Another Silent Banshee

I am so so incredibly happy and proud. Today the results came in for the Australian Marriage Equality postal vote, and the result was yes! I’m so grateful and relieved and surprised and thankful and you’ll probably hear more of this later but. Thank you Australia.

#thatslytherinfeeling when you catch someone cute sneaking you a second glance on a day you made an Effort to look good.

Sirius, whose first language is French. Who starts hogwarts with a thick accent that curls around his words, and an oddly formal manner of speech for an 11 year old. And it’s not stiff, not at all, he speaks in flowing prose, everything he says is so carefully crafted and delicately delivered and Remus Lupin thinks he speaks like an angel. Of course, he’s teased mercilessly for it by the other kids in their year, and manages to drop it in a few weeks. Remus pretends he doesn’t hear the boy whispering to himself late at night, practicing making his vowels more English. More harsh and grating. Less pretty.

Sirius, whose first language was French, who learns to make puns and witticism in English, but writes in French when no one is looking, with carefully dotted i’s and loopy, curving s’s and f’s. Remus knows his parents write to him in English, because Voldemort speaks English and the Blacks speak little French nowadays past the harsh lines of their motto. Off course, that isn’t to say they don’t have their own ways of saying things without being understood. They just don’t need French to do it.

Sirius, whose first language, first love, was French. Back when his mother loved him she’d read him poems at night, about the moon, about the stars. She stopped when her stomach began to swell, when she realised she had another chance, when she realised Sirius had taken her words to heart, that he truly believed he could touch the stars if only because he loved them so. Foolish boy. The stars were hers to have and hers alone.

Sirius, who when Remus tells him he loved him, babbles nonsensically in french. Sirius who, as he gets more comfortable, begins to throw around the occasional word, then phrase. And by their fourth year he’s speaking in a fluid mix, all elegant poetics and flowing statements, every word so carefully planned and gods Remus loves it, loves the way Sirius’ voice seems to catch in his throat and bubble under his tongue and reach into Remus’ head. Sirius, who when he cries can’t muster up a word of English. Sirius who, when James dies, can’t muster up a word at all. And when Remus greets him years later with a soft “Bonjour”, months after that terrible night in the shack, Sirius just stares tiredly, and whispers back “Hello”.

(He never speaks a word of French again, not until one night when he sees James, no, Harry. And Remus can’t hear a damn thing, but he sees the words on his lips. A farewell too soft to hear. Harry doesn’t notice, doesn’t understand, never knew. But Remus knew. Remus knows, that slight smile, the whispered “Au Revoir”, the faded eyes. He knows he knows he knows. He wishes he didn’t.)