![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: Kind Words
Rating: PG-13
Summary:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
lgbtfest prompt #376: Harry Potter: Albus Dumbledore. A young LGBT or questioning student (era and character of your choice) comes to the headmaster seeking advice, not knowing that Dumbledore himself is gay.
Characters/Pairing: Regulus, Dumbledore, implied Grindelwald/Dumbledore
Disclaimer: No, it's not mine.
Warnings: Adult language. Intolerance. Vaguely upsetting content. Angst.
Notes: I wrote this today. In basically two hours. And it's awful. And barely fits the prompt. But blame myblind_go fic, which ate my brain. And had the same exact due date. And sucks anyway.
Kind Words
Regulus Black looked up from his book and sensed trouble. Several of his housemates had rushed into the common room, flushed and panting. One of them – a lanky seventh year with a face like a Grindylow’s – flexed his long fingers and occasionally prodded his bleeding, swollen lip. Standing next to him was one of the Slytherin Beaters, a boy named Eligius Trimble. Trimble had his arms folded defensively across his wide chest and was searching the room with wild eyes, seeking –
“You!” Regulus frowned. “Black, get over here.”
With a sigh, the fourth-year complied. Trimble wasn’t someone whose bad side he wanted to be on. The Beater was huge and mean, with all the personal charm of a Hungarian Horntail.
“You know, Black, your brother’s got some fucking nerve,” Trimble began. The tips of his ears were burning red, while his mouth trembled with fury. Regulus, barely noticing, just thought, Of course. Sirius was officially no longer a part of the family, having been quite soundly and effectively disinherited within minutes of his final departure, but the Slytherins had never forgiven Regulus for being Sirius’s brother – even if it was against his will.
Whatever Sirius had done this time, Regulus didn’t want to know. He never wanted to know, in fact, but his classmates always told him. Today they recounted the afternoon’s adventures in almost certainly incorrect detail (the bit about Sirius running away “like a fucking pansy” was particularly suspect), and then proceeded to catalogue Sirius’s many faults again. Regulus kept his mouth shut; he didn’t want to hear it, but it would be better to let the other boys talk themselves to death, even if all he wanted to say was I am not my brother’s keeper. He never had been, even back when they still considered each other family.
Trimble’s voice was rising with his rage, his words practically shaking the bookcases and at least drawing the interest of the few students still in the common room. His rant ran in endless circles, and none of it added up. It didn’t have to. The Slytherins hated Sirius Black, and the reasons for doing so didn’t always have to be sound.
Suddenly, with a sharp grin, Crispin, the seventh year with the split lip, said, “He’s a faggot, you know.” Someone laughed – a girl Regulus’s age – but everyone else just kept listening. It wasn’t the first time Regulus had heard Sirius called a faggot, or a queer, or a nancy boy, or – well. It wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t something Regulus hadn’t considered himself. But no one had ever said it like it was indisputable fact, until now.
“Think about it,” Crispin continued. He didn’t have to raise his voice the way Trimble did; his words were soft, but everyone sat rapt. “Funny how he’s always with Potter, isn’t it? And if not Potter, then that Remus Lupin, or Peter Pettigrew.” Everyone made a face, disgust pulling their mouths into ugly grimaces. “His favorite thing in the world is probably taking it up the arse.” His cold eyes turned to Regulus, who suddenly understood. This wasn’t about Sirius at all. “Isn’t it?”
All Regulus had to do was agree, and Crispin – who two days ago had noticed Regulus peeking in the showers, fourteen years old, curious and aroused by the sight of another man’s penis – would back off. He’d be allowed to return to his book, and for now the boy would drop the subject. Protecting Sirius was not a priority for him any more than protecting Regulus was a priority for Sirius. Better by far to protect himself.
He licked his lips and nodded. “Yes.” He met the boy’s gaze. “He’s a filthy queer.”
*
The staircase curled upwards, and Albus Dumbledore ascended it quickly. He was running late. A quarter of an hour ago Horace had told him he had a student waiting in his office, but then he’d been sidetracked by one thing or another – the least of which being Peeves, launching a full-scale assault of ripened fruit on the newly-hired arithmancy professor. Pleased to see Professor Vector take it all in stride, Albus remembered her infectious laughter.
