just wondering if you knew anything…about it, I mean.”
James and Sirius have said nothing all this time, they are carefully looking only at Peter, but Remus can hear the silence when they stop breathing.
“You want to be the Green Knight?”
They’re not supposed to show their costumes to anyone, but most roommates are in on each other’s secrets.
“No, it’s the other knight, King Arthur’s nephew or something, Sir Gavin?”
“Sir Gawain. I see. Well, Arthurian themes were popular with the Pre-Raphaelites in the nineteenth century, so someone like Edward Burne Jones or John Everett Millais…”
Remus stops when he sees the frown in Peter’s forehead grow deeper.
“If you go to the library and ask Madam Pince to show you books about these people.”
Remus reaches into his bag by the bed and pulls out a notebook, starts scribbling down names.
“Here you go. That should give you some ideas.”
Peter gives him a surprisingly beautiful smile and James nods without quite looking at Remus. Remus goes back to staring at his book as they leave.
Ten minutes later when he surfaces from his book he realises he didn’t even notice when Sirius left.
: :
Sirius had never read Muggle literature at home. His parents, like most witches and wizards of their generation, considered novels to be a waste of time and at most useful as a way of manipulating Muggles, distracting them from the magic taking place in front of their eyes. English literature was not taught in Hogwarts, and the only classes where works of fiction were mentioned were Muggle Studies.
A new teacher had arrived at Hogwarts in their third year, a young man with angelic blond curls who insisted on wearing rainbow-coloured robes to the astonishment of the students and the disapproval of his colleagues. Sirius had chosen Muggle Studies because he knew it would annoy his parents (he had enjoyed five Howlers as a result) and because Remus had dared him ( he also took Care of Magical Creatures with James and Peter, and Arithmancy with Remus). But the new teacher had chosen to emphasise Muggle culture, and correct what he called the Abysmal Absence of Art in their curriculum by educating them in the canon of English literature. The library at Hogwarts only held what had been considered classics in the previous century, but they had gone through Shakespeare and Marlowe, Milton and Pope, and Byron and Shelley and Keats. Professor Fine was a great admirer of Shelley, and Sirius enjoyed making what he liked to call Byronic comments to his enraptured readings.
He knows Byron is Remus’ favourite poet (he himself prefers the drama and flair of Milton), but he didn’t choose his costume because of Remus. There are other advantages to being the sexiest thing in the nineteenth century, and he has respect for a man who became famous for a pout. He is also looking forward to the admiring glances and gropes.
The Fat Lady is simpering when he passes the doorway, but instead of the intended naughty grin his features form themselves into a scowl. This doesn’t seem to bother the Lady, as she looks ready to faint at his feet (a difficult thing for a painting). The Gryffindor girls gathered around the common room had also given him long, smouldering glances, but that happens all the time anyway so he hadn’t paid it much attention. Yet perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to combine Byronic appeal with the Black charm.
Sirius grins. Or perhaps it was his best idea yet.
: :
“Where the hell is Peter? Have you seen him since we arrived?”
“No, but you know what he looks like.”
“Well, not exactly, but more or less. Probably something like me, except shorter and less gorgeous.”
“That’s not much to aspire to.”
“You’re a fine one to speak.”
“I am mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
“Yeah, but your costume still sucks. I mean, could you be any poncier than a poet? Might as well shout it from the rooftops.”
“Need I remind you that you are wearing tights?”
“These show off my assets. They show how much more manly I am.”
“The term you’re looking for is how much more a prat you are.”
“Oh really. Tell me then. O illustrious scion of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, what can you do that I can’t?”
‘Write poetry, kick your arse in a fight, and actually seduce women?”
: :
Lily Evans watches her reflection in the mirror. Brown leather breeches, white linen shirt, leather boots. A scabbard with a sword.
She’s curious about the reactions her Costume will attract. She knows that her character is from Shakespeare and known to be female, but she also knows that not many students read Muggle literature. And her figure is androgynous: breast tied flat with a long piece of cloth (some things you couldn’t do with magic), the shape of her hips hid by the thick material of her breeches. They are loose on her waist but tight across her behind. The white linen of her shirt comes down to her thighs, pulled taut by her belt and the scabbard.
With her sword in it.
When she first considered her Costume, the sword was something she hadn’t thought about. Now the weight of it on her hip brings a warmth to her stomach and a swagger to her steps. She has practiced drawing it out from the scabbard, and accidentally cut through the curtains in her room before she managed it. The movement is fluid and graceful, and she knows how to lift one eyebrow to complement the pose. A combative stance comes naturally.
She had wanted to get dressed alone, and had snuck in an unused bathroom, away from her housemates. As she opens the door, she hears a faint cry about boys not being allowed in the girls’ toilet, and feels the smile on her lips.
: :
Remus likes to think that his decision about his Mask wasn’t obvious, but really, it was the only one he could have made. The only one that made sense in all the ways he wanted, and in some ways that he didn’t. He knows that he enjoys feeling like a dark creature, enjoys feeling cruel and evil and all the things they think he should be. Not that he pays attention to what they say, but it can only be good to play with their assumptions. And he likes it.
Yet he chooses a glamorous evil, something that allows for his not-always-so-quiet sarcasm, but is unquestionable and admirable and glorious. He likes the defiance, and the refusal to follow and to play the game, but also likes the absoluteness of it. The doubts and questions after the final break are dealt with, and do not distract. The determination to live in hell appeals to him. This is a role he can play. And if it attracts attention and people, he is distant enough, cool and quiet enough, to get away. He trusts the students of Hogwarts not to have looked so deep into his eyes that they could recognise him.
Also the devil has the best tunes.
