Fic, Little Drop of Poison, rose71

[toujours-nigel.livejournal.com]

Title: Little Drop of Poison
Author: toujours_nigel
Recipient: rose_71 rose71 
Rating: PG
Highlight for Warnings: *Mentioned character-death (Tonks).*
Word Count: 1431
Summary: Remus John Lupin had expected he would have a quiet day. It seems somewhat unlikely.
Author's notes: I chose the prompt 'history'; accordingly, this is set in the Regency era, though no knowledge of this period is required. I hope you, dear recipient, don't entirely dislike the story. <3

Remus had woken in the morning with every expectation of a quiet day. His parishioners had divested themselves of the frantic visits to the manor that started every time their absentee landlord deigned to visit his estate—though that was cruel, since Sirius had grown far more conscientious of late, yet a ten-month absence left him feeling self-righteous about the bitterness he had never managed to stifle, and the anxiety that every absence would again endure thirteen miserable years. His son had accepted, albeit grudgingly, the end of his week’s vacation, and trudged to his school-room to see whether the alphabet had greatly changed in physiognomy since his last visit. Sirius himself had woken in time for breakfast, and ridden off to visit his woods, to prepare his mind for the drudgery of sitting with his steward to go over accounts—Remus had always firmly declined the task, wishing to arouse neither jealousy nor suspicion. The day had stretched out in front of him in a vista of leisurely activities—he would have to finish preparing his weekly sermon, certainly, and there was a patch of blueberries in the shrubbery that required skilful coaxing, and a yet-unread volume of Catullus that demanded close attention.

For a little while it had all gone on as expected—trimming his sermon took rather longer than trimming the bushes: Sirius refused to stay in church longer than absolutely required, and would not leave midway. At mid-day, dragging Ted from his toys—the alphabet had surrendered swiftly—he had wondered whether Sirius’ company was worth the trouble of locating him in the woods. There were several competing factors to consider—Sirius often refused to consume lunch, saying it reeked too much of the years in India and the elaborate meals; Ted would get intolerable if not fed on time; lastly, and a not unimportant consideration, the grounds were extensive and the woods a proper maze.

He had only just decided to affect a compromise by feeding Ted and himself waiting for Sirius, when Sirius himself rendered all his speculations unnecessary by thundering up the avenue in a flurry of horse-hooves and dust. Something in the gesture made him dart a swift look at his son, engaged in the engrossing activity of persuading the cat that pebbles were entirely edible. The last time he had seen Sirius ride hell for leather he’d been sitting vigil beside Dora, her small hand stiff in his, the wedding band cold against his skin, while Teddy wailed in the cradle beside them. He had not looked up when the door was battered down, when Ted was picked up and soothed in Lolly’s capable arms—even while Sirius held him close he had looked at his wife’s white skin and blue lips till his vision was obscured against the soft sable of Sirius’ collar.

Sirius looked much the same now—hatless, curls and coat-tails streaming behind him, bent low over the horse’s neck, urging him on, loose reins clutched in one fist. Teddy, bribed into studiousness with the promise of an afternoon ride, abandoned his project and rushed up to stand beside the path in hopes of being scooped up, but Sirius rode past. The cat made good her escape in the interval. Ted, finding himself bereft of all sources of entertainment, decided that his father might just serve.

“Well,” he said, feeling himself quieten a little, “I suppose we should get you fed before all the excitement begins.” 

Ted nodded eagerly, and said, “Horses.”

Equestrians did appear to be a recurring motif—Ted was now reaching eager hands towards a bay mare that had trotted up behind them, clearly following at her own leisurely pace in Sirius’ furious wake. Remus looked up, essayed a smile. “Well, Mr. Harris.”

Harris looked rather far from his usual nonchalant self—the smile he managed in return was rather a diffident thing. “Himself just told me to bar the gates and prepare for siege, Mr. Lupin.”

“It’s his military training,” Remus said, and then, because Sirius had forced him into what was sure to be an extremely uncomfortable evening, added unrepentantly, “India, you know.”

Harris, who clearly did not, nodded soberly. “So should I not?”

“Great bloody black coach, was it? With hounds on the coat of arms?” Harris nodded. Of course it was. “That’s the Dowager, Mr. Harris. Locking her out is worth more than your job.” Or life, really, should she ever find out.

“But Himself said...” How Sirius managed to surround himself with such loyal devotees, he could not comprehend. But Harris was young, yet, and new to the job; he hadn’t seen Walburga and Sirius in a proper feud—he’d learn not to so much as pretend to listen attentively while Sirius, ever the dutiful son, plotted assassination, and arson, and tortures fit for Eastern prisons.

“His Lordship likes his little jokes.” Which statement did naught to reassure Harris. “He’s gone up to the house, hasn’t he, Mr. Harris?” Harris looked as though he was betraying a great secret by nodding. Useless to ask where Sirius found these boys, they were often responsible, sensible men till they met him—Remus knew; he had been one himself, lo these many decades ago. Ted had found his way to the mare’s side, and was running careful fingers up her gleaming shin; he protested a moment at being hauled firmly away and thrust into Harris’ arms, then crowed with delight at being able to get his hands on yet more horseflesh. “Take him up to the house for me, Mr. Harris. His nurse-maid will be distraught by now.” Being Lolly, she had probably involved all of downstairs, from the boot-black upwards, and was even now planning a yard-by-yard search of the entire estate.

Harris hesitated a minute more, then—apparently consumed by the desire to serve his master, even indirectly—galloped towards the manor-house at a speed emulating Sirius’ own. Ted howled with laughter, patting the mare’s neck and urging her on, faster, faster, faster. He had Dora’s love for horses, for speed, for anything thrilling and dangerous—Dora had had to settle for the social scandal of marrying a man too poor for wealth to substitute for age, but she had wanted, always, to follow Sirius into the little-known corners of the colonies; her eyes had gleamed like fire on garnets when Sirius had spoken of India—the wet heat of the plains and the cold of the Himalayas, and the petty kings and the great palaces and the massive temples, and once, longingly, of the soft smile of a woman attending to her ablutions in the Ganges. They had both had that lust for life that he had found so incomprehensible and so entrancing—Walburga, once while Sirius was absent and she had taken up the notion of grand-mothering Ted, had told him that he seemed to like all the Blacks with no fine discrimination of age or gender. He had smiled and trivialised it, and spoken of other things, but all night and much of the next morning he had remembered her tight smile and knowing eyes.

There was some truth to it, perhaps. Pondering these things helped one very little, especially with the Dowager bearing down—Sirius would expect of him the alertness of a soldier on watch; he could not afford to while it away in thoughts of might have been. He shook himself from his reverie, and reached for the cane propped against the fence, hauling himself upright a bare moment before the coach drew up alongside.

“Get in, Mr. Lupin.” It was not, quite, futile to begin arguments with Walburga, Dowager Lady Black. But it was, unfailingly, tedious and time-consuming. Her footman had already begun the seemingly terrible process of disembarking from the roof to open the door, scowling heavily all the while, and the Dowager was herself leaning out, an expectant expression on her face, as though waiting for him to protest. Remus climbed, carefully searching the interior of the coach for any trace of the large dogs the entire family appeared to favour. Walburga awarded him a smile as dangerous as any hunting dog’s. “Good man.”

He offered an answering smile every fraction as insincere, and tipped his head back, and watched her through narrowed eyes. His days stretched out in front of him in a vista of minor annoyances—mollifying Sirius, and rescuing Ted from indulgences, and keeping his manner from becoming too insubordinate, and carefully hiding any evidence of irregularities from the Dowager.

He had thought he would have a quiet few days.