subluxation is a need and i would like you to talk about it
also please god talk about gardener’s question time. i’m so serious
thank you, pal, for two exemplary choices from the work in progress tag game list!
very funny to me that - having once declared yourself to not be a rare pair girly - you have come out swinging in favour of the two rare pairs on the list. the corruption continues apace...
gardener's question time is the result of a prompt i saw last year for a rare pair fest - which i didn't have the time to dive into at the time but which has stayed gnawing at my brain ever since - for a post-war fic with severus snape/andromeda tonks as the pairing.
and you'd better believe i was intrigued...
we're still in the early stages with this one, but the basic idea is to bring these two together through the complexity of their grief. [cheerful...]
the struggle when writing things in which snape lives is, of course, how you approach the fact that he has been living according to a script which has now ended. for all the implication of canon that dumbledore expected him to survive [why does he tell harry at king's cross that he intended snape to be the true master of the elder wand, if he wasn't planning for his loyal spy to reveal his true loyalties by helping deliver voldemort's final death blow?], snape can be very easily viewed as having presumed - and maybe even hoped? - that he would die in the second war.
how he deals with - for the first time in his life - having no master and having the freedom to choose to live on his own terms is something i think is always interesting to explore.
but i think it's particularly interesting to mash into andromeda's own finished script - the fact that her war has ended so devastatingly, with her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all dead; that she has gone from being a grandmother to teddy's primary caregiver [and the resentments that brings up - as we've talked about before, i'm wedded to the idea that she doesn't really like harry and isn't thrilled that he's teddy's godfather]; and, most thorny of all, that her sister is dead and there is now absolutely no chance of bellatrix seeing the error of her ways and trying to make amends [which, while i loathe the common trope that andromeda and her sisters would reconcile easily, is something i believe it's entirely reasonable for her to have hoped could be possible, even if she recognised it's unlikely it ever would have been.]
snape's post-war relationship with the malfoys - presumably absolutely torpedoed by the reveal that he was a spy - also has parallels with andromeda's post-war reckoning with narcissa.
the title is because andromeda wanting to grow a kitchen garden of medicinal plants [and healing through it! omg, a metaphor!] was the premise which sprang to mind when i came up with this. i may have been watching gardener's world [i'd risk it all for monty don] at the time.
subluxation is obviously something we've talked about a lot, seeing as its development has definitely run alongside percy entering his post-war flop era in beasts.
for the uninitiated, it's - in the main - the story of what percy's year of working for the death eater-controlled ministry during deathly hallows looked like.
i think we've both been struck by the fact that pretty much every fic which deals with this question has percy offering some sort of behind-the-scenes resistance to voldemort's regime - maybe not as flashy as that offered by the order members in his family [although, let's be real, what the order actually does in that year is... debatable], but fundamentally aligned with the goodies against evil.
and, i want to be clear, all of the percy-the-resistance-fighter stories i've read have been amazing. but they've still never managed to shake me from my conviction that he probably... didn't do anything substantive against the regime at all. that he just fucked around and then, as the battle of hogwarts approach, began to find out...
and i am choosing to take 'fucking around' literally...
have a little snippet from this month's chapter:
Audrey's gripping his hand.
Her palm is clammy. His isn’t much better.
She was called back from her day off an hour ago. The Minister’s full support staff is assembled in a row against the wall in Meeting Room J. Biagio is crying. Clarice looks like she’s about to be sick.
Rookwood - Mr Rookwood, they have to call him now - is slithering up and down the line, snapping at anyone with wonky knots in their ties or lint on their robes. The hum of chatter rolls in from the Atrium. It sounds warm, the ordinary murmur of people greeting old friends or needling each other over Quidditch rivalries. The staff from the canteen mingle among them with platters of canapes - the Death Eaters have upped the usual standard of refreshments, but perhaps that’s part of pulling off a coup, Percy wouldn’t know - and champagne.
Hands are being shaken, and partners and children are being asked after, and holiday plans are being discussed, and absolutely nobody - not a single, solitary member of the great and the good of wizarding Britain - seems shocked to discover that the entire world has been upended in a matter of hours, on this completely ordinary day.
