More Fools Than Wise
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,550
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,550
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I don't own Harry Potter or any characters from the books or films. No monies made by this story no offence intended. For entertainment purposes only.
More Fools Than Wise
NOTES:Title is taken from The Silver Swan by Orlando Gibbons. Written for the 2010 edition of the hp_cestfest on LiveJournal. Thanks to brighty18 & thrihyrne for their invaluable assistance.
MORE FOOLS THAN WISE: Prologue
April, 1977
The artistry is most exquisite.
The subtleties of shade and colour contrasting with the bold brush strokes of the lettering is striking, yet not at all jarring to the eye.
He steps closer to the tapestry, marvelling at the level of detail present in the knotted roots of the tree.
It is amazing that even after so many hundreds of years, the charmed pigments have held onto so much of their original vibrancy.
Equally impressive is how subsequent artists have so closely matched the original lettering, beautifully mimicking the work of those long dead.
Only after a lifetime of familiarity with the tapestry is he able to discern the minute differences in the lettering of the newer names, such as the extra flourishes present in the final strokes of "m" and "n" or the tiny curlicue in the "o" that varies ever so slightly.
He doubts that the casual observer would note these inconsistencies, not that anyone other than his own family and a select chosen few have had occasion to ever see it.
The notion strikes him then as it always does: How sad it is that so many talented artists have toiled away for so long on a piece doomed to be viewed by so few.
It's like a masterpiece undiscovered, or one snatched up and hidden away by a selfish collector.
And though the tapestry is immensely old, the preserving charm slows the fading of the oils, the inevitable disintegration of the finely woven fibres.
In spite of this, he notes a handful of new stains here and there, as well as a loose thread at the rightmost bottom corner. As his inspection continues, he is surprised to find a hole in the fabric.
Reaching out with a forefinger, he touches the imperfection ever so gently. Bits of thread fall away from the perimeter of the ragged hole, and he watches them flitter downward, as leaves in an autumn breeze.
Not so surprising after all, he muses, stepping away to lean against the arm of an increasingly mouldy chaise.
A scrabbling from the far corner of the parlour breaks his concentration.
He turns his head just in time to see a rippling of the dusty, velvet curtains shrouding the large front window of the room. A feeble squeal confirms the responsible party. A moment later, another squeak, this one far shriller, sounds in response.
He smiles and stares at the tapestry once more.
Doxies in the parlour.
Another sign of the continuous slide, the inexorable descent into disrepair and decrepitude.
Every day, one more stain on the wallpaper, another tiny nick to the woodwork, just a speck more dirt clinging to the mop boards.
Expensive finery dulling with the passage of time, cloaked in ever increasing layers of tarnish and dust.
Meticulous plasterwork, riddled with cracks and stains, adorned with cobwebs.
The systematic decay of Grimmauld Place isn't a revelation.
He's been aware of it for as long as he can recall.
A little more grime here, a bit dingier there. It's not at all accidental that the wall sconces and oil lamps burn lower and dimmer year after year, so that now, their paltry light barely penetrates the deepest reaches of the silent halls and rooms.
He looks up, unable to discern exactly where the walls meet the high ceiling. It's as if the heavy, flocked wallpaper fades away into blackness, leaving nothing but a dark, looming abyss overhead.
No reason to call attention to the blight, to the putrefaction. Best to shroud it in shadow.
It all makes sense, really.
It all fits.
The tapestry of the family tree is but the last item to finally succumb to pall that hangs over The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
All the bluster, every machination, every manipulation has been for naught. Every arranged marriage, every selected spouse, each excision of those heretics and traitors who failed to tow the line has brought them to this pointless future, a dead end.
Manic obsession over one's pureblood status has been their undoing.
The tapestry should have served as a warning rather than a mere expression of bloated family pride: far too many Blacks wedding Blacks, too many joinings with other tainted pureblood families.
Toujours Pur.
Tragic that his ancestors adhered to the family motto in such a literal fashion.
