Remus Lupin wakes at 5:47am to the sound of police dogs in the garden. His cat Jonathan gives a half-hearted hiss from the end of the bed, and a torch shines through the flimsy net curtains of the bedroom window. Five minutes later, speaking despondently into their walkie talkies, the huddle of policemen crunch back out again. A helicopter sounds overhead. Remus falls back to sleep.

Sunlight wakes him again at seven and with the vigour of Nosferatu he hauls himself up in bed and wishes he could have died in his sleep. It's a sentiment he only ever really possesses between seven o'clock and seven thirty, but it's been a fairly constant one for the past six years or so.

He pats fat Jonathan awake to get him to shift off his numb feet, then climbs out of bed and pads into the bathroom, switches the shower on, waits four seconds for water to begin chugging noisily out the top like a smoker's cough, and pulls off his nightly uniform of too-big tartan pyjama bottoms and faded Pink Floyd t-shirt. He wears them because it seems like the sort of thing trendy young bachelors do and because, at twenty-seven, he can no longer seriously sport such a shirt in public.

Then again, it's so stuffy and sweltering in his flat at night he usually ends up shucking all his clothes off by one in the morning and sleeping naked instead. It's not like there's anybody about to shock. No one but Jonathan, and Remus is becoming concerned he's getting so fat his eyelids are going to soon be permanently closed anyway.

Must take him to the vethe reminds himself, before closing the door and stepping under the shower head. His curse reverberates about the tiled walls when it scalds him, and again when someone in the flat above puts a tap on and the water lashes down like ice.


"Another raid," says Mrs Pitcher, the landlady, rifling through the post. Not just her own either. She has at least three tenants' unopened envelopes clutched between four skeletal fingers and one gremlin thumb. She's an old woman - at least one hundred and eighty seven - and she always speaks out the side of her mouth like a Walt Disney crook.

"Yes, it woke me up," says Remus.

"Woke the whole bloody street up. And I bet they didn't catch him."

"Never do, do they?"

"Theft, I expect," she sniffs. "Mr Townsend mentioned to me only last week how his terracotta flowerpots have been going missing - "

"Actually, Mrs Pitcher, d'you mind if I just collect my post? I'm in a bit of a hurry is all. Tuesday morning, you know the drill!"

She huffs with ancient breath and at a glacial pace shifts a generous three inches to let him pass. Remus smiles and sticks an arm around her to paw in his pigeon box, takes the bills, BookPeople catalogue and Pizza King flyer he finds there and stuffs them into his bag.

"Goodbye, Mrs Pitcher. Have a nice day!"

She waves a hand, not answering.

Remus' journey, made twice daily, takes the form of one brisk eleven and a half minute walk, three tube station stops, a seven minute bus journey through several grimy south London streets, and another five minute walk or three minute jog depending on how late he happens to be.

Today's the walk, which means it could actually turn out to be quite a good day. Odd really, given that it's a Tuesday and Tuesdays are - Remus has always maintained - shit. Staff progress meeting, late lunch hour and, given that it's still the start of the week, one can always be sure there'll be a gargantuan stack of work matching the height of the office divider he's boxed in, waiting for him on the desk.

He clocks in just on time right alongside Peter, who's balancing his slip with a cream cheese bagel. Most of it's clinging to his flashing snowman tie. He's been wearing it for two weeks now, and the red flashes are starting to jar and blink. If you press the carrot nose it sings a demonic version of Frosty the Snowman. The height of Christmas cheer.

"'Lo, Remus," says Peter, spraying crumbs.

"Morning, Pete."

"Cutting it fine again."

"I know."

"Late night?"

"Something like that."

"Ah, I feel you, mate."

Do you, Peter? Do you 'feel' me?

Peter's that one bloke in the office who still likes to pretend he's London's resident Jack the Lad. He's utterly obsessed with everyone else's business and isn't happy till he's had his daily fix of who-shagged-who at the staff social, who smoked weed in the office toilets last week, who propositioned the boss for a raise on their pitiful pay, etcetera etcetera.

Remus can rarely indulge him; this only seems to make Peter plague him more. It doesn't help that their flimsy cubicles stand side by side, so when Remus goes to sit down at his, Peter follows.

His cubicle is three walls of metal-framed green felt. Someone's draped stringy red tinsel over the top in a vain attempt at kick-starting Remus' festive spirit. He has a plywood desk, a computer installed with Windows 98 on which you can occasionally get limited internet access and even Solitaire, a phone, a desk tidy with three biros in it, and his very own swivel chair, perfect for when he wants to quickly turn round and stare at the blank white wall two feet behind him.

