Fic: The Next Great Adventure
This is a repost. Because I like having copies of everything on my LJ. Please ignore the spam.
Title: The Next Great Adventure
Fandom: House, M.D
Character(s): Kutner
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.
A/N: For Kutner Fest at![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kutner_love, originally posted here. Title and summary from J.K.Rowling's 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone'; some lines from Philosopher's Stone, PoA, and DH. No spoilers for the show itself; spoilers till the end of the Harry Potter series. Many, many thanks to slytherin_heart for helping make this better; the rest of the errors - and anvils - are my fault.
'After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.'
- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
*
'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.' Kutner watches Derek leaf through the pages. He seems very far away. 'J. K. Rowling. Isn't this… fantasy?' The words ring through his head, round and round and round and round, tracing spiders' patterns till he hears a song. It's a pretty song. Kutner hums along, nananana because he doesn't know the words. 'Lawrence?'
'What?' Kutner drags his eyes open. Derek's right in front of him now. It's like he flew. Huh.
'I said, isn't this fantasy?'
'Yeah,' Kutner says. 'There's no need to yell.' The room feels warm. He takes off his jacket. His fingers are heavy, and it takes him almost ten minutes, no, an hour, no, no—
He picked it up in the corner bookstore the last time he was home, along with a couple of Star Trek novels. It was a great day, bright and sunny. Blue skies. White clouds. Fluffy.
'You read fantasy?' Derek persists.
'Tolkien's fantasy,' Kutner mumbles. His head feels heavy, and so he leans back and closes his eyes.
'Tolkien is different.'
'Another one? Guys?' he hears Morris say. His voice sounds funny, like a very old record.
'Me.' Kutner raises a hand, not opening his eyes. There are colours, now: red, yellow, orange. Neon-signs. A kaleidoscope. Fractals exploding behind his eyes.
'In a minute,' Morris says.
'I can't believe you read this crap.' Derek sounds betrayed.
'I like it,' Big announces.
'You read Harry Potter?'
'My sister's a fan,' Big says, nonchalant, ignoring Derek's outrage. 'Borrowed it last summer.'
'They're fairytales!'
'Hey, fairytales are hardcore, bro,' Morris interjects.
Kutner stretches out on the ground, the floor cool against his cheek.
Scratch of a matchstick: Kutner smells smoke, thick and sweet. 'It's actually kind of dark, if you think about it,' Big says. 'Kills off the parents in the first chapter.' Words echo and fade away. Kutner thinks he hears another song. It's a sad song, this time, like a lament or a dirge and he tries to hum along, even though he doesn't know the words.
*
When he was seventeen and a little lost, he went back once, on his own personal pilgrimage.
The store was still there—selling shiny electronic goods, of all things. The walls were white and the floor was clean, and there was no memorial, no plaque, no trace of the two people who died on that very spot and their little boy who lived.
*
'Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!'
'Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…'
'Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—'
Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry's brain… What was he doing? Why was he flying? He needed to help her… she was going to die… she was going to be murdered…
He was falling, falling through the icy mist—
A soft whimper from his left makes him pause and look up. A small face peers at him from behind his fingers.
'Are you scared?' Kutner says gently.
The boy nods in assent, and looks away. His lower lip trembles ever-so-slightly.
'Is Harry going to die?' says another voice, this time a girl not more than eight or nine, staring at him with unblinking owl eyes.
'No, silly,' says Andy, who, at twelve, is the one of oldest members of the audience. 'There're four more books left.' Kutner knows Andy, because the last time he volunteered for story hour, Andy introduced himself at the end of the session and complimented him on his reading skills. 'He might die in the end, though,' Andy says with a small shrug.
'I don't want Harry to die,' says the girl, clutching a tattered stuffed rabbit close to her chest.
Kutner smiles at her, 'Neither do I.'
*
He doesn't actually remember much. Well, more than a flash of green light: he remembers the gun shots, louder and messier than Avada Kedavra; his mother's urgent instructions ('inside! go inside!') and the copper stench of blood.
He remembers crawling back and not stirring, not breathing till the sirens rang and there were footsteps and voices calling out, 'Is anyone there?'
Afterwards, there were counsellors and social service workers, full of concern and reassurances.