Admittedly, the notion that a person is superior simply by virtue of one's bloodline is rather seductive. That philosophy has been drilled into him from the very beginning, and he'd embraced it wholeheartedly as a universal truth.
The idea of innate superiority is most seductive. Not only that, but it felt good, lending him a sense of worth that seemed to be sorely lacking in others who weren't "pure".
His arrival at Hogwarts had been responsible for opening his eyes to the reality of the world, a virtual lifting of the blinders his parents had saddled him with.
He's observed firsthand how so many of the pureblood students flaunt their perceived supremacy over the so-called mudbloods. They bully and connive, constantly scheming and relying on their vaunted bloodlines to rescue them from any difficulty. Not all of the purebloods wallow in their heritage; there are exceptions to every rule, of course, the nauseating Weasleys being a prime example.
For the most part, though, he finds the majority of purebloods to be no more intelligent or in possession of desirable physical prowess than anyone else. Rather, many are shockingly deficient academically, some bordering on full-on mental impairment. Emotional problems are rampant amongst the pure, as is a reliance on regular doses of mood altering potions.
He's seen parents swoop into Hogwarts to save their defective offspring more times than he can count. While the school most likely benefits from the Galleons passing over the Headmaster's desk, it does little to address the underlying problem. Worse, it perpetuates it.
Not exactly the most desirable of circumstances, to be sure.
His epiphany reached completion during a third year Care of Magical Creatures class, of all things.
A lesson on dragons happened to spend a great deal of time focusing on the various breeds and the problems inherent in maintaining the integrity and quality of the various species. Controlled propagation is clearly a tricky business, as expert dragon breeders regularly cull portions or entire clutches of hatchlings in order to eliminate undesirable qualities, which range from minor issues of size and coloration to congenital defects or deformities. Behavioural aberrations that manifest weeks to months after hatching are also swiftly and similarly dealt with.
Most unfortunate that his ancestors hadn't adopted a similar methodology to deal with the deleterious effects involved with in-breeding in wizards...
Initially, he's considered his singular insight to be some sort of blessing, a gift that he's been given in order to turn the tide, to perhaps arrest his family's tumble into madness.
Now he realises his naiveté, how simplistic he's been in believing that he was somehow special, somehow able to change centuries of delusional behaviour.
Clearly, his is a curse rather than a gift, a profoundly perverse joke played upon him by an uncaring universe.
As far as he can tell, it may well be too late.
Time and fate have made their decisions, and he is powerless in the face of such relentless, primal forces.
His parents and their generation are too far gone, too damaged to ever be reached by logic or reason.
Or compassion.
Their hearts have hardened and their minds so thoroughly twisted and warped that they are capable of nothing but malevolence and darkness, contempt and hatred.
Even those of his own generation seem lost, content to dance as the fires of destruction lick at their toes.
Worse, he fears that he's been irrevocably affected by the rancour, by the vitriol that seems to permeate every inch of the crumbling house.
Shaking his head, he runs two fingers over the blackened circles marring the tapestry's fabric.
Names blasted away in rage, as if the doing of it might eradicate the associated person as well.
Aunt Andromeda, Uncle Alphard and a handful of others who dared go against the grain.
He lingers over the most recent blastpoint, pressing his fingertips to the blackened circle and willing it away.
It's utter futility, he knows, but he does it anyway, an oddly satisfying ritual.
Closing his eyes, he struggles to push aside the darkness within, to force it to a distant part of himself and lock it away. But it defies his efforts, the darkness seemingly growing stronger by the day.
He knows it will overwhelm him soon, the sheer press of centuries of foulness and perversion sending him spiralling into the black void of insanity.
It's as if he's one of those deficient dragon hatchlings, outwardly fit but stricken with a heretofore invisible defect lying in wait, ready to erupt and consume him.
Perhaps if he removes himself from his toxic surroundings, he can save himself. It's the only course of action that seems sensible. It may not work, but he must try.