His closest amenities are the ladies' toilets and a vending machine which sells nothing but Diet Coke and Minute Maid orange juice. On the felt walls he has a picture of Jonathan as a kitten, a staff timetable and an early Christmas card from his ex-boyfriend Mark that he hasn't quite the heart to throw away.

"Are you going to the staff meeting later?"

"Of course I'm going, Peter. Why would I not be going?"

Peter shrugs, picking at his nails. His own cubicle is filled mainly with newspaper clippings that make him snort into his Rustlers southern fried sub of a lunchtime and simple recipes for the lazier bachelor, the pinnacles being "steak and shrimp" and "three minute chocolate cake" (you basically just microwave a shitload of hot chocolate powder and eggs).

"I dunno. Just making conversation. You're really boring on Tuesdays, do you know that?"

"Sorry, Peter."

Remus fires up his computer and adjusts the photo of Jonathan on the cubicle wall. He clicks the end of a red pen and lies it flat on a large refill pad salvaged from his single drawer, and begins his day's work. And what is this tantalizing work, you may well ask? Well. Remus Lupin helps supply pencils.


It's not so bad, supplying pencils. They do, after all, need to be supplied. And their company supplies everywhere: schools, hospitals, libraries, other offices. You name it, they supply it. The pencils come in all colours and sizes, a whole plethora of pencils. They even have big catalogues filled with the different types, stowed away in filing cabinets at the back of the office. Pollock & Co., they're called, though Remus has never met Mr Pollock in his life. Or Mr Co.

There are perks. As many free pencils as he wants, reasonable pay, and the work isn't particularly challenging (though he often debates whether this last perk is indeed a perk at all). The office is in a fairly safe area of London, in a fairly modern office block, with a fairly lenient boss and a fairly friendly group of co-workers.

It's a living.


"Pencils are the original all-rounder," his staff team leader, Frank, is telling them later that afternoon. They're all stuffed into the meeting room, dark with the blinds shuttered against the beastly early December weather. "Everyone uses them. Everyone needs them. Come rain or shine, recession or no, people will. Need. Pencils. I want you all to remember that."

Frank is passionate about two things in life: his wife and pencils. He's a nice enough bloke - and nicer still whenever, if ever, he manages to loosen up at the occasional office do - but it's difficult to have a conversation with him that doesn't start with either "my wife Alice" or "the thing about pencils is" or "Alice said that pencils are".

And no one ever listens to him either really, which is a shame because he tries so hard. Even as he speaks now, a group are huddled together on one side of the circle, legs stretched luxuriously from their chairs, chatting to one another openly like the naughty (aka fucking annoying) kids at school.

Hippy Dorcas with her droopy cardigans and weird jewellery, Marlene with legs up to her chin and extensions down to her arse, Caradoc with his big nose and oil-dripping voice, James with his boyish grin and skinny ties, and his best mate Sirius; cool, composed, capable of excessive laughter and around whom everyone seems to constantly be gathered.

Truth be told, Remus has always harboured a bit of a crush on Sirius Black ever since he arrived at Pollock six months ago ago with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and his expensive tie loose around his neck. He is, by all accounts, the office sweetheart. The younger women fancy him, the older women mother him, the blokes all want to go to the pub with him Friday lunchtime, and he leans too far back in his chair and never falls.

But it's purely aesthetic, you know. He's gorgeous, and that's about as far as it goes. Remus has barely ever even spoken a word to him.


Life has been kind to Sirius Black. There have been many downs but far more ups, and now, at twenty-five, he's in good health, with good looks, a good flat in south London not ten minutes from a fairly good job. Fair enough, it's not the most riveting of work, but he needs it. Hopefully he won't be here forever, and hopefully he'll one day leave on his own terms.

In the meantime, he's surrounded by nice enough people, had found a particularly cherished friend in James Potter, the bloke in his neighbouring cubicle, and he doesn't really have to do much work in return for more than adequate pay.

He isn't perhaps living life in the way he'd initially intended, and he hasn't sold a piece of art for two years now, but he's fine. Content. Comfortable.

He's also really bloody bored.

He doesn't hate Pollock & Co. There isn't really anything to hate other than the monotony. But he's beginning to hate himself for succumbing to the nine-to-five, to office life, to being "comfortable". It sounds terribly bohemian and twee, but it's how he feels. He hasn't had a proper shag in almost a year now, let alone a relationship. Some days he doesn't even bother to change out of his work clothes. He finds himself doing terrifying things like buying day-planner calendars and making shopping lists and talking to his goldfish and owning goldfish in the first place.

