Summary: A muggle woman watches Sirius & Remus' early morning coffee routine. AU set after the war when both of them have survived. Not much else has changed. Also includes cameos from Harry and Ginny.
Currently a one-shot, but I may update if inspiration hits me and I think of other OC's points of view to write from. Feel free to give me suggestions.
Un-betaed.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Early Morning Coffee
Sunday, 6.47am, London – Matilda Evanscourte – A 76 year old muggle
They are back again, I see, sitting at the table I have named as theirs; it is near the corner of the balcony, tucked away from the rest of the cafe, and nobody else ever seems to sit there. It is a rundown establishment, with dirty, paint-cracked walls and coffee strong enough to stand a spoon upright in, but they don't seem to mind, indeed I see them most days now, and I feel that I begin to get to know them. Certainly I know their habits, and it comes as no surprise to me when the taller man lights a cigarette, slouching back in the chair with his legs crossed. He is wearing biker boots and a leather jacket, always the same jacket, and he has long dark hair that never quite hides the desperate gauntness of his face, gauntness which persists despite the fact that the rest of him has filled out. Still, he looks healthier than the first time I saw him when he was nothing but skin and bone, and I wondered what had happened to him to make him look so ill. But his friend, it seems, is good for him; on the rare occasion the gaunt man comes alone, he orders only a coffee and sits staring moodily at the parched weeds that persist in growing in the cracks between the stones, but when he is with his friend he eats and they converse, even if the gaunt man seems to drift off into his own dark musings at irregular intervals. And then sometimes he smiles and he looks no longer old but youthful and handsome as he must have been once. Those are the best days, the ones where their talk is animated, and they seem happy. Occasionally on those days, another person joins them, a young man with messy hair and glasses, and once there was a ginger-haired woman as well (I think she was the young man's wife). But normally, normally it is just the two of them, and today is no different.
The other man, the shorter one, is relaxed, enjoying the hazy warmth of the early autumn sun as he nurses his coffee, and I get a good look at him from the window where I am sitting with my sewing, although by now I am aware of his appearance. He has shorter hair than his friend, and the brown is streaked through with grey, although he couldn't have been any older than forty. He has scars too (poor man), but, just as I have grown used to them, the gaunt faced man doesn't seem to notice them. Instead, they strike up a quiet conversation, and I take the opportunity to study them.
The brown haired man is wearing a shabby overcoat, patched at both elbows and frayed at the collar, and, like the rest of his clothes, it gives him the appearance of complete poverty, although whether that is the truth of his existence or not, I do not know. It seems likely, but then again, maybe he just has no need for extravagant clothing (he's sensible, that one). Certainly, he is a practical man, and patient; he never raises his voice, even when the gaunt man gets angry. That happens less often now though, but the brown haired man seems used to it anyway, and I suspect that they have known each other for a long time. As it is, I find myself wondering how they became friends when they contrast so greatly, although I suppose that is a whole different story.
Anyway, their food has arrived now and they settle into an easy silence as they eat, looking idly around the cafe. They are the only people sitting outside; the balcony overlooks the busy road below and the traffic fumes can be overpowering, but at this early hour it is practically deserted and the pavement is quiet apart from the wind playing in the littered gutter. Soon the residents will wake up and there will be children playing in the lank grass across the square, but for now the men are alone to finish their meal. They seem to like the peace, and once or twice I have noticed them startle at a loud noise, hands twitching towards their pockets before they relax again. It is after times like these that they fall into a melancholy mood, and I often wonder what they have been through that they, who are still young, could seem so aged. Have they seen war, perhaps even fought in it, have they seen friends die before them? There is something in their eyes that speaks to me of such sorrows, and I remember by dear husband (God bless his soul) when he returned from the war. Yes, they have suffered, like so many before them...
But they have finished their meal now, and they will leave me to my sewing for another day. The brown haired man buttons his overcoat, and together they head towards the door, moving reluctantly away from their haven. Moments later they appear down on the street, talking quietly, then they are gone, rounding the corner. A light crack echoes off of the houses, then there is silence. Of course, they will be back again tomorrow, back to their early morning routine, and I will watch them, but for now, for now I am alone.
A/N: Please review so that I know if what I'm doing is good.