His parents, they assured him, had been cremated. No one performed their funeral.
*
Kutner eats too much at Seder and watches his father sing along with the rest of the family, his face bright. His parents' house, on most days, is too big and too quiet, and they are glad for the company. Paul, his cousin Sarah's ten year old son, plasters himself to Kutner's side and shows off his brand new Sirius Black action figure.
After the table has been cleaned and the leftovers have been put away, Kutner joins everyone in the drawing room and settles down to listen to his uncle's tales of youthful misadventures. Paul leans on his shoulder and promptly falls asleep, still holding Sirius Black close to his chest.
'He'll cling to that toy for the next few days,' Sarah says fondly. 'You couldn't pry it out of his fingers if you tried.'
'I had my Batman action figure,' Kutner says with a smile. 'I still own it.'
'He was very upset when he died in that book,' Sarah says.
'So was I,' says her husband, Mike. 'Such a waste.'
'Didn't even get a proper funeral,' Sarah agrees, shaking her head.
'There was no body to bury,' Kutner points out.
'I know, but it's so tragic,' Sarah says. 'So… pointless.'
*
'I think my watch's running slow.'
Kutner looks up from Half-Blood Prince to face the girl with smiling eyes and a Gryffindor scarf around her neck, 'What time is it showing?'
'Nine thirty,' she says. 'That can't be true, right? I'm sure I've been here longer than that.'
Kutner checks his watch. 'Nine thirty eight.'
'Yours is running slow as well,' she declares with an air of supreme finality. Beside them, the group in Slytherin Quidditch gear begins to play yet another game of cards.
Kutner points to the large electronic clock beside the giant Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hoarding, 'Nine thirty eight. Thirty nine.'
'Slow,' she says.
'Must be magic,' Kutner agrees.
'Dark magic,' she says with a grin.
She is, Kutner learns over the next couple of hours, Nicole Brewster: Gryffindor ('and a few parts Slytherin'), Harry Potter enthusiast since the year 2001 and a firm believer in Snape's innocence. 'I mean, he said "please",' she says, waving her hands. 'Am I supposed to believe that Dumbledore was begging for his life?'
'No, that'd be really out of character,' Kutner says.
'I know, right?' Nicole says. 'Remember when he and Voldie had that face-off at the Ministry of Magic, and Dumbledore didn't try to kill Voldemort? And Voldemort said, there's nothing worse than death, and Dumbledore completely disagreed?'
'After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.' Kutner quotes.
He receives a text a couple of days later. I knew it, the text says. He asked Snape.
Hallows, not Horcruxes, Kutner texts back.
*
The phone rings when he's almost finished strapping into the gear. 'Excuse me,' Kutner says. 'Could be an emergency.'
'It's your mother,' Derek says as he hands him his phone. 'Tell her you'll call her back.'
'Hi, Mom,' Kutner says, squinting against the sun. 'Can I call you back?'
'What is it this time?' she demands. He imagines her among her roses, cradling the cell phone like a precious artefact.
'Parasailing,' he says. And adds, quickly, 'It's not dangerous.'
'I know what it is, Lawrence.' He can hear the frown in her voice. 'They make you sign things.'
'It's just a formality. I'm wearing a life jacket,' he says in his best reassuring voice. He's practised it on countless worried relatives, but somehow it never manages to work on his mother. 'And hey, I've done far more dangerous stuff. This is nothing.'
'When have I ever stopped you?' she sighs. 'I don't know why you do these things.' He imagines her shaking her head, martyred expression on her face.
'You know me. Adventure's my drug,' he tells her, knowing it will make her smile. 'I'll call you later.' He passes the phone to Derek. Vince—their guide—tugs at the contraptions, fastening this and straightening that.
'Sit,' he says. 'And hold on tight.'
Going up is nothing like a Ferris Wheel, or one of those rides in an amusement park. It's gentle, like floating, like a leaf in the summer breeze.
He looks down, and the boat is a tiny white speck far below. He sees the toy buildings at a distance, and sunlight playing golden on the deep blue sea.
He imagines being in space—or maybe heaven, where the gods are—and looking down upon the world: small and perfect.