Three years in art college just to wind up in a modest flat on a quiet lane chatting merrily away to something with a three-second memory span. His father always said college was a waste; Sirius is scared he's beginning to prove him right.

He started looking for ways to try and make his life more exciting almost as soon as he began work at Pollock. He spends quite a bit of time with James, he goes out with his co-workers as much as humanly possible, and he always insists on new and interesting places to eat at lunch time. He tries to paint and go to galleries at the weekends when he isn't too busy (well, tired) and he does his utmost to meet handsome, exciting men as contenders for his next boyfriend, something he feels he's in particularly dire need of.

All of the blokes in the office are straight, or taken, or honestly just a bit ugly, and there's no one he much fancies. Except Remus, the guy who never speaks.

Well, he does. He once said "thank you" when Sirius held the door open for him, and "you're welcome" when he held the door open for Sirius. And he came up to him on a morning three months ago to say, "Sirius, Kingsley would like you to fax him the purity stipulations if you're not too busy". Then he'd walked away, and Sirius had faxed Kingsley the purity stipulations and peered at Remus very subtly from behind the wall of his cubicle, smiling to himself.

He fancies Remus, but only on an aesthetic level.

"Pencils are the original all-rounder," says Frank, in the dingy darkness of the meeting room at one o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. "Everyone uses them. Everyone needs them. Come rain or shine, recession or no, people will. Need. Pencils. I want you all to remember that."

James lets out a low, whistling breath. "William Wallace, eat your heart out," he mutters. Sirius snorts.

Frank shoots them a rather sharp, rather anxious look, like the hopeless kid desperately trying to give a coursework presentation at school.

"However," he continues boldly on, turning away from them again, "there's a whole world of suppliers out there, and we have to give our customers reason to return to us. Times are hard, economically speaking, and there's tough competition. We have to remember to stress our variety, our high ecological standard, our loyalty scheme..."

Sirius easily begins to block him out. He glances, bored, round the rest of the circle, landing first on Peter Pettigrew, stuffing a Miniature Hero Bounty into his mouth, then at Remus beside him. He's hunched up in his chair, staring very intently at a stain on the carpet.

He barely blinks as he nibbles on his lower lip, and then he looks up and catches Sirius staring and blinks once, slowly. His lips quirk up into a weary smile, but he looks away before Sirius can mirror it.

When the meeting ends, Remus is the first out of his seat while the others stroll leisurely behind. Remus always looks busy. Perhaps he actually enjoys his job, though Sirius doubts it. It's one of his many fantasised conversation starters - Do you enjoy your job, Remus? Well, let me give you something else to enjoy - which would never in a million years play out.

He watches Remus walk all the way back to his cubicle, and then returns to his own when it becomes clear Remus isn't going to look up again.

"Well that was horrendously painful," says James when Sirius sits down.

"Indeed."

"What's Frank even doing as team leader? He'd better lead a group of - " He pauses to hiccough, indigestion from having to eat his lunch too fast - "a group of toddlers."

James talks about toddlers a lot, given that he owns one. A little one. Harry. Sometimes James brings him into the office and he sits on the floor shredding papers for everyone.

"He can't help being useless," says Sirius, returning to his game of FreeCell, "and it's better than having someone who's, you know, actually serious."

"S'pose. Hey, did you get my e-mail?"

"Which one?"

"The one about bad parenting, with the baby and the Jack Daniels."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks. It was funny."

"Come on, it was hilarious. Oh whatever. Hey, give these to Pettigrew, would you?"

Sirius double clicks an Ace of Hearts, tip of his tongue between his teeth in concentration. "Give your own damn papers to Pettigrew."

Then he remembers where Pettigrew sits, and snatches the papers from James' hand without another word. His chair swivels wildly when he stands up and strides across the room, making his way down the long line of depressing prison cells and stopping at the one where Pettigrew's normally to be found, eating, sleeping or, very occasionally, actually working.

The chair is empty. Beside it, Remus sits staring at his computer screen, cheek resting on his fist, brow furrowed, looking thoroughly confused.

Sirius grins and slinks a little closer.

"Where's Pettigrew?" he asks, and Remus jumps so hard his elbow slips from the desk entirely with a whump. Sirius bites back a laugh. "Sorry, you were really concentrating there, weren't you, mate?"

