Writer's block. Again. I need ideas! IDEEEAAASSSS. (You guys could be reeealllly nice and give me some :D) Um, more to the point, do drop a review to tell me whether you like it and whether I should continue, because I am self-aware enough to realize there isn't much RLNT... yet. HEH. THANKS MUCH!
"So, this is it, huh?"
Sirius turned around to scowl at his friend, who raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"Show a little more enthusiasm, will you, Moony? Maybe some gasps of awe? Praise for my generosity? Anything?"
Remus sighed and examined the gloomy interior of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place again. Unfortunately for him, Sirius interpreted the sigh correctly and gave Remus a sharp jab in the head with his wand.
"Look, I'm not exactly jumping for joy about coming back to this godforsaken place either."
"I'll pretend to be excited, Sirius, if that's what you were hoping to elicit by causing me great pain. What's behind those curtains?"
"Ah, no, Moony, don't touch–"
The filthy hangings flew open to reveal the awful, shrieking portrait of Mrs Black. Remus hastily scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to get as far across the corridor as possible.
"HALF-BLOODS! HALF-BREEDS! HOW DARE YOU BEFOUL THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK!–"
"SHUT UP, MUMMY!" bellowed Sirius back with equal hatred. With a huge effort, he wrenched the curtains shut again and turned away in disgust.
"Never liked to do anything by halves, as you heard," he snorted in contempt. "Really glamorous, isn't she? Rolling eyes, flying spittle and all."
Remus was just about to respond when the door flew open, revealing two figures silhouetted against the over-bright sunshine.
"Who's there?" growled a familiar voice, and the pair let out a relieved breath.
"It's just me and Sirius."
And without quite knowing how it happened he found himself pressed up against the wall, wand pressing painfully into his windpipe and electric blue eye inches from his own.
"What th–" he managed to choke out.
"Prove it," snarled Moody.
"Remus John Lupin, werewolf, ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, known as Moony to James Potter, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew, member of the Order of the Phoenix, and please let go of me, Alastor, you're going to kill me."
The Auror relinquished his vice-like grip on the front of Lupin's robes and dusted his hands off, leaving the sandy-haired man in front of him to cough and catch his breath.
"Paranoia," muttered Sirius from several feet away, and promptly feigned nonchalance as Moody turned to glower dangerously at him.
"Did you say you're a werewolf?" asked a voice, and Remus glanced down to see a young witch staring at him with unconcealed curiosity.
Somewhat annoyed by her very direct question, he immediately chose to take offence at her crop of shocking pink hair, which he found decidedly inappropriate.
"I can assure you that I'm not a spy for Voldemort," he said with a slightly forced smile, observing how she winced at the name.
She opened her mouth furiously but Moody cut across her.
"This is Nymphadora Tonks, she's an Auror at the Ministry as well, and a new Order member, obviously."
Tonks flashed him a wide, infuriating grin.
"What sort of a name is Remus John Lupin, anyway?"
"What sort of a name is Nymphadora?" asked Lupin, polite as always, but making the temperature in the dank house drop by another ten degrees.
"What do you think of the place, Mad-eye?" ventured Sirius hopefully, ignoring the wintry smiles now plastered on both their faces. Maybe if he pretended not to notice, he wouldn't be dragged into the mess.
"Awful," grunted Moody with his customary amount of tact. "Looks like it belongs to the darkest wizards of all time. Where did Dumbledore get this place anyway?"
"Er, it's my home."
"Oh. Oh."
Moody cleared his throat loudly and stumped off, muttering about "checking out the place". Sirius hurriedly followed suit.
"Well, ladies first," said Lupin, gesturing down the dark corridor. Tonks shot another death glare at him and swept off, half-jogging to catch up with the two older men in front.
"No way am I sticking with him," she declared in a voice just loud enough for Remus to hear. "He's boring. His name is boring, his hair is boring, his clothes are boring,he isn't a murderer, he hasn't got a spinning eye–"
"He's a werewolf," Sirius pointed out reasonably.
Tonks chose to wave this aside dismissively.
Unfortunately, in the middle of her dismissive wave, she neglected to watch where she was going and promptly tripped over her own feet.
Sirius winced at the loud thump behind him.
"This is flat ground, you know," came a light voice, and Tonks quickly scrambled up, having no desire to be further humiliated.
Remus was highly amused; the slight smile on his face was now genuine and much of the sub-zero aura that had previously emanated from him had vanished.
Tonks' brain was, however, preoccupied with trying to churn out a witty retort.
"Shut up."
That was a start.
Thankfully, distraction arrived in the form of Sirius, who had just cautiously opened one of the ornate doors, let out a yelp and backed into Moody, who swore very, very, vulgarly.
"KREACHER?! What in the blazes are you still doing here?!"
An ancient house-elf wearing what looked like nothing more than grimy rags threw the group a look of loathing.
"Master is back, Kreacher sees, along with his filthy friends, if only Kreacher's mistress was still here, she would say–"
"Shut up, Kreacher," snarled Sirius, and Kreacher clamped his mouth shut, casting another murderous glance before shuffling off and up the staircase.
"I knew we were missing a head on that wall," he said, disgust etched on every feature of his face. The others present thought it best to leave his cryptic remark at that.
After the rather dismal tour of the house, the small group adjourned in the dining room, which, Kreacher aside, was probably the only part of the house without other strange and undesirable inhabitants. Tonks, who was examining the Black crockery with great interest, walked into a chair and would have gone on to tumble straight over it had Remus not grabbed her by the scruff of her jacket.
"Let go," she snapped, her hair turning an aggressive red. Remus blinked but released her, and appraised her with renewed interest as she gave the offending chair a vicious kick.
"I'm sorry, it's just that your accidents are rather predictable," he shrugged apologetically. "As I understand it, they tend to happen when you're walking, and sometimes when you're not." He smiled sympathetically. "I'm sure it happens to everyone. Occasionally."
He paused and cocked an eyebrow.
"As a matter of interest, Nymphadora, does the word 'gratitude' feature in your vocabulary?"
"As a matter of interest, Remus, do the words 'your life is about to be drastically shortened' sound vaguely threatening at all?"
"No, because I think the word 'werewolf' threatens in a rather less vague way," he said easily, but Tonks caught the bitter smile that stretched his lips taut for a split-second.
She dropped her gaze.
"Thanks," she muttered sullenly.
"Aw, widdle Tonksie has finally learnt a new word!" grinned Sirius, throwing an arm over his cousin and affectionately ruffling her spiked hair. "Well done, Moony. I see the relationship between the two of you stretching far, far, beyond, into the future."
And he broke off, hand outstretched, gazing dramatically into the middle distance.
Remus rolled his eyes.
"Padfoot?"
"Hm?"
"Can the melodrama, please."
"Hey! Constructive criticism, remember, Moony? Constructive! Not criticism! Besides," he added mischievously, "how do you know my prediction won't come true? I am brilliant, after all. Not to mention dashingly handsome."
"Well, I suppose if you looked at it in a really warped manner..." Remus ruefully admitted.
The once-derelict house echoed with their friendly banter throughout the afternoon, with topics swerving from Moony to St. Mungo's mental patients in seemingly unrelated directions. But Tonks and Remus (though they'd sooner have a conversation with Kreacher than admit it), couldn't help wondering if Sirius and his more-than-slightly wrong prophecy had even the tiniest chance of being right.
