It Might Have Been Otherwise
By Zubeneischemali
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Disclaimer: This story, the author, this webhost, the reviewers, and all other related parties are in NO WAY connected with J.K. Rowling or her enterprises. Use of character names and plot components from Rowling's works are used in an attempted compliance with the Fair Use clause of copyright law. NO personal gain is intended by the author, etc of this story.
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Chapter 1: Many Meetings
A mere three-quarters of an hour into his mission, Remus Lupin's mood was already nearly as black as the rain clouds that had gathered outside the muggle coffee shop where he was stationed. It's hard to look inconspicuous when one is angry. The stack of newspapers on the table before him was steadily decreasing, as was his patience. He angrily tore open a "City & Style" section and found himself staring at a full-page spread entitled "Fashion Emergency No Longer: The Latest Looks in Maternity Chic." A blonde woman smiled seductively up at him from the center of the page, her baby bump wrapped in what appeared to be an enormous sequined sweatband. Well, that was the last straw: he threw down the paper and pushed his chair back from the small, wobbly table.
His place in the Order had recently been re-assigned: given his wife's "delicate condition" (God, how Victorian did that sound?) he was removed from active duty and instead placed on mildly safer reconnaissance missions. Currently, his duty was to wade through a vast sea of muggle media looking for hidden clues to Death Eater activities – unexplained deaths, disappearances, and the like. Thus far, he had read three newspapers and although he had no promising leads, he held full knowledge of the latest celebrity gossip, political mudslinging, and three different recipes for 25-minute Meat Loaf. The Daily Prophet was frighteningly quiet and unreliable, but by comparison, the quality of news he was finding here gave increasing credence to the argument of ruling the muggles for their own benefit.
He was about to rise and get another mug of tea – coffee had never quite agreed with him – when he heard a voice immediately behind his head speaking something that sounded like "Dieyooscroosi?" The unfamiliar phrase startled him and the first thought that crossed his mind was "HEX!" He whipped around, flailing for his wand and fully expecting some sort of attack when he found himself nose-to-nose with a surprised-looking young woman. "Oh," she said softly, raising her head and taking a cautious step back. "I didn't mean to startle you … I just … the pen … and the news … I …" Her voice got increasingly quiet until she was hardly speaking at all while her face flushed scarlet. "I'll just … go back over here now …" She started to turn towards a hopelessly crowded row of barstools, sticky with spilled drink. Remus felt a sudden surge of remose; he was, after all, taking up a four-chair table in an already packed shop with his sundry stacks of papers and magazines. "No, please. Have a seat." He leaned over and pulled a chair out slightly, shuffling the papers nearest it into a neat pile. She looked relieved as she flopped into it, set down some drink with 4" of whipped cream and multi-colored sprinkles on top, then began rooting around in her purse. "So do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Crucigram."
He froze. Other common muggle phrases had been covered in his cultural briefing, but not this. This sounded distinctly sinister. He began to feel uneasy around this questionable stranger … "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about." She laughed. "Sorry, I mean crosswords." She held up the page of the paper, along with a sparkly pen that had emerged from her handbag. "My great-aunt or something always called them crucigrams, which I guess is Spanish or something but I never really asked …" She happily set to work filling in blocks with unsettling speed, still prattling. He tuned out her words as he studied her. Average in height and weight, maybe a bit taller, with a navy cotton dress that didn't seem to quite fit the weather, though it fit her form well enough. Her hair was of a sandy blonde color that was neither particularly attractive nor gaspingly unattractive. She wore little make-up and didn't seem to notice that some hair had come out of her clip and were obscuring her face. " … so I suppose that when I'm old and feeble my mind will still be sharp, just like hers was," she finished resolutely. She stopped writing and looked up at him – her eyes were a startling shade of blue that he hadn't expected to be nestled in amongst otherwise plain features. Her brows furrowed slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling again. Tell me to shut it at any point." She smiled sweetly. "But less about me … God, excuse me, I must be distracting you from working."
"NO!" Remus pushed the stack of newspapers away hurriedly and she looked at him with surprised apprehension. "No, not at all. I'm just combing through." He put on a closed-lipped smile, pleased for the excuse to stop. "I don't believe I know your name."
