All right, let's get this out there. It's a new story, Remus/Sirius this time. And yes, people, I do understand that my stories are shorter than some peoples' chapters so there is really no need to berate me for it. I have the vast majority of this written and it will be about six or seven chapters in total. I've attempted a canonically accurate story so I have no AU warning. Take that, fanfiction gods! Way for me to throw you a curveball.
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going to thank you in advance for reviewing because I know you're all
going to because you're all such wonderful people and are going to
leave me glorious, glorious feedback: Thank you.
It was dim, lit only by a few tallow candles, the wax dripping down the sides to pool on the scarred wood of the tables they sat upon. The smoke rose to linger around the wooden beams in a choking grey miasma, hanging over the heads of the tavern's occupants. Inhabitants might have been a better word- it was always the same men who came to that place to nurse a beer and swap stories. They knew each others' stories by this point, it was inevitable. Years' worth of tales did that. Thick as thieves, each one knew every other's life inside and out, from their first date to their last love.
Occasionally someone else would wander in, having found the place by chance. Sometimes it was a tourist, other times just someone from the town who had not made it there before. It was generally the same story, that unlucky man would walk in to an uncomfortable silence, feel all eyes on him, sit down at the bar, drink something and make his excuses, still to that uncomfortable silence, peppered throughout with quiet murmurs. Raucous laughter had a habit of erupting right after that unlucky soul left, too. On a few occasions, by a general, unspoken consensus, a regular would wend his way over and sit down at the nearest barstool to strike up a conversation, like an informal interview with everyone in attendance hanging on every word. Those ones tended to gain grudging acceptance over time, listening passively until they finally jumped in to tell their own tales.
There had only been one exception to this rule in living memory. He was a quiet man, his sandy hair tinged with grey and his clothes obviously well worn. He walked in one day, seemingly oblivious to the silence, drank and sat, staring quietly and rubbing his thumb gently over a deep scratch on the bar. He finished. He ordered another. At this unorthodox and unprecedented act the light murmurs in the bar turned to full-on speculation, all of which the man proceeded to ignore. He finished and left, as quietly as he had come.
When he returned the next night the act repeated itself, and the night after. On the fourth night they elected a man to go over and talk to their mysterious and uninvited guest. After the man sat down at the bar their delegate sat down next to him, turned sideways so as to have a good view of his target. He waited a minute, weighing his words. "So, what's yer name?"
The stranger turned and examined him carefully, their eyes locking. A minute passed, agonizingly slowly for the man whose scrutiny had been turned back on him. He brushed his hair nervously back from his eyes, suddenly seeming like he was the one intruding on the stranger's private place.
"Lupin. Remus Lupin."
There was no more conversation that night. Remus returned the next day. There had been conjecture that he might not, that he might have been scared off by the intrusion into his public privacy. They didn't bother keeping to their forced quiet this night and he looked a little surprised when he walked in and wasn't greeted with a room full of hostile stares, maybe even a little disappointed, though none could say why that might have been. He spoke a little more that night, but only to answer questions, not initiating any conversation on his own. They learned where he was from –Londonish –, what he did –research, mostly –, and a few other small odds and ends that added up to a rough picture of his life, a sketched line drawing with any details omitted.
He came back day after day until one night when his usual seat was left empty. There was much talk that night as they waited for their mysterious intruder to come back and continue their strange ritual, he sitting and ignoring them, they pretending to ignore him while paying rapt attention to his every movement. He was clearly not easily deterred so this deviation was stranger even than it might have otherwise been. Hell, when one of their own missed a night the place turned into a gossip-monger's wet dream. So Remus Lupin's absence sparked more than a few stray rumors. They didn't know enough about the man himself to come up with anything so they turned to outside circumstances.
"Strange, that. He's been coming here for a week and we ain't scared 'im off yet." The man twirled his wand between his fingers as he spoke, still on edge despite the second victory over Voldemort several years earlier. "Mebbe he's off doing summat dark, dangerous. I don't trust 'im."
"Shut yet trap, George. He hasn't done anything wrong yet." He paused for a moment, considering the statement. "Yeah, nothing wrong. A little odd, but not wrong."
When he retuned the next day, he walked in as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, sat down, and ordered his drink. To the surprise of everyone present, however, he struck up a conversation with the bartender. Well, not quite a conversation. A few questions followed by silence, but it was the most they had heard him speak so far. Days more passed this way, then weeks, then a few months, with Remus there nearly every night, missing only one or two nights a month. Nights on the full moon, one noted, nights when he heard howls, thought another. One of those nights the two put them together, the whole group hanging on their words as they worked out the puzzle. The next night Remus came in looking a little battered, a little tired, but otherwise the same as usual. The bartender was eventually the one to ask him, seeing as his clientele were too afraid to step up. Drew was a large, brash man with a penchant for being almost painfully blunt.
"Remus."
"Mm?"
"Are you a werewolf?" All conversation ceased, no one making any pretense of minding their own business, staring outright at the two men. Remus didn't answer at first, taking careful stock of the room, especially a shotgun that hung above the bar.
He gestured at it vaguely. "Silver bullet?"
Drew turned to look at it, his face beaming with pride, forgetting for a moment the issue at hand. "You bet yer life. Me dad picked it up when he was in the war, 'twas his prize possession."
Remus watched him for a minute. "I do, don't I? Bet my life, I mean. If I say no none of you will believe me and I'll probably be chased out of town for being a liar, though for all you lot know I could be an amateur astronomer." He snorted at the thought. "Not bloody likely, that. If I say yes being chased out of town seems the best of my options, worst case you take that rifle down from off the wall and blast a few shots in my miserable wolfish heart, you know, just to be sure. You can't be too careful with a werewolf on the loose, can you?" At the last sentence his voice dropped from a bitter crescendo to a dull, nearly lifeless calm.
He leaned back on his stool and spread his arms, baring his chest. "Do it then, off the wolf. It's about time someone did. Oh, fuck that. Let me finish my drink first." He ignored the shocked stares from all around him and downed the rest of his ale, coughing a bit as his eyes watered from it. "A'right. Fine. Get on with it, then."
He sat quietly on his stool, clutching the empty mug so tightly the blood drained from his fingers as Drew took down the rifle from the wall and aimed it at his chest, cocked it and put his finger on the trigger. There was silence for a long moment. "You really would let me?"
He snorted again in bitter amusement. "Like I have a choice. I'd rather not die restrained by this lot. Actually, I'd rather not die at all, but if you're determined I don't think any plot of mine could get me out of this pub alive. I couldn't muster enough magic to light a candle right now." He laughed. "Some big, bad wolf I make." He reached for his wand and sensed the collective flinch behind him, heard the rustle of a few dozen wizards reaching for their wands and felt them relax as he threw it blindly over his shoulder.
"Can we get on with this thing? I'd rather not wait all night. I've got places to go, people to see. An old friend of mine to apologize to."
"Who?"
"None of your damn business. Do me a favor and give me something else, something strong." He looked at the gun and grinned, a twisted smile that hinted at old pain and new uncertainty. "Please."
So the tavern watched the resident werewolf down shot after shot, slamming the glass down on the table after each one, his eyes never leaving the barkeeper. Soon he was swaying on his seat. "Fuck dignity." He had another. "I ne'er hurt no 'un." Another. "Whyssit always have ta be me?"
When he finally fell, unconscious, off his chair they banded together and carried him up the stairs to an empty room, put him in a bed, closed the door and headed downstairs to discuss him. He woke the next morning to a splitting headache and acceptance.