Last year Sirius had given him a charmed record player, and all the albums of the Rolling Stones. He had kept them afterwards, and refused to allow Sirius become connected with the music.
He had to create the spell, experiment with Latin words to see what would bring the shape he wanted. The cloth on his body is thin, but loose and opaque enough to hide his shape. It moves with the slightest movement but also by itself, revealing and concealing in turns the contours of his body, exaggerates the smoothness, brings forth the muscles. He is slender, has always been slim, but the shape of his shoulders has caused a hitch in someone’s breath. The movements of pale cloth draw attention to his stillness, not unmoving but alert.
It should be strange to look in the mirror and see someone else, but somehow it isn’t.
His wings are grey, a darker colour than the material colouring his body, and smooth, and strong. He couldn’t believe that transfigured wings could fly, but could not resist trying. He can control their movements with his arms and shoulders, and knows they feel soft, utterly alien but somehow familiar, like something he has known in a dream.
It is tempting, to give up himself and become something else for an evening. He enjoys feeling someone else’s words on his tongue, someone else’s thoughts in his head.
And yet.
And like a devilish engine back recoils upon himself; horror and doubt distract his troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir the hell within him; for within him hell he brings, and round about him, nor from hell one step, no more than from himself, can fly by change of place: now conscience wakes despair that slumbered, wakes the bitter memory of what he was, what is, and what must be worse: of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
There is only so far you can run to get away from yourself. But when Remus enters the Great Hall, and sees all the strange and wondrous creatures displaying themselves, he doesn’t feel out of place. That he can do things and speak to people, and still be safe beneath his Costume, makes his stomach squirm and his wings shiver.
: :
There are conversations going round. A strange impersonality in their exchanges, formulaic qualities brought on by tradition as well as the Mask. The opening gambit is always the same.
“Do I know you?”
“Why, Sir Knight, what a question! And how brave of you to ask! La, I can see your manly courage through your costume, so…forceful and brave.”
“Perhaps, my lady, you would care to inspect it more closely in a less crowded space?”
: :
“I know you, I think.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No, really, I’m sure I know you.”
“You don’t look like anyone I know.”
“I can feel your essence. You true soul is shining through your mask. I know you.”
“Really? What does my true soul look like? And how precisely does it shine?”
: :
There are many knights in the crowd, trying to portray different kinds of bravery. They all wear tights and a big sword.
James is trying to spot Lily but with no success. There’s a Morgan Le Fay with a suitably rigid set to her shoulders, but the height is a bit off, and James is pretty sure she’s talking to a Slytherin. There’s an Aphrodite with rather intriguing dimples, but Lily wouldn’t Charm her hair to such a trashy colour of blonde nor reveal quite that much skin. More the pity.
He has chosen his costume because it upholds the age-old Gryffindor characteristics of courage, companionship, and natural superiority. And also because it allows him to show off his legs and Quidditch-toned arse. He hopes Lily will appreciate it.
The Great Hall isn’t full, by any means, the number of Sixth Years isn’t that large. But the setting is much darker than usually, there are fewer candles and the ceiling has been enchanted to show scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Students keep stopping and pointing up at the changing images, and a few pints of Butterbeer have been spilt when people have stumbled over each other in the dark. Some of them even accidentally.
James is just looking away from the spectacle of Sirius skilfully tripping the Slytherin Prefect while copping a feel from his equally-Slytherin-but-unrelated-to-Sirius girlfriend, when the hair on his back stands up and he can smell the unique smell of shampoo, ink and girly things that is the love of his life. He turns around and watches a young man in Elizabethan costume walk across the hall towards the drinking table. He moves with poise and purpose, hips swaying to a steady rhythm, one hand on his sword. James swallows.
“Hey Prongs, why are you looking you’ve just swallowed a dead fish? Has Evans arrived yet?”
Sirius has extricated himself from the ménage-à-trois and is standing behind James.
“Why are you staring at that bloke?”
“Not a bloke. Evans.”
“But that’s a man. Wait, did you smell her or something?”
James nods. There’s a commiserating “aah” behind him.
“I’m going to go talk to her.”
: :
“How’s it going there, Evans?”
She turns around with a suspicious look on her face. He can see Lily Evans beneath the mask of Rosalind, even though there are few similarities between them. A straight nose, and of course the unchanging green eyes. The curve of the mouth. Which at the moment is scowling at him.
“How the hell did you know it was me, Potter?”
“Really, Lily. Such language from a prefect. And I would recognise you anywhere.”
He doesn’t mention the fact that she had recognised him as well. It could the voice, of course. Or the stalking.
At his smirk, Lily whips out her sword in one smooth motion and holds it two inches from James’s throat.
“How, Potter?”
James is suddenly very hard.
”It’s your smell, you know, I know your smell and I just…”
James stops talking when he sees the sword point come closer to his artery vein.
“You smelled me?”
The way her voice rises at the end of the sentence probably means she is not going to fall in love with him this evening.
“Look, Potter, what do you want?”
“Just wanted a drink, Evans.”
“You’re holding one in your hand.”
James pauses. Yes, that would in fact be a pint of Butterbeer in his hand.
“It’s for Sirius.”
“Can’t Black get his own?”
Another pause.
“Look, he asked me, and I said okay cause I wanted to come and talk to you.”
“I see.”
A pause.
“Erm, Evans?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could take your sword away from face?”
Lily smiles brilliantly. That’s my girl, thinks James and let out a breath while Lily very carefully puts her sword back to the scabbard. He beams back at her, tentatively, and she lifts her eyebrow and walks away.
Oh well.