She mirrored his smile. "Julia," she said softly. "Julia Kole. I'm new-ish to … well, Europe in general. I grew up in Maryland, in The States." Suddenly aware she had answered the question and more, she quickly redirected. "And you? What's your name?"
"Remus," he replied, then mentally cursed himself for blowing his cover to smithereens. "It's a nickname," he added weakly. She cocked her head. "For what?"
"Re …. mford. Remford Watts. Pleased to meet you!" He extended a hand too quickly, hoping the sudden enthusiasm would make him seem at ease, and knocked his hand against her drink. It tipped dangerously but she caught it before it dropped over the table's edge. Her hand sticky with sloshed-over cappuccino, she seemed more nervous than convinced as she shook his gingerly. Bugger, he swore mentally, bugger bugger bugger I was supposed to lay low and not be memorable, oh bloody hell … "Can I just call you Remford?"
Her question jerked him back from his internal scold-fest. "Err, yeah, that'd be fine."
"Alright then. Remford. Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise."
They sat in awkward silence for a moment before she ducked her head back to her crossword, kneading her bottom lip between her teeth. He slowly reached for a newspaper and flipped idly through its pages. Beauregard the Bungee-Jumping Beagle had passed away at the ripe old age of 13 and his obituary was five inches, above the fold. This day keeps getting better, he groaned inwardly, and returned to his quest.
However, the day wasn't a total waste – as time wore on, he found he and Julia made an efficient pair. In the time it took him to scan a paper for any mention of suspicious activity, Julia would finish a crossword and be ready for whatever the next paper brought her. Despite the vast quantity of knowledge he had amassed in his years as a wandering professor, he was bereft of knowledge about Olympic team captains and the exports of small African countries, so before long she stopped asking him for help and started asking personal questions. Was he a London native? Did he have any pets? A family? What did he do when he wasn't reading newspapers in a coffee shop all day? The persona of Remford Watts grew easier and easier to slip into as he answered each question; mostly because he answered more-or-less truthfully with a few salient exclusions. He learned about her, as well. She was an aspiring writer with a Master's Degree in English literature from the Edwardian period and was here to pursue "the inspiration of the mother country," as she called it. She had a cat named Claudia. She only drank caffeine on weekends. The time seemed to pass more quickly now that he wasn't alone, and he found himself enjoying her company.
She was interesting enough, she seemed rather sweet, and most importantly, she was beyond the reaches of the war that clouded almost all of his waking thoughts. It was intensely liberating to have a conversation in a normal tone of voice without worrying about who overheard or what great secrets he may accidentally release. Her greatest concern of the moment was that she had left her umbrella in the taxi, not that everyone she knew and loved was in grave danger at every moment of every day. As the clock ticked on he found himself relaxing more and more, opening and questioning and even breathing easier. It was almost like a vacation from reality.
"Oh damn it, I made a mistake." She frowned and tried to superimpose a new letter over the incorrect one. "That's the problem with doing cruces in pen – you have to be vigilant about never making an error."
Vigilance.
Vigilance!
Constant vigilance!
Alastor Moody's warning crossed his brain like an electric shock. He realized that he hadn't forgotten his reality, he had merely had something playing louder than it for a short while. A bead of sweat popped on his forehead as he glanced at the clock and realized more than three hours had passed. Have I revealed too much? Could she be a clever spy? Am I in danger at this very moment? Have I given away anything I can't take back? He cast a furtive glance around the coffee shop. I'll finish this paper and I'll leave, get back to base, change my disguise, never come back –
"Remford, are you all right?" Julia had paused her crosswording and was looking at him with a worried expression. "You look like you've got voices in your head telling you the government's out to get you. Like X-Files or something." He gulped, trying to compose himself and look casual. "Err, I just remembered I've got some things to do … return phone calls, that sort of thing. I've got to go." He swept the newspapers and pencils he had brought into a canvas messenger bag at his feet. "Yes, very important," He licked his lips. "It's nice meeting you, dear, have fun with your puzzles and Henrik Ibsen and whatnot …" He started for the door.
"Wait!" She stood, he turned, they stared. Awkwardness reigned supreme. "It was … yeah. Nice meeting you Remford." She shifted from one foot to the other. "Maybe we'll meet again." He nodded leadenly, aware that it was a statement of fact rather than a flirtatious question. Still, as he stepped out into the angry weather, wrong wrong wrong beat time with the raindrops on his battered cap.