It's this which is so terrifying, that the Minister didn’t see any of this coming, but everyone else did.
Agnes Skim, who presents the six o’clock news on the WWN, kissed Mr Yaxley on both cheeks and asked if he and his wife were still coming over on Sunday. Mr Selwyn was laughing uproariously at a joke told by one of the Wizengamot’s most distinguished members as he showed him to his seat. Half of the Hogwarts governors are milling around the place, making cheerful conversation with mass-murderers. There are representatives present from Gringotts and St Mungo’s and the Diagon Alley Shopkeepers Guild. The Prophet’s chief political correspondent breezed in five minutes ago, gabbing away to Travers - Mr Travers - like he was an old friend.
Which, Percy supposes, he probably is.
The Unspeakables have crawled out of their domain to greet Mr Rookwood like some conquering hero, miraculously returned from a mission all thought doomed. And, out of all the mundane horrors of that afternoon, it is the sight of Mr Croaker - who sends his father a card every Christmas and complimented his mother on her hat at the last staff party - thumping him on the back and saying ‘bloody wonderful to see you, Gus’ and Rookwood saying ‘likewise, Saul’ and Croaker grinning and saying ‘this is quite the event, isn’t it? I hope he’s paying you overtime’ and Rookwood winking at him and saying ‘I shall pretend not to have heard that’ and both of them collapsing into laughter, which makes tears start to slide down Percy’s face.
But not for long. There is no time to panic, because Rookwood clicks his fingers at them and tells them to line up on the dais in the Atrium, as a hundred camera bulbs flash and blind them. Banners are draped everywhere, and while they show the Ministry’s insignia and not the Dark Mark, the fact that so many people are walking around with rolled-up sleeves makes clear that they are one and the same now.
The only comfort, he thinks, the only comfort, is that - as he looks out at the sea of chairs, signs affixed to them reading Avery - Dolohov - Mulciber - Carrow in elegant calligraphy, he doesn't see one labelled The Dark Lord.
A hush falls over the room as Mr Thicknesse, in magnificent burgundy robes, his hair slicked back, displaying his high forehead, steps on to the dais and places a series of notecards on a lectern. It is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Percy wonders if the hammering of his heart is echoing in the room.
‘Wizards and witches of Britain,’ says Thicknesse, and there is an outbreak of applause. He holds up his hands to still it.
‘Wizards and witches of Britain. My friends.
‘This afternoon, following a special meeting of the electors, in which they voted unanimously in my favour, I was invited by the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot to accede to the office of Minister for Magic. It was my profound honour to accept the position. I am humbled by your trust in me to steer our great nation through this time of turmoil.’
There is another outbreak of applause, another barrage of camera flashes. And Percy notices that Lestrange is standing at the back of the room, talking to a man who greatly resembles him. Who must, he supposes, be his brother.
‘I have sworn before the court and swear before you now that I will uphold and defend the values - and the dignity - of the Ministry of Magic.’
In the years to come, he will look back and wonder whether he can pinpoint the exact moment when his life changed. If he can unravel a single thread from the tapestry of a hundred thousand ordinary days and follow it back to one pivotal second.
‘But I consider it my duty to go even further. I consider it my duty not only to defend the dignity of the Ministry, but to defend the dignity of magic itself.’
And he will conclude that he can. That he can trace all of it, every single bit of it, back to Rabastan Lestrange leaning forward, and accidentally brushing against Rodolphus Lestrange’s injured shoulder, and Rodolphus wincing - only slightly, but enough to make clear to Percy that he is not a monster at all - and revealing himself to be an ordinary man, who is tired after a long day and who aches.
‘Because are we not tired? Do we not grow weary at the sight of our traditions being torn down and soiled? Do we not feel crushed as more and more of our values are washed away, as the ordinary, hard-working witches and wizards of this country are told that they should be ashamed of themselves for their faith in the might of magic?
‘I will be a Minister for those people. I will be a Minister for those who are proud to be set apart by magic. I will rid them of the filth which pollutes their lives and forces them into compromise and shame.
‘I will bring them something clean and true and refreshing.
‘Something proud.
‘And pure.’
[if you think this speech is copied from succession... you would be one hundred percent correct.]
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