AN: this is my first foray into fanfiction…and as my subject I choose the teacher that, like JKR, I wish I had. I have to confess, it's more a stream of consciousness than an actual story, however I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. And of course, I will update if and when I feel any love from cough reviewers cough. I guess this is primarily concerned with the development between Tonks and Lupin at the beginning of OotP, and possibly continuing…but it hints at affairs and unrequited loves in Remus' past…because we all know there's more to him than meets the eye :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just an overactive imagination. I am cruelly manipulating JKR's characters for my own pleasure and nefarious purposes. Please forgive me.
1
I am late.
How unusual. I am more accustomed to having everything just so, with no stray ends to get in the way and trip me up. But the fact remains, I am late.
And splashing through oil-filled puddles, feeling the bloody English rain slash across my face and soak my trousers. The garish light from passing Muggle shops casts lurid shapes across me, but I am in a hurry.
Until there it is, a formidable building even when crowded by fast-food restaurants and sex shops. Looking at it, I still feel a squirm of suspicion and doubt…a house so full of Dark magic.
Smiling at my own paranoia, I enter the silent, cavernous hall of number 12, Grimmauld Place and shake the excess moisture from my clothes and from my hair. In a mirror over an umbrella stand, with spots of mildew clouding it, I catch my pallid reflection. Funny, really. How we have all aged…Sirius, with his black hair no longer shining and his eyes somewhat hollow. Wormtail, with a traitor's glint in his rheumy eyes and lines of worry streaking his flabby face. Good old Moony, looking as exhausted as ever, too poor to afford a decent haircut, or a new jumper. And Prongs…Prongs will age no longer. But I cannot dwell on such tragedies now. As I said, I am late.
My footsteps are swallowed up by the house; its huge emptiness and the smell of evil that drives Sirius mad. But the kitchen – the kitchen is more homely, with various drying spices hanging from sturdy rafters and copper pots sparkling warmly on high shelves. A girl is leaning against the stove as I enter, with her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug bearing the legend always in the shit – just the depth varies. Ah, Sirius. Just the sight of his mug reminds me how much I miss him.
The girl is looking at me slightly oddly, and I realise I must have stared at her a moment too long. She has blue hair in untidy pigtails and a long, thin face. But she does not stay still for very long. Her eyes are darting around, and I feel them take in my worn, weary body, and somehow I feel I want to apologise for looking as I do.
'You must be Remus,' she says joyfully, putting the mug down carelessly on the side. She stretches out one elfin hand and grins. 'Tonks.' Then, as an afterthought, 'I came in here to make some tea for the others. Snape's doing my nut.'
I could stay here forever, in the yellow warmth of the kitchen with a girl barely out of school, bitching about Severus, drinking tea and forgetting that my rent is four months overdue. But no. I am Lupin, of course. Steady, reliable, punctual and…boring. And besides, I cannot let Dumbledore down.
'Hello,' my voice is hoarse and low, and I cough slightly, nervously. Her skin radiates heat as I brush it with my own hand. 'Please excuse me, I should join the others.'
The meeting room is hazy with nefarious tobacco and whatever substance Mundungus is currently smoking, and I make out the shapes of several bottles and goblets on the long table. Severus is talking, in that quiet, commanding way he has. I slide into an empty, high-backed chair and grin at Sirius, who is amusing himself by pulling grotesque faces. He grins back. As Severus ends, glaring beadily at me through the smoke, I apologise quietly for my lateness. They need not know that I was staring for two hours into a dying fire, seeing the faces of absent friends in the flames. I am becoming sentimental in my old age.
Old. Yes, I am old – my appearance points to it, my heart feels it. I feel as though I have come to this place with some aim of living out the rest of my days. I am come here to die, peacefully, surrounded by those I know. And after all, after days at Hogwarts, feeling I would conquer the world, in truth I am fizzling away, receding gracefully, decaying. And I would not care, were it not for a pair of smiling, darting eyes that only minutes ago made me feel as though I had come home.
The meeting is concluded, the goblets are drained, and number12 is empty again. I am left alone with my best friend, and the girl – Tonks – is gone. I have, once again, as ever, no opportunity to astound her with my disarming smile and sparkling wit. I can almost hear Prongs in my head, laughing at my ironic tone, and I feel his friendly punch on the arm. However, being the reliable and stoic type, I do not mope – no doubt I will see her again. And she is of no interest, really. There was just something about the way she turned her head – just a small reminder.
So, I am left once more in the great hall, with Sirius, ready to go, ready to leave him alone again, and I know he hates it. He flourishes on people, our Padfoot. It can't be much fun for him with only a psychotic house-elf and a threadbare Hippogriff for company.
He catches me in a fierce, mad embrace, saying (and it sounds almost as though his voice is cracked with tears – but I must be hearing things) 'I've missed you, Moony.'
It has only been a month since he arrived on my doorstep, a hulking dog with shredded paws and filthy coat, and announced the return of Voldemort. Ah, yes, I manage to step around Him, with talk of friends, and smoking and girls who are too young for a fucked-up loser like me. But He is the reason I am here, united with people I barely know, those who failed alongside me last time, and those I hate. Voldemort. I try, often I nearly convince myself, that he is the reason for the state of my life. Perhaps he is. Perhaps, in the larger scheme of things, he can be traced as the root, the crux of every wound in this sorry world.
But it must be me, too.
It must be my obsession with the musty smell of books, my stupid reticence, my adoration of those more beautiful and more powerful than I (what am I, a second Peter?) that curses me too.
And I am clutched in Sirius' arms, thinking of failure, and it is – it is like so many other times, feeling safe, feeling protected and loved – but they are past times, and too many deaths have plighted us since then, and the embrace is a little too long.
I leave the house, into the lashing rain again, and I cannot meet his eyes. My only friend. The last Marauders are we. And I am failing even him, because of Voldemort, because of James and Lily, and because of white, long fingers wrapped around a mug.
AN: I hope this wasn't too angsty and pretentious for y'all…I am usually quite a happy person, really! Any reviews, good or bad, would be gratefully received. Thank you all, have yourselves a nice day now…