Still smiling, he opened the door.
For no more than a moment, he mistook the boy waiting by the desk for Sirius Black. It would make more sense – Sirius was a regular visitor to the office, whereas Regulus had never before stepped inside it, to Albus’s knowledge. However, aside from the obvious shared traits, the boys did not look alike. Regulus had dark features and an aristocratic nose, and though he was not as striking as Sirius, he was a handsome young man. His eyes sat deep in his face, dark and thoughtful, and his cheeks were peppered with barely-there freckles. In time, perhaps, he would grow into his looks, but for the moment he resembled his father.
“Regulus,” greeted Albus, his eyebrows rising above his glasses. He slipped into the chair at his desk and gestured for Regulus to take a seat. Had he been standing the whole time? “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Regulus’s expression was guarded as he shook his head. “It’s fine.” The words were terse, and it was becoming more and more clear that it was taking all his nerve to be there. Albus would have to ease the boy into speaking up.
He said, “When I was your age, I had a professor that never made it to class on time. Even the students who ran tardy in all of the other classes made it in before him.” Albus chuckled at the memory, years and years and years old. “It was frustrating. I was there to learn, and I felt he was making it impossible. Eventually I began teaching myself the material when he wasn’t there, and understanding it, and years later it occurred to me that this was exactly what he’d been hoping for. The whole thing was a lesson. When I saw him again, I told him I had figured it out – and he just stared at me and said, ‘Albus, what in Merlin’s name are you talking about? I was late every day because I never could find my way around this blasted castle!’”
Across the desk, Regulus didn’t smile. It seemed he hadn’t even registered the story. He was picking at his fingernails, waiting to speak but not knowing what to say. Albus could see the hesitance in his twitching fingers. “Um,” he managed. “Er.”
“Yes?” prompted Albus kindly.
Shaking his head, Regulus said finally, “It’s nothing.”
“Ah, but it’s clearly something. Or you would not be here, would you?” Albus knew that Regulus Black, like his mother and his father, did not look kindly on his policies. He would help Regulus in any way he could, of course, but it would take something important for Regulus to seek that help.
A long silence followed, until Regulus said, “If there was something you fancied that you wished you didn’t – is there a way to make you stop?”
Albus’s eyes twinkled, and he waited. Regulus wasn’t done.
Regulus chewed on his lip for a while. Albus didn’t push him. At last, he said – asked because it was obvious he couldn’t bear to just state it – in a small voice, “What if I don't want to be gay?”
Oh, thought Albus, and the pieces slid into place. He remembered being this young, this achingly vulnerable and terribly confused. Locked-away memories of a hot summer and a good friend rose, unbidden, in his heart, and though Albus wanted to look down, away, anywhere but at Regulus’s seeking eyes, he held the boy’s gaze. He owed it to him.
“There’s nothing to fix, nothing to change. Regulus,” he told him, remembering that someone had told him the same thing once, had pressed tiny kisses to the shell of his ear and assured him with the same words he was saying now. “It won’t be easy, and there is no spell to change you, but make no mistake that there is nothing wrong with who you are. Be proud of it.”
Regulus looked away first. Then he stood slowly and muttered, “Thanks for nothing,” and as he fled, he slammed the door. Albus, watching, didn’t let himself think of curls of golden hair beneath his fingers.
*
When he returned to the common room, several of his housemates – Regulus noticed Trimble’s enormous frame among the group – were gathered in a corner, whispering furiously. Regulus was still seething from Dumbledore’s little speech. What did that fraud know about anything? Did he understand the way Crispin had looked at him, or the words the other boys had said about Sirius? Regulus didn’t need self-acceptance; what he needed was to be different, to avoid the accusation he’d soon be seeing in his classmates’ stares.
Suddenly he heard a voice at his ear. “Step away, Black. What’s going on here isn’t for queers.”
Regulus turned and saw Crispin looming beside him, a tall, terrifying presence. Swallowing, he looked up into the older boy’s eyes. “Then you’ll get no problems from me. I’m no queer.”
Crispin smiled. “Glad to hear it.” He pulled Regulus toward the others. “You ever hear of the Death Eaters?”
- - -
Feedback would be terrifying but appreciated, because I do realize this is awful.