It all depends on a single person, the only individual in the entire world that he trusts. The only one that knows him, the one person capable of providing the faintest glimmer of hope.
Opening his eyes, he stares at his own name painted on the tapestry, certain that it won't be long before it, too, is removed, consigned to oblivion.
~~~~~ * ~~~~~
April, 1977
The artistry is most exquisite.
The subtleties of shade and colour contrasting with the bold brush strokes of the lettering is striking, yet not at all jarring to the eye.
He steps closer to the tapestry, marvelling at the level of detail present in the knotted roots of the tree.
It is amazing that even after so many hundreds of years, the charmed pigments have held onto so much of their original vibrancy.
Equally impressive is how subsequent artists have so closely matched the original lettering, beautifully mimicking the work of those long dead.
Only after a lifetime of familiarity with the tapestry is he able to discern the minute differences in the lettering of the newer names, such as the extra flourishes present in the final strokes of "m" and "n" or the tiny curlicue in the "o" that varies ever so slightly.
He doubts that the casual observer would note these inconsistencies, not that anyone other than his own family and a select chosen few have had occasion to ever see it.
The notion strikes him then as it always does: How sad it is that so many talented artists have toiled away for so long on a piece doomed to be viewed by so few.
It's like a masterpiece undiscovered, or one snatched up and hidden away by a selfish collector.
And though the tapestry is immensely old, the preserving charm slows the fading of the oils, the inevitable disintegration of the finely woven fibres.
In spite of this, he notes a handful of new stains here and there, as well as a loose thread at the rightmost bottom corner. As his inspection continues, he is surprised to find a hole in the fabric.
Reaching out with a forefinger, he touches the imperfection ever so gently. Bits of thread fall away from the perimeter of the ragged hole, and he watches them flitter downward, as leaves in an autumn breeze.
Not so surprising after all, he muses, stepping away to lean against the arm of an increasingly mouldy chaise.
A scrabbling from the far corner of the parlour breaks his concentration.
He turns his head just in time to see a rippling of the dusty, velvet curtains shrouding the large front window of the room. A feeble squeal confirms the responsible party. A moment later, another squeak, this one far shriller, sounds in response.
He smiles and stares at the tapestry once more.
Doxies in the parlour.
Another sign of the continuous slide, the inexorable descent into disrepair and decrepitude.
Every day, one more stain on the wallpaper, another tiny nick to the woodwork, just a speck more dirt clinging to the mop boards.
Expensive finery dulling with the passage of time, cloaked in ever increasing layers of tarnish and dust.
Meticulous plasterwork, riddled with cracks and stains, adorned with cobwebs.
The systematic decay of Grimmauld Place isn't a revelation.
He's been aware of it for as long as he can recall.
A little more grime here, a bit dingier there. It's not at all accidental that the wall sconces and oil lamps burn lower and dimmer year after year, so that now, their paltry light barely penetrates the deepest reaches of the silent halls and rooms.
He looks up, unable to discern exactly where the walls meet the high ceiling. It's as if the heavy, flocked wallpaper fades away into blackness, leaving nothing but a dark, looming abyss overhead.
No reason to call attention to the blight, to the putrefaction. Best to shroud it in shadow.
It all makes sense, really.
It all fits.
The tapestry of the family tree is but the last item to finally succumb to pall that hangs over The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
All the bluster, every machination, every manipulation has been for naught. Every arranged marriage, every selected spouse, each excision of those heretics and traitors who failed to tow the line has brought them to this pointless future, a dead end.
Manic obsession over one's pureblood status has been their undoing.
The tapestry should have served as a warning rather than a mere expression of bloated family pride: far too many Blacks wedding Blacks, too many joinings with other tainted pureblood families.
Toujours Pur.
Tragic that his ancestors adhered to the family motto in such a literal fashion.
Admittedly, the notion that a person is superior simply by virtue of one's bloodline is rather seductive. That philosophy has been drilled into him from the very beginning, and he'd embraced it wholeheartedly as a universal truth.