*
End
A/N: For the prompt Kutner reads Harry Potter for the first time.
Title: The Next Great Adventure
Fandom: House, M.D
Character(s): Kutner
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.
A/N: For Kutner Fest at
kutner_love, originally posted here. Title and summary from J.K.Rowling's 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone'; some lines from Philosopher's Stone, PoA, and DH. No spoilers for the show itself; spoilers till the end of the Harry Potter series. Many, many thanks to slytherin_heart for helping make this better; the rest of the errors - and anvils - are my fault. 'After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.'
- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
*
'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.' Kutner watches Derek leaf through the pages. He seems very far away. 'J. K. Rowling. Isn't this… fantasy?' The words ring through his head, round and round and round and round, tracing spiders' patterns till he hears a song. It's a pretty song. Kutner hums along, nananana because he doesn't know the words. 'Lawrence?'
'What?' Kutner drags his eyes open. Derek's right in front of him now. It's like he flew. Huh.
'I said, isn't this fantasy?'
'Yeah,' Kutner says. 'There's no need to yell.' The room feels warm. He takes off his jacket. His fingers are heavy, and it takes him almost ten minutes, no, an hour, no, no—
He picked it up in the corner bookstore the last time he was home, along with a couple of Star Trek novels. It was a great day, bright and sunny. Blue skies. White clouds. Fluffy.
'You read fantasy?' Derek persists.
'Tolkien's fantasy,' Kutner mumbles. His head feels heavy, and so he leans back and closes his eyes.
'Tolkien is different.'
'Another one? Guys?' he hears Morris say. His voice sounds funny, like a very old record.
'Me.' Kutner raises a hand, not opening his eyes. There are colours, now: red, yellow, orange. Neon-signs. A kaleidoscope. Fractals exploding behind his eyes.
'In a minute,' Morris says.
'I can't believe you read this crap.' Derek sounds betrayed.
'I like it,' Big announces.
'You read Harry Potter?'
'My sister's a fan,' Big says, nonchalant, ignoring Derek's outrage. 'Borrowed it last summer.'
'They're fairytales!'
'Hey, fairytales are hardcore, bro,' Morris interjects.
Kutner stretches out on the ground, the floor cool against his cheek.
Scratch of a matchstick: Kutner smells smoke, thick and sweet. 'It's actually kind of dark, if you think about it,' Big says. 'Kills off the parents in the first chapter.' Words echo and fade away. Kutner thinks he hears another song. It's a sad song, this time, like a lament or a dirge and he tries to hum along, even though he doesn't know the words.
*
When he was seventeen and a little lost, he went back once, on his own personal pilgrimage.
The store was still there—selling shiny electronic goods, of all things. The walls were white and the floor was clean, and there was no memorial, no plaque, no trace of the two people who died on that very spot and their little boy who lived.
*
'Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!'
'Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…'
'Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—'
Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry's brain… What was he doing? Why was he flying? He needed to help her… she was going to die… she was going to be murdered…
He was falling, falling through the icy mist—
A soft whimper from his left makes him pause and look up. A small face peers at him from behind his fingers.
'Are you scared?' Kutner says gently.
The boy nods in assent, and looks away. His lower lip trembles ever-so-slightly.
'Is Harry going to die?' says another voice, this time a girl not more than eight or nine, staring at him with unblinking owl eyes.
'No, silly,' says Andy, who, at twelve, is the one of oldest members of the audience. 'There're four more books left.' Kutner knows Andy, because the last time he volunteered for story hour, Andy introduced himself at the end of the session and complimented him on his reading skills. 'He might die in the end, though,' Andy says with a small shrug.
'I don't want Harry to die,' says the girl, clutching a tattered stuffed rabbit close to her chest.
Kutner smiles at her, 'Neither do I.'
*
He doesn't actually remember much. Well, more than a flash of green light: he remembers the gun shots, louder and messier than Avada Kedavra; his mother's urgent instructions ('inside! go inside!') and the copper stench of blood.
He remembers crawling back and not stirring, not breathing till the sirens rang and there were footsteps and voices calling out, 'Is anyone there?'
Afterwards, there were counsellors and social service workers, full of concern and reassurances.