Dazed, James walks back to Sirius who is clutching his sides and hollering with laughter. It takes shim a moment to realise that he is not laughing at him, but at someone else who has just walked through the door. Severus Snape, dressed as a vampire.
: :
Remus watches James and Sirius laughing, and watches the black-cloaked figure move away from them with a stiff walk. So Snape has a sense of humour. Who knew? Although apparently it doesn’t extend to Gryffindors. The other Slytherins are looking at him with raised eyebrows and a mild distaste, but show no apparent interest.
Remus had watched the regal Arthur being held at sword point by the Lady Rosalind. She clearly enjoyed threatening him. And walking away from him. Pleasure in the movement, pleasure in the pose.
He finds he enjoys his costume in unexpected ways. He can hear alien thoughts crowding in his brain, strange words coming to his lips, but they are words and thoughts that he is thinking too. He enjoys the drama and the utter eloquence of his costume. And the alliteration. It’s like giving in to all the ideas he thought he was too wise to admit to. He knows it would be foolish to say such things, but as they come, he finds himself reluctant to get in the way. After all, it’s not his fault. It was written in a poem 300 years ago.
He likes to think of himself as not quite that melodramatic. Yet there is something in the words.
Which way I shall fly, infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell.
Perhaps another drink is required. There’s only so much blank verse he can take sober.
: :
Lily finds it is easy to deter unwelcome strangers from speaking to her by looking them straight in the eye and fingering her sword. Few are brave enough, although she has enjoyed her conversation with Madame du Barry and Morgan Le Fay, both of whom seemed to be very taken with her scabbard. But she assumes they were not that keen on the embroidery in the end.
There is a figure in green whom she had suspected might be James, but wasn’t. She had recognised him from his voice when he spoke to her, and from his way of starting to smile and then trying not to, which he appears to use with her, often even before she had told him to get lost. She had been disappointed in how easily he’d known her. Not to mention that thing about smelling her, which, either way you interpret it, is disturbing. He has started to become shy around her, anxious rather than loud and full of himself. She has started to enjoy playing with him, but there are other games tonight.
The green man is not as tall as James, but he holds himself straight and speaks with an assured voice. Not a Gryffindor, for she would know him, but a Ravenclaw? Or even a Hufflepuff? He was as mysterious as anyone else tonight, speaking of loyalty and what it means and doesn’t mean. Her Costume had enjoyed the conversation.
But the green man is not what she looking for either.
: :
Sirius likes playing with people’s preconceptions of him. They expect him to be reckless, and charming, and witty, and sometimes he likes to play that role. But he also enjoys other roles, and other games.
There is a shock in his body when he sees Remus, and understands what his costume is. What some would call a jolt of recognition, but it is more visceral than that, a knowing in his bones, not unlike James’ ability to smell Evans from a hundred paces, but not connected to just the senses. That is Remus, shining and swirling material clinging to his body, grey wings shivering against the stillness of his stance. Those are his fingers, his thumb touching the top of his fingers one by one, circling them in elegant and unconscious movements.
He remembers to stop staring and focuses instead on a group of Slytherins, who have come dressed as Paracelsus, Morgan LeFay, and a vampire. An eighteenth-century coat in the darkest green, black breeches and boots, a Face with symmetrical features and a tragic air. Yet some things cannot be hidden by a mask, and one of them is Severus Snape’s nose. When he opens his mouth to talk, Sirius notices his sharp fangs and feels another laugh beginning in the pit of his stomach. The look of pure loathing he receives from said vampire confirms his identity. But before he has a chance to think of something suitably insulting to say, the vampire has moved past him and is standing in front of the grey figure. He offers a little bow of greeting, and receives a nod in return. They exchange words that Sirius cannot hear, but the expressions on both faces are calm. Then the dark angel smiles with the corner of his mouth, nods again, and the vampire departs.
Sirius chooses not to think about what Remus and Snape could be saying to each other. Yet he gives himself leave to move closer to the cluster of Slytherins and listen in on their conversation.
: :
“Did you have an interesting conversation with that…angel, Severus?”
“A devil, Theodric. A fallen angel, I believe, from a Muggle poem called Paradise Lost.”
“You read Muggle poetry, Severus? How very…Gryffindor of you.”
“I read many things.”
“Still. And talking to a Gryffindor, too.”
“I doubt a Gryffindor would come as Satan, Theodric.”
: :
Remus was startled when the first stranger approached him. But the words came to his lips, and he played his part. They didn’t know who he was. They thought he was someone else, not Remus Lupin, not the Gryffindor prefect, not James and Sirius’ sidekick.
He finds himself enjoying the game, guessing who his interlocutors are, knowing that they are as constrained by their Costumes as he is by his. Since the Costumes are supposed to be a secret, most students do not arrive with their housemates, and they can only guess who’s Gryffindor, who’s Slytherin or Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Interesting partnerships are formed. The Costume allows for new choices in companionship.
Remus looks over several Merlins, a lone Quidditch player who seems to have difficulties in making friends, and centres on Eve. I wonder how McGonagall allowed that costume. But then again it wouldn’t be her real body, but something fashioned out of a drawing. Still, the serpent is most intriguingly positioned. Eve is being pursued from all sides by a number of men (it appear all Costumes feel an attraction to Eve), but she pays little attention to them, and searches the room for something else. Remus considers walking up to her (they are in the same pantheon, after all) but decides against it. She won’t serve his purpose tonight.
: :
After ten minutes of intense smouldering at Remus’ direction, Sirius allows his feet to swagger towards him. He sees Remus’ posture become more forcefully relaxed as he approaches, and grins widely. Yet a pout is firmly in place when he stops in front of the angel.
“Do I know you?”