The idea of innate superiority is most seductive. Not only that, but it felt good, lending him a sense of worth that seemed to be sorely lacking in others who weren't "pure".
His arrival at Hogwarts had been responsible for opening his eyes to the reality of the world, a virtual lifting of the blinders his parents had saddled him with.
He's observed firsthand how so many of the pureblood students flaunt their perceived supremacy over the so-called mudbloods. They bully and connive, constantly scheming and relying on their vaunted bloodlines to rescue them from any difficulty. Not all of the purebloods wallow in their heritage; there are exceptions to every rule, of course, the nauseating Weasleys being a prime example.
For the most part, though, he finds the majority of purebloods to be no more intelligent or in possession of desirable physical prowess than anyone else. Rather, many are shockingly deficient academically, some bordering on full-on mental impairment. Emotional problems are rampant amongst the pure, as is a reliance on regular doses of mood altering potions.
He's seen parents swoop into Hogwarts to save their defective offspring more times than he can count. While the school most likely benefits from the Galleons passing over the Headmaster's desk, it does little to address the underlying problem. Worse, it perpetuates it.
Not exactly the most desirable of circumstances, to be sure.
His epiphany reached completion during a third year Care of Magical Creatures class, of all things.
A lesson on dragons happened to spend a great deal of time focusing on the various breeds and the problems inherent in maintaining the integrity and quality of the various species. Controlled propagation is clearly a tricky business, as expert dragon breeders regularly cull portions or entire clutches of hatchlings in order to eliminate undesirable qualities, which range from minor issues of size and coloration to congenital defects or deformities. Behavioural aberrations that manifest weeks to months after hatching are also swiftly and similarly dealt with.
Most unfortunate that his ancestors hadn't adopted a similar methodology to deal with the deleterious effects involved with in-breeding in wizards...
Initially, he's considered his singular insight to be some sort of blessing, a gift that he's been given in order to turn the tide, to perhaps arrest his family's tumble into madness.
Now he realises his naiveté, how simplistic he's been in believing that he was somehow special, somehow able to change centuries of delusional behaviour.
Clearly, his is a curse rather than a gift, a profoundly perverse joke played upon him by an uncaring universe.
As far as he can tell, it may well be too late.
Time and fate have made their decisions, and he is powerless in the face of such relentless, primal forces.
His parents and their generation are too far gone, too damaged to ever be reached by logic or reason.
Or compassion.
Their hearts have hardened and their minds so thoroughly twisted and warped that they are capable of nothing but malevolence and darkness, contempt and hatred.
Even those of his own generation seem lost, content to dance as the fires of destruction lick at their toes.
Worse, he fears that he's been irrevocably affected by the rancour, by the vitriol that seems to permeate every inch of the crumbling house.
Shaking his head, he runs two fingers over the blackened circles marring the tapestry's fabric.
Names blasted away in rage, as if the doing of it might eradicate the associated person as well.
Aunt Andromeda, Uncle Alphard and a handful of others who dared go against the grain.
He lingers over the most recent blastpoint, pressing his fingertips to the blackened circle and willing it away.
It's utter futility, he knows, but he does it anyway, an oddly satisfying ritual.
Closing his eyes, he struggles to push aside the darkness within, to force it to a distant part of himself and lock it away. But it defies his efforts, the darkness seemingly growing stronger by the day.
He knows it will overwhelm him soon, the sheer press of centuries of foulness and perversion sending him spiralling into the black void of insanity.
It's as if he's one of those deficient dragon hatchlings, outwardly fit but stricken with a heretofore invisible defect lying in wait, ready to erupt and consume him.
Perhaps if he removes himself from his toxic surroundings, he can save himself. It's the only course of action that seems sensible. It may not work, but he must try.
It all depends on a single person, the only individual in the entire world that he trusts. The only one that knows him, the one person capable of providing the faintest glimmer of hope.
Opening his eyes, he stares at his own name painted on the tapestry, certain that it won't be long before it, too, is removed, consigned to oblivion.