Title: Kind Words
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
lgbtfest prompt #376: Harry Potter: Albus Dumbledore. A young LGBT or questioning student (era and character of your choice) comes to the headmaster seeking advice, not knowing that Dumbledore himself is gay.Characters/Pairing: Regulus, Dumbledore, implied Grindelwald/Dumbledore
Disclaimer: No, it's not mine.
Warnings: Adult language. Intolerance. Vaguely upsetting content. Angst.
Notes: I wrote this today. In basically two hours. And it's awful. And barely fits the prompt. But blame my
blind_go fic, which ate my brain. And had the same exact due date. And sucks anyway.Regulus Black looked up from his book and sensed trouble. Several of his housemates had rushed into the common room, flushed and panting. One of them – a lanky seventh year with a face like a Grindylow’s – flexed his long fingers and occasionally prodded his bleeding, swollen lip. Standing next to him was one of the Slytherin Beaters, a boy named Eligius Trimble. Trimble had his arms folded defensively across his wide chest and was searching the room with wild eyes, seeking –
“You!” Regulus frowned. “Black, get over here.”
With a sigh, the fourth-year complied. Trimble wasn’t someone whose bad side he wanted to be on. The Beater was huge and mean, with all the personal charm of a Hungarian Horntail.
“You know, Black, your brother’s got some fucking nerve,” Trimble began. The tips of his ears were burning red, while his mouth trembled with fury. Regulus, barely noticing, just thought, Of course. Sirius was officially no longer a part of the family, having been quite soundly and effectively disinherited within minutes of his final departure, but the Slytherins had never forgiven Regulus for being Sirius’s brother – even if it was against his will.
Whatever Sirius had done this time, Regulus didn’t want to know. He never wanted to know, in fact, but his classmates always told him. Today they recounted the afternoon’s adventures in almost certainly incorrect detail (the bit about Sirius running away “like a fucking pansy” was particularly suspect), and then proceeded to catalogue Sirius’s many faults again. Regulus kept his mouth shut; he didn’t want to hear it, but it would be better to let the other boys talk themselves to death, even if all he wanted to say was I am not my brother’s keeper. He never had been, even back when they still considered each other family.
Trimble’s voice was rising with his rage, his words practically shaking the bookcases and at least drawing the interest of the few students still in the common room. His rant ran in endless circles, and none of it added up. It didn’t have to. The Slytherins hated Sirius Black, and the reasons for doing so didn’t always have to be sound.
Suddenly, with a sharp grin, Crispin, the seventh year with the split lip, said, “He’s a faggot, you know.” Someone laughed – a girl Regulus’s age – but everyone else just kept listening. It wasn’t the first time Regulus had heard Sirius called a faggot, or a queer, or a nancy boy, or – well. It wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t something Regulus hadn’t considered himself. But no one had ever said it like it was indisputable fact, until now.
“Think about it,” Crispin continued. He didn’t have to raise his voice the way Trimble did; his words were soft, but everyone sat rapt. “Funny how he’s always with Potter, isn’t it? And if not Potter, then that Remus Lupin, or Peter Pettigrew.” Everyone made a face, disgust pulling their mouths into ugly grimaces. “His favorite thing in the world is probably taking it up the arse.” His cold eyes turned to Regulus, who suddenly understood. This wasn’t about Sirius at all. “Isn’t it?”
All Regulus had to do was agree, and Crispin – who two days ago had noticed Regulus peeking in the showers, fourteen years old, curious and aroused by the sight of another man’s penis – would back off. He’d be allowed to return to his book, and for now the boy would drop the subject. Protecting Sirius was not a priority for him any more than protecting Regulus was a priority for Sirius. Better by far to protect himself.
He licked his lips and nodded. “Yes.” He met the boy’s gaze. “He’s a filthy queer.”
The staircase curled upwards, and Albus Dumbledore ascended it quickly. He was running late. A quarter of an hour ago Horace had told him he had a student waiting in his office, but then he’d been sidetracked by one thing or another – the least of which being Peeves, launching a full-scale assault of ripened fruit on the newly-hired arithmancy professor. Pleased to see Professor Vector take it all in stride, Albus remembered her infectious laughter.