Remus looks up and down Sirius’ figure, eyes lingering on the white satin breeches, the Hessian boots, the open neck-cloth, and says with calm disinterest.
“I don’t think so.”
Sirius leans closer so that his breath causes Remus’ eyelashes to flutter.
“I know it’s you.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“Don’t you know?”
Remus’ wings are moving slightly but his body is still.
“While it doesn’t surprise me that you would enjoy lashings, I would have thought that even a masochistic bitch like you would know when to quit. Or at least get someone who’s interested to play your little games.”
“I know you like it. Who else could you blame if not me? Who else could you use your lovely cruel words on, who else deserves it, who else would take it? You love it.”
Remus looks him straight in the eye and his voice is very cold.
“Yes, Sirius, I love it, but then I am a Dark Creature, and you know what we are like. What we are good for.”
Remus moves to walk away, but Sirius grabs his arm and doesn’t let go even though Remus struggles in his grip.
“That’s bollocks. That’s fucking bollocks. You don’t think you’re like that so don’t fucking pretend that you do.”
Remus smiles, and Sirius shivers.
“Oh?”
Remus turns so that his mouth is by Sirius’ ear.
“To do ought good never will be my task, but ever to do ill my sole delight.”
Remus’ voice is low, and with every word his mouth flickers at Sirius’ earlobe. Sirius swallows.
“If you hate me so much.”
Remus moves back a little, and looks at Sirius.
“If you hate me so much, why not just go at it? Why not beat me to a bloody pulp or hex me or fight me or something? I know how much you love feeling sorry for yourself and making sarcastic comments about your suffering, but really, hasn’t it gone on long enough? Hit me or do what you want and then go back to normal. Get it over with.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make me hurt you so we’d be even and you could feel better about it? Or have me to fuck you to the ground and make you feel forgiven? Sorry, Sirius, but I won’t play the Dark Creature for you.”
“So are you just going to ignore us forever? Don’t you get bored of it?”
Remus smiles at Sirius and leans close.
“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced too deep.”
As Remus twists Sirius’ fingers away from his arm, and walks away, Sirius tries to convince himself that it isn’t Remus talking.
Part two can be found here
Title: The Truth of Masks
Pairings: Remus/Sirius, some Remus/Lily
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9331
Warnings: Bondage and various sexual acts. Also way too much poetry.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the characters in Harry Potter. Poetry owned by Milton, Byron and Shakespeare. I have no permission to use them, I make no money out of this, and no infringement of copyright is intended.
Summary: In the Marauders sixth year, Hogwarts hosts a Masquerade Ball. Mistaken identities and entanglements ensue. Also poetic snarking, angsty sex, and a devious Green Man.
Feedback is most appreciated.
Thanks to all who answered my questions about masquerades and writing!
All characters are over 18 here.
The Truth of Masks
Man is least himself when he speaks in his own person, but give him a mask and he’ll tell you the truth
Oscar Wilde
When Remus first hears about the Hogwarts Masquerade tradition, he thinks about the heroic costumes James and Sirius will wear, warriors, Quidditch-players, kings, sorcerers. That he could do that himself doesn’t occur to him, nor does he want to, later, when it does. Sixth year students are required, as part of their Transfiguration coursework, to create a Mask and a Costume from a blank face and a suit of clothes. They wear their Costumes to the Great Masquerade Ball on May 1st, the connection between Celtic fertility festivals and drunken students being undoubtedly intended. Remus knows why his classmates are thrilled, why they think dressing up as Robin Hood or Merlin or a pirate is the best thing ever. All personal imperfections smoothed over, and the spell enforcing suitable behaviour from everyone; it is a seductive possibility. There is freedom in such a performance, freedom from responsibility as well as freedom to be somebody else for one night. At midnight the spell will end, and they will all be turned back to their usual selves.
Remus knows that Dumbledore is determined to continue the tradition despite complaints from the older wizarding families. Masquerade Balls used to be popular centuries ago, with Muggles as well as wizards, but they had gone out of fashion for being too liberal. After all, anyone with enough magical talent could create their own costume, and peasants and prostitutes could mingle with high society without their knowledge. The Hogwarts May Ball is the last remnant of a once glorious tradition. Yet there are traces of wilder festivities in the ancient language of the spell, which isn’t Latin, or Gaelic, but a form of ancient Thracian. The drink they are given, barely alcoholic but rumoured to produce hallucinations, is only produced in Europe for this festival. Remus studies the history of the tradition, and finds stories of spells gone wrong, unsuitable alliances made, and families and friendships broken at the Masquerade. He wonders why Dumbledore allows the festival, even insists on it. But the Headmaster’s motivation is a mystery, as ever, and what Remus finds makes him curious, as well as determined. Freedom from the self can be a terrible thing.
The task itself is simple. Students are given a blank mask with generic human features on which to mould a Face, and white linen shirt and trousers and a scalp-fitting cap, which they are then expected to Transfigure into a masquerading costume of their choice. They must produce an image to which their work can be compared, a painting or a photograph or a sculpture. The spell ensures that they perform their part, and since most people choose admirable characters (their choice must be approved by McGonagall), problems are rare. What they don’t talk about is how the enforcement of an alien personality can affect the student in question. Remus suspects the teachers consider this a humbling exercise, and approve of any such learning experiences. The spell does not cause the person to behave in an unnatural way, but it can nudge speaking patterns and thoughts to a different direction, reveal things one might prefer not to admit.