His parents, they assured him, had been cremated. No one performed their funeral.
*
Kutner eats too much at Seder and watches his father sing along with the rest of the family, his face bright. His parents' house, on most days, is too big and too quiet, and they are glad for the company. Paul, his cousin Sarah's ten year old son, plasters himself to Kutner's side and shows off his brand new Sirius Black action figure.
After the table has been cleaned and the leftovers have been put away, Kutner joins everyone in the drawing room and settles down to listen to his uncle's tales of youthful misadventures. Paul leans on his shoulder and promptly falls asleep, still holding Sirius Black close to his chest.
'He'll cling to that toy for the next few days,' Sarah says fondly. 'You couldn't pry it out of his fingers if you tried.'
'I had my Batman action figure,' Kutner says with a smile. 'I still own it.'
'He was very upset when he died in that book,' Sarah says.
'So was I,' says her husband, Mike. 'Such a waste.'
'Didn't even get a proper funeral,' Sarah agrees, shaking her head.
'There was no body to bury,' Kutner points out.
'I know, but it's so tragic,' Sarah says. 'So… pointless.'
*
'I think my watch's running slow.'
Kutner looks up from Half-Blood Prince to face the girl with smiling eyes and a Gryffindor scarf around her neck, 'What time is it showing?'
'Nine thirty,' she says. 'That can't be true, right? I'm sure I've been here longer than that.'
Kutner checks his watch. 'Nine thirty eight.'
'Yours is running slow as well,' she declares with an air of supreme finality. Beside them, the group in Slytherin Quidditch gear begins to play yet another game of cards.
Kutner points to the large electronic clock beside the giant Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hoarding, 'Nine thirty eight. Thirty nine.'
'Slow,' she says.
'Must be magic,' Kutner agrees.
'Dark magic,' she says with a grin.
She is, Kutner learns over the next couple of hours, Nicole Brewster: Gryffindor ('and a few parts Slytherin'), Harry Potter enthusiast since the year 2001 and a firm believer in Snape's innocence. 'I mean, he said "please",' she says, waving her hands. 'Am I supposed to believe that Dumbledore was begging for his life?'
'No, that'd be really out of character,' Kutner says.
'I know, right?' Nicole says. 'Remember when he and Voldie had that face-off at the Ministry of Magic, and Dumbledore didn't try to kill Voldemort? And Voldemort said, there's nothing worse than death, and Dumbledore completely disagreed?'
'After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.' Kutner quotes.
He receives a text a couple of days later. I knew it, the text says. He asked Snape.
Hallows, not Horcruxes, Kutner texts back.
*
The phone rings when he's almost finished strapping into the gear. 'Excuse me,' Kutner says. 'Could be an emergency.'
'It's your mother,' Derek says as he hands him his phone. 'Tell her you'll call her back.'
'Hi, Mom,' Kutner says, squinting against the sun. 'Can I call you back?'
'What is it this time?' she demands. He imagines her among her roses, cradling the cell phone like a precious artefact.
'Parasailing,' he says. And adds, quickly, 'It's not dangerous.'
'I know what it is, Lawrence.' He can hear the frown in her voice. 'They make you sign things.'
'It's just a formality. I'm wearing a life jacket,' he says in his best reassuring voice. He's practised it on countless worried relatives, but somehow it never manages to work on his mother. 'And hey, I've done far more dangerous stuff. This is nothing.'
'When have I ever stopped you?' she sighs. 'I don't know why you do these things.' He imagines her shaking her head, martyred expression on her face.
'You know me. Adventure's my drug,' he tells her, knowing it will make her smile. 'I'll call you later.' He passes the phone to Derek. Vince—their guide—tugs at the contraptions, fastening this and straightening that.
'Sit,' he says. 'And hold on tight.'
Going up is nothing like a Ferris Wheel, or one of those rides in an amusement park. It's gentle, like floating, like a leaf in the summer breeze.
He looks down, and the boat is a tiny white speck far below. He sees the toy buildings at a distance, and sunlight playing golden on the deep blue sea.
He imagines being in space—or maybe heaven, where the gods are—and looking down upon the world: small and perfect.
*
End
A/N: For the prompt Kutner reads Harry Potter for the first time.