Still smiling, he opened the door.
For no more than a moment, he mistook the boy waiting by the desk for Sirius Black. It would make more sense – Sirius was a regular visitor to the office, whereas Regulus had never before stepped inside it, to Albus’s knowledge. However, aside from the obvious shared traits, the boys did not look alike. Regulus had dark features and an aristocratic nose, and though he was not as striking as Sirius, he was a handsome young man. His eyes sat deep in his face, dark and thoughtful, and his cheeks were peppered with barely-there freckles. In time, perhaps, he would grow into his looks, but for the moment he resembled his father.
“Regulus,” greeted Albus, his eyebrows rising above his glasses. He slipped into the chair at his desk and gestured for Regulus to take a seat. Had he been standing the whole time? “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Regulus’s expression was guarded as he shook his head. “It’s fine.” The words were terse, and it was becoming more and more clear that it was taking all his nerve to be there. Albus would have to ease the boy into speaking up.
He said, “When I was your age, I had a professor that never made it to class on time. Even the students who ran tardy in all of the other classes made it in before him.” Albus chuckled at the memory, years and years and years old. “It was frustrating. I was there to learn, and I felt he was making it impossible. Eventually I began teaching myself the material when he wasn’t there, and understanding it, and years later it occurred to me that this was exactly what he’d been hoping for. The whole thing was a lesson. When I saw him again, I told him I had figured it out – and he just stared at me and said, ‘Albus, what in Merlin’s name are you talking about? I was late every day because I never could find my way around this blasted castle!’”
Across the desk, Regulus didn’t smile. It seemed he hadn’t even registered the story. He was picking at his fingernails, waiting to speak but not knowing what to say. Albus could see the hesitance in his twitching fingers. “Um,” he managed. “Er.”
“Yes?” prompted Albus kindly.
Shaking his head, Regulus said finally, “It’s nothing.”
“Ah, but it’s clearly something. Or you would not be here, would you?” Albus knew that Regulus Black, like his mother and his father, did not look kindly on his policies. He would help Regulus in any way he could, of course, but it would take something important for Regulus to seek that help.
A long silence followed, until Regulus said, “If there was something you fancied that you wished you didn’t – is there a way to make you stop?”
Albus’s eyes twinkled, and he waited. Regulus wasn’t done.
Regulus chewed on his lip for a while. Albus didn’t push him. At last, he said – asked because it was obvious he couldn’t bear to just state it – in a small voice, “What if I don't want to be gay?”
Oh, thought Albus, and the pieces slid into place. He remembered being this young, this achingly vulnerable and terribly confused. Locked-away memories of a hot summer and a good friend rose, unbidden, in his heart, and though Albus wanted to look down, away, anywhere but at Regulus’s seeking eyes, he held the boy’s gaze. He owed it to him.
“There’s nothing to fix, nothing to change. Regulus,” he told him, remembering that someone had told him the same thing once, had pressed tiny kisses to the shell of his ear and assured him with the same words he was saying now. “It won’t be easy, and there is no spell to change you, but make no mistake that there is nothing wrong with who you are. Be proud of it.”
Regulus looked away first. Then he stood slowly and muttered, “Thanks for nothing,” and as he fled, he slammed the door. Albus, watching, didn’t let himself think of curls of golden hair beneath his fingers.
When he returned to the common room, several of his housemates – Regulus noticed Trimble’s enormous frame among the group – were gathered in a corner, whispering furiously. Regulus was still seething from Dumbledore’s little speech. What did that fraud know about anything? Did he understand the way Crispin had looked at him, or the words the other boys had said about Sirius? Regulus didn’t need self-acceptance; what he needed was to be different, to avoid the accusation he’d soon be seeing in his classmates’ stares.
Suddenly he heard a voice at his ear. “Step away, Black. What’s going on here isn’t for queers.”
Regulus turned and saw Crispin looming beside him, a tall, terrifying presence. Swallowing, he looked up into the older boy’s eyes. “Then you’ll get no problems from me. I’m no queer.”
Crispin smiled. “Glad to hear it.” He pulled Regulus toward the others. “You ever hear of the Death Eaters?”
Feedback would be terrifying but appreciated, because I do realize this is awful.
at least i finished!31 | Speak