He listens to James, Peter and Sirius talk about their costumes while he lies in bed with his curtains closed. Some suggestions are obvious (“The greatest pranksters in history! Pads, Wormtail, what do you say?”), some frankly bizarre (“Napoleon? How do you even know who he is, Peter?”), but they all want to be somebody cool. Famous people through the ages, both Muggle and Wizarding, are popular, and mythological figures as well as fictional characters are acceptable as long as the student can show the visual image to McGonagall. The Masks have to be ready the day before the Ball for inspection, and must be kept hidden from others so as not to ruin the surprise.
McGonagall had been suspicious when Remus told her about his costume, but he had the image (a beautiful drawing by Gustave Doree) and as the spell can only influence his thoughts, not give him different abilities, it was determined safe (at least as safe as a Merlin or a Mordred, as Remus had argued). And unlikely to be recognised by most students, and as such it would serve his purpose.
: :
Remus is sitting on his bed, reading, when the others arrive to the dormitory. They are used to not paying attention to him by now, and he has learned not to slow the movement of his eyes on the page. James is telling a story, something he said to Lily this afternoon after Transfiguration, and how she refused to appreciate his genius. Peter is making encouraging noises and Sirius is looking at James with such rapt attention that Remus knows he is faking it. He turns the page.
He manages to actually read a page before becoming aware of the silence in the room.
“Hey Remus, can I ask you something?”
Peter’s voice betrays its hesitancy by slight breathlessness and a blurring speed. Remus remembers that he resents Peter less than the others, and for less personal reasons. He looks up, tilts his head at his former friend, and raises an eyebrow.
“You know that book with the Green Knight, that we read in Muggle Studies? With King Arthur and stuff?”
Remus nods. He occasionally consents to answer scholarly requests.
“Do you know about any pictures? Where I could find some, I mean, there’s nothing in the cover and I was just wondering if you knew anything…about it, I mean.”
James and Sirius have said nothing all this time, they are carefully looking only at Peter, but Remus can hear the silence when they stop breathing.
“You want to be the Green Knight?”
They’re not supposed to show their costumes to anyone, but most roommates are in on each other’s secrets.
“No, it’s the other knight, King Arthur’s nephew or something, Sir Gavin?”
“Sir Gawain. I see. Well, Arthurian themes were popular with the Pre-Raphaelites in the nineteenth century, so someone like Edward Burne Jones or John Everett Millais…”
Remus stops when he sees the frown in Peter’s forehead grow deeper.
“If you go to the library and ask Madam Pince to show you books about these people.”
Remus reaches into his bag by the bed and pulls out a notebook, starts scribbling down names.
“Here you go. That should give you some ideas.”
Peter gives him a surprisingly beautiful smile and James nods without quite looking at Remus. Remus goes back to staring at his book as they leave.
Ten minutes later when he surfaces from his book he realises he didn’t even notice when Sirius left.
: :
Sirius had never read Muggle literature at home. His parents, like most witches and wizards of their generation, considered novels to be a waste of time and at most useful as a way of manipulating Muggles, distracting them from the magic taking place in front of their eyes. English literature was not taught in Hogwarts, and the only classes where works of fiction were mentioned were Muggle Studies.
A new teacher had arrived at Hogwarts in their third year, a young man with angelic blond curls who insisted on wearing rainbow-coloured robes to the astonishment of the students and the disapproval of his colleagues. Sirius had chosen Muggle Studies because he knew it would annoy his parents (he had enjoyed five Howlers as a result) and because Remus had dared him ( he also took Care of Magical Creatures with James and Peter, and Arithmancy with Remus). But the new teacher had chosen to emphasise Muggle culture, and correct what he called the Abysmal Absence of Art in their curriculum by educating them in the canon of English literature. The library at Hogwarts only held what had been considered classics in the previous century, but they had gone through Shakespeare and Marlowe, Milton and Pope, and Byron and Shelley and Keats. Professor Fine was a great admirer of Shelley, and Sirius enjoyed making what he liked to call Byronic comments to his enraptured readings.
He knows Byron is Remus’ favourite poet (he himself prefers the drama and flair of Milton), but he didn’t choose his costume because of Remus. There are other advantages to being the sexiest thing in the nineteenth century, and he has respect for a man who became famous for a pout. He is also looking forward to the admiring glances and gropes.
The Fat Lady is simpering when he passes the doorway, but instead of the intended naughty grin his features form themselves into a scowl. This doesn’t seem to bother the Lady, as she looks ready to faint at his feet (a difficult thing for a painting). The Gryffindor girls gathered around the common room had also given him long, smouldering glances, but that happens all the time anyway so he hadn’t paid it much attention. Yet perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to combine Byronic appeal with the Black charm.
Sirius grins. Or perhaps it was his best idea yet.
: :
“Where the hell is Peter? Have you seen him since we arrived?”
“No, but you know what he looks like.”
“Well, not exactly, but more or less. Probably something like me, except shorter and less gorgeous.”
“That’s not much to aspire to.”
“You’re a fine one to speak.”
“I am mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
“Yeah, but your costume still sucks. I mean, could you be any poncier than a poet? Might as well shout it from the rooftops.”
“Need I remind you that you are wearing tights?”
“These show off my assets. They show how much more manly I am.”
“The term you’re looking for is how much more a prat you are.”
“Oh really. Tell me then. O illustrious scion of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, what can you do that I can’t?”
‘Write poetry, kick your arse in a fight, and actually seduce women?”
: :
Lily Evans watches her reflection in the mirror. Brown leather breeches, white linen shirt, leather boots. A scabbard with a sword.
She’s curious about the reactions her Costume will attract. She knows that her character is from Shakespeare and known to be female, but she also knows that not many students read Muggle literature. And her figure is androgynous: breast tied flat with a long piece of cloth (some things you couldn’t do with magic), the shape of her hips hid by the thick material of her breeches. They are loose on her waist but tight across her behind. The white linen of her shirt comes down to her thighs, pulled taut by her belt and the scabbard.
With her sword in it.
When she first considered her Costume, the sword was something she hadn’t thought about. Now the weight of it on her hip brings a warmth to her stomach and a swagger to her steps. She has practiced drawing it out from the scabbard, and accidentally cut through the curtains in her room before she managed it. The movement is fluid and graceful, and she knows how to lift one eyebrow to complement the pose. A combative stance comes naturally.
She had wanted to get dressed alone, and had snuck in an unused bathroom, away from her housemates. As she opens the door, she hears a faint cry about boys not being allowed in the girls’ toilet, and feels the smile on her lips.
: :
Remus likes to think that his decision about his Mask wasn’t obvious, but really, it was the only one he could have made. The only one that made sense in all the ways he wanted, and in some ways that he didn’t. He knows that he enjoys feeling like a dark creature, enjoys feeling cruel and evil and all the things they think he should be. Not that he pays attention to what they say, but it can only be good to play with their assumptions. And he likes it.
Yet he chooses a glamorous evil, something that allows for his not-always-so-quiet sarcasm, but is unquestionable and admirable and glorious. He likes the defiance, and the refusal to follow and to play the game, but also likes the absoluteness of it. The doubts and questions after the final break are dealt with, and do not distract. The determination to live in hell appeals to him. This is a role he can play. And if it attracts attention and people, he is distant enough, cool and quiet enough, to get away. He trusts the students of Hogwarts not to have looked so deep into his eyes that they could recognise him.
Also the devil has the best tunes.
Last year Sirius had given him a charmed record player, and all the albums of the Rolling Stones. He had kept them afterwards, and refused to allow Sirius become connected with the music.
He had to create the spell, experiment with Latin words to see what would bring the shape he wanted. The cloth on his body is thin, but loose and opaque enough to hide his shape. It moves with the slightest movement but also by itself, revealing and concealing in turns the contours of his body, exaggerates the smoothness, brings forth the muscles. He is slender, has always been slim, but the shape of his shoulders has caused a hitch in someone’s breath. The movements of pale cloth draw attention to his stillness, not unmoving but alert.
It should be strange to look in the mirror and see someone else, but somehow it isn’t.
His wings are grey, a darker colour than the material colouring his body, and smooth, and strong. He couldn’t believe that transfigured wings could fly, but could not resist trying. He can control their movements with his arms and shoulders, and knows they feel soft, utterly alien but somehow familiar, like something he has known in a dream.
It is tempting, to give up himself and become something else for an evening. He enjoys feeling someone else’s words on his tongue, someone else’s thoughts in his head.
And yet.
And like a devilish engine back recoils upon himself; horror and doubt distract his troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir the hell within him; for within him hell he brings, and round about him, nor from hell one step, no more than from himself, can fly by change of place: now conscience wakes despair that slumbered, wakes the bitter memory of what he was, what is, and what must be worse: of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
There is only so far you can run to get away from yourself. But when Remus enters the Great Hall, and sees all the strange and wondrous creatures displaying themselves, he doesn’t feel out of place. That he can do things and speak to people, and still be safe beneath his Costume, makes his stomach squirm and his wings shiver.
: :
There are conversations going round. A strange impersonality in their exchanges, formulaic qualities brought on by tradition as well as the Mask. The opening gambit is always the same.
“Do I know you?”
“Why, Sir Knight, what a question! And how brave of you to ask! La, I can see your manly courage through your costume, so…forceful and brave.”
“Perhaps, my lady, you would care to inspect it more closely in a less crowded space?”
: :
“I know you, I think.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No, really, I’m sure I know you.”
“You don’t look like anyone I know.”
“I can feel your essence. You true soul is shining through your mask. I know you.”
“Really? What does my true soul look like? And how precisely does it shine?”
: :
There are many knights in the crowd, trying to portray different kinds of bravery. They all wear tights and a big sword.
James is trying to spot Lily but with no success. There’s a Morgan Le Fay with a suitably rigid set to her shoulders, but the height is a bit off, and James is pretty sure she’s talking to a Slytherin. There’s an Aphrodite with rather intriguing dimples, but Lily wouldn’t Charm her hair to such a trashy colour of blonde nor reveal quite that much skin. More the pity.
He has chosen his costume because it upholds the age-old Gryffindor characteristics of courage, companionship, and natural superiority. And also because it allows him to show off his legs and Quidditch-toned arse. He hopes Lily will appreciate it.
The Great Hall isn’t full, by any means, the number of Sixth Years isn’t that large. But the setting is much darker than usually, there are fewer candles and the ceiling has been enchanted to show scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Students keep stopping and pointing up at the changing images, and a few pints of Butterbeer have been spilt when people have stumbled over each other in the dark. Some of them even accidentally.
James is just looking away from the spectacle of Sirius skilfully tripping the Slytherin Prefect while copping a feel from his equally-Slytherin-but-unrelated-to-Sirius girlfriend, when the hair on his back stands up and he can smell the unique smell of shampoo, ink and girly things that is the love of his life. He turns around and watches a young man in Elizabethan costume walk across the hall towards the drinking table. He moves with poise and purpose, hips swaying to a steady rhythm, one hand on his sword. James swallows.
“Hey Prongs, why are you looking you’ve just swallowed a dead fish? Has Evans arrived yet?”
Sirius has extricated himself from the ménage-à-trois and is standing behind James.
“Why are you staring at that bloke?”
“Not a bloke. Evans.”
“But that’s a man. Wait, did you smell her or something?”
James nods. There’s a commiserating “aah” behind him.
“I’m going to go talk to her.”
: :
“How’s it going there, Evans?”
She turns around with a suspicious look on her face. He can see Lily Evans beneath the mask of Rosalind, even though there are few similarities between them. A straight nose, and of course the unchanging green eyes. The curve of the mouth. Which at the moment is scowling at him.
“How the hell did you know it was me, Potter?”
“Really, Lily. Such language from a prefect. And I would recognise you anywhere.”
He doesn’t mention the fact that she had recognised him as well. It could the voice, of course. Or the stalking.
At his smirk, Lily whips out her sword in one smooth motion and holds it two inches from James’s throat.
“How, Potter?”
James is suddenly very hard.
”It’s your smell, you know, I know your smell and I just…”
James stops talking when he sees the sword point come closer to his artery vein.
“You smelled me?”
The way her voice rises at the end of the sentence probably means she is not going to fall in love with him this evening.
“Look, Potter, what do you want?”
“Just wanted a drink, Evans.”
“You’re holding one in your hand.”
James pauses. Yes, that would in fact be a pint of Butterbeer in his hand.
“It’s for Sirius.”
“Can’t Black get his own?”
Another pause.
“Look, he asked me, and I said okay cause I wanted to come and talk to you.”
“I see.”
A pause.
“Erm, Evans?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could take your sword away from face?”
Lily smiles brilliantly. That’s my girl, thinks James and let out a breath while Lily very carefully puts her sword back to the scabbard. He beams back at her, tentatively, and she lifts her eyebrow and walks away.
Oh well.
Dazed, James walks back to Sirius who is clutching his sides and hollering with laughter. It takes shim a moment to realise that he is not laughing at him, but at someone else who has just walked through the door. Severus Snape, dressed as a vampire.
: :
Remus watches James and Sirius laughing, and watches the black-cloaked figure move away from them with a stiff walk. So Snape has a sense of humour. Who knew? Although apparently it doesn’t extend to Gryffindors. The other Slytherins are looking at him with raised eyebrows and a mild distaste, but show no apparent interest.
Remus had watched the regal Arthur being held at sword point by the Lady Rosalind. She clearly enjoyed threatening him. And walking away from him. Pleasure in the movement, pleasure in the pose.
He finds he enjoys his costume in unexpected ways. He can hear alien thoughts crowding in his brain, strange words coming to his lips, but they are words and thoughts that he is thinking too. He enjoys the drama and the utter eloquence of his costume. And the alliteration. It’s like giving in to all the ideas he thought he was too wise to admit to. He knows it would be foolish to say such things, but as they come, he finds himself reluctant to get in the way. After all, it’s not his fault. It was written in a poem 300 years ago.
He likes to think of himself as not quite that melodramatic. Yet there is something in the words.
Which way I shall fly, infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell.
Perhaps another drink is required. There’s only so much blank verse he can take sober.
: :
Lily finds it is easy to deter unwelcome strangers from speaking to her by looking them straight in the eye and fingering her sword. Few are brave enough, although she has enjoyed her conversation with Madame du Barry and Morgan Le Fay, both of whom seemed to be very taken with her scabbard. But she assumes they were not that keen on the embroidery in the end.
There is a figure in green whom she had suspected might be James, but wasn’t. She had recognised him from his voice when he spoke to her, and from his way of starting to smile and then trying not to, which he appears to use with her, often even before she had told him to get lost. She had been disappointed in how easily he’d known her. Not to mention that thing about smelling her, which, either way you interpret it, is disturbing. He has started to become shy around her, anxious rather than loud and full of himself. She has started to enjoy playing with him, but there are other games tonight.
The green man is not as tall as James, but he holds himself straight and speaks with an assured voice. Not a Gryffindor, for she would know him, but a Ravenclaw? Or even a Hufflepuff? He was as mysterious as anyone else tonight, speaking of loyalty and what it means and doesn’t mean. Her Costume had enjoyed the conversation.
But the green man is not what she looking for either.
: :
Sirius likes playing with people’s preconceptions of him. They expect him to be reckless, and charming, and witty, and sometimes he likes to play that role. But he also enjoys other roles, and other games.
There is a shock in his body when he sees Remus, and understands what his costume is. What some would call a jolt of recognition, but it is more visceral than that, a knowing in his bones, not unlike James’ ability to smell Evans from a hundred paces, but not connected to just the senses. That is Remus, shining and swirling material clinging to his body, grey wings shivering against the stillness of his stance. Those are his fingers, his thumb touching the top of his fingers one by one, circling them in elegant and unconscious movements.
He remembers to stop staring and focuses instead on a group of Slytherins, who have come dressed as Paracelsus, Morgan LeFay, and a vampire. An eighteenth-century coat in the darkest green, black breeches and boots, a Face with symmetrical features and a tragic air. Yet some things cannot be hidden by a mask, and one of them is Severus Snape’s nose. When he opens his mouth to talk, Sirius notices his sharp fangs and feels another laugh beginning in the pit of his stomach. The look of pure loathing he receives from said vampire confirms his identity. But before he has a chance to think of something suitably insulting to say, the vampire has moved past him and is standing in front of the grey figure. He offers a little bow of greeting, and receives a nod in return. They exchange words that Sirius cannot hear, but the expressions on both faces are calm. Then the dark angel smiles with the corner of his mouth, nods again, and the vampire departs.
Sirius chooses not to think about what Remus and Snape could be saying to each other. Yet he gives himself leave to move closer to the cluster of Slytherins and listen in on their conversation.
: :
“Did you have an interesting conversation with that…angel, Severus?”
“A devil, Theodric. A fallen angel, I believe, from a Muggle poem called Paradise Lost.”
“You read Muggle poetry, Severus? How very…Gryffindor of you.”
“I read many things.”
“Still. And talking to a Gryffindor, too.”
“I doubt a Gryffindor would come as Satan, Theodric.”
: :
Remus was startled when the first stranger approached him. But the words came to his lips, and he played his part. They didn’t know who he was. They thought he was someone else, not Remus Lupin, not the Gryffindor prefect, not James and Sirius’ sidekick.
He finds himself enjoying the game, guessing who his interlocutors are, knowing that they are as constrained by their Costumes as he is by his. Since the Costumes are supposed to be a secret, most students do not arrive with their housemates, and they can only guess who’s Gryffindor, who’s Slytherin or Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Interesting partnerships are formed. The Costume allows for new choices in companionship.
Remus looks over several Merlins, a lone Quidditch player who seems to have difficulties in making friends, and centres on Eve. I wonder how McGonagall allowed that costume. But then again it wouldn’t be her real body, but something fashioned out of a drawing. Still, the serpent is most intriguingly positioned. Eve is being pursued from all sides by a number of men (it appear all Costumes feel an attraction to Eve), but she pays little attention to them, and searches the room for something else. Remus considers walking up to her (they are in the same pantheon, after all) but decides against it. She won’t serve his purpose tonight.
: :
After ten minutes of intense smouldering at Remus’ direction, Sirius allows his feet to swagger towards him. He sees Remus’ posture become more forcefully relaxed as he approaches, and grins widely. Yet a pout is firmly in place when he stops in front of the angel.
“Do I know you?”
Remus looks up and down Sirius’ figure, eyes lingering on the white satin breeches, the Hessian boots, the open neck-cloth, and says with calm disinterest.
“I don’t think so.”
Sirius leans closer so that his breath causes Remus’ eyelashes to flutter.
“I know it’s you.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“Don’t you know?”
Remus’ wings are moving slightly but his body is still.
“While it doesn’t surprise me that you would enjoy lashings, I would have thought that even a masochistic bitch like you would know when to quit. Or at least get someone who’s interested to play your little games.”
“I know you like it. Who else could you blame if not me? Who else could you use your lovely cruel words on, who else deserves it, who else would take it? You love it.”
Remus looks him straight in the eye and his voice is very cold.
“Yes, Sirius, I love it, but then I am a Dark Creature, and you know what we are like. What we are good for.”
Remus moves to walk away, but Sirius grabs his arm and doesn’t let go even though Remus struggles in his grip.
“That’s bollocks. That’s fucking bollocks. You don’t think you’re like that so don’t fucking pretend that you do.”
Remus smiles, and Sirius shivers.
“Oh?”
Remus turns so that his mouth is by Sirius’ ear.
“To do ought good never will be my task, but ever to do ill my sole delight.”
Remus’ voice is low, and with every word his mouth flickers at Sirius’ earlobe. Sirius swallows.
“If you hate me so much.”
Remus moves back a little, and looks at Sirius.
“If you hate me so much, why not just go at it? Why not beat me to a bloody pulp or hex me or fight me or something? I know how much you love feeling sorry for yourself and making sarcastic comments about your suffering, but really, hasn’t it gone on long enough? Hit me or do what you want and then go back to normal. Get it over with.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make me hurt you so we’d be even and you could feel better about it? Or have me to fuck you to the ground and make you feel forgiven? Sorry, Sirius, but I won’t play the Dark Creature for you.”
“So are you just going to ignore us forever? Don’t you get bored of it?”
Remus smiles at Sirius and leans close.
“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced too deep.”
As Remus twists Sirius’ fingers away from his arm, and walks away, Sirius tries to convince himself that it isn’t Remus talking.
Part two can be found here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 08:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 09:57 am (UTC)At his smirk, Lily whips out her sword in one smooth motion and holds it two inches from James’s throat.
“How, Potter?”
James is suddenly very hard.
Ahhhh!
Snape! Ah!
Perhaps another drink is required. There’s only so much blank verse he can take sober.
Heh, indeed.
kxx
no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 12:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 06:26 pm (UTC)"Also the devil has the best tunes"
^_^
no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:34 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 08:29 pm (UTC)*snort* He really does. You don't see it in Marauder fic very much, but Snape *is* scathingly witty, in a very subtle and secretive way. In canon, it's like his outlet for having to work with so many irritating do-gooders.
Very cool to make Remus a fallen angel; says a lot about his opinion of himself, but also the way that Remus could have been a much better man if life hadn't have sullied his soul with, well, life. For instance, he could have been more courageous and done more good things if his lycanthropy hadn't made him so self-protective. People compare R/S to Aziraphale/Crowley, but that's the diff between Remus and Azira: the imperfect world doesn't touch the divinely perfect Aziraphale.
Really enjoying this. I love masquerade stories, where the mask sets people free. Have you read Ownership (http://www.livejournal.com/users/copperbadge/641525.html) by
no subject
Date: 2005-05-31 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:35 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting!
no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 12:20 pm (UTC)*nod* So interesting, how Richard is all the worst parts of Remus, yet there are benefits. As Richard, no one puts Remus in a corner. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 12:49 pm (UTC)*points to icon*
no subject
Date: 2005-07-24 09:02 pm (UTC)-Nicole-
no subject
Date: 2005-07-25 04:55 am (UTC)Mysterious, And Darkly Beautiful.
Date: 2005-10-10 04:20 am (UTC)Re: Mysterious, And Darkly Beautiful.
Date: 2005-10-10 05:05 am (UTC)