"Not to worry, but I'm afraid I don't know where he is," says Remus, glancing up. "Sorry."

"That's a shame. Got a present for him." Sirius drops the whole stack of papers on Pettigrew's desk with a smack, rattling several empty Diet Coke cans when they land. "What you up to then?" he asks, sitting himself down in Peter's chair.

"Just dealing with a customer."

"Lucky you. So glad I don't have to actually ever speak to the customers."

"Oh. Right." Remus looks confused again. "Don't you?"

"Well no, I work in finance."

"Oh yeah, course. Sorry, I forgot."

"Well that's because you never speak to me." He means it as a joke, but Remus suddenly looks surprised, and Sirius wants to kick himself. In a quick attempt at salvaging the situation he carries on, "So what are you up to tonight anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know," Remus murmurs. He gives a little huff of laughter, almost to himself. "Feeding my cat and drinking myself to sleep, most likely. With tea, I mean. Over re-runs of Heartbeat."

Sirius laughs.

"The sad part is you think I'm joking," Remus adds.

Just as Sirius opens his mouth to reply with a carefully-crafted quip of his own, Pettigrew comes bounding back down the small carpeted pathway, two packs of Minstrels and a can of Minute Maid in his hand. He looks confused when he sees Sirius, as though he can't quite remember if this really is his own seat or not.

"Just some faxes for you there, mate," says Sirius, standing up. He doesn't want to. He wants to stay here and pick at Remus some more and figure out why he never speaks.

"Oh right, cheers!" Peter bristles, bustling round Sirius to plonk himself down in the seat.

Sirius nods. "Right. See you later, Remus." He smiles and, wonderfully, Remus smiles right back.

"What was making you squawk so much over there?" James asks when Sirius returns. "You sound like a fucking seal when you laugh, you know."

"Remus. He's funny."

"Is he?" James raises his eyebrows with a bored, Tuesday afternoon sigh. "Never knew that."


"Mr McCarthy... Mr McCarthy... Mr - yes, I realise that, Mr McCarthy, but you see... no. No, of course not. No, I understand, I... but look, we don't actually have any control over - sir, I'm really going to have to ask you to calm down, this is merely..."

Remus wants to say it, really he does. This is merely an issue over some fucking pencils, you insufferable old twat. But he has to stay polite; it says so in his employee hand booklet.

He's been on the phone to Mr McCarthy for over twenty minutes now. It's past five o'clock; he could, legally, put the phone down. But the polite bastard deep within himself won't allow him to do it, in the same way it won't allow him to stand up to people who push in front of him in the bus queue or turn down Jehovah's Witnesses who come to his door clutching copies of Watchtower, and he lets Mr McCarthy abuse him for a further seven minutes before, finally, the old wank hangs up himself.

Well. It's definitely one of Remus' more successfully-handled complaints.

Free at last, Remus switches off his computer, shrugs his coat on and tosses his empty orange juice can in the bin. He says goodbye to Dorcas, the only person left in the office, then goes out into the hallway and hits the button for the piss-stained lift. Inside, he pulls out his phone to check for messages, though he doesn't really know who he's expecting to send him any. Mark, perhaps? Jonathan?

"Woah, woah, woah," comes a familiar voice, and a hand stops the doors and forces them to move apart again, and Sirius bounds in grinning. "Sorry. Went all the way to the stairs thinking I'd try to be healthy and then thought, you know, fuck it. It's a long way down."

"Definitely know the feeling." Remus does, too. He has a new "teetotal resolution" practically every other week, usually made when either a) drunk; or b) hungover.

"James is trying to get me to go to the gym with him. Can you believe that?"

"God, no. I don't know why anyone would go to the gym by choice."

"Right?" Sirius chuckles. "It's like, you work in an office, you hardly require a six pack."

See, he says that, but judging by the tight work shirts Sirius likes to wear it's obvious he isn't exactly in bad shape himself. At any rate, it isn't as though he tries to hide anything. Even now, his collar and tie are so loose that a rather large portion of skin's on show. Don't stare, Remus. Do not stare. Remus imagines wearing his own work shirt so low. He'd probably get done for public indecency.

They seem to be in the lift a bloody long time, and when the doors finally haul themselves open again Sirius finds something to say. Remus is halfway through a cheery goodbye when Sirius goes, "What are you doing on Friday?"

"Friday... morning? Friday afternoon?" Remus pauses. "Friday evening?"

Sirius laughs. "Er, the middle one. Afternoon. We always go out. You never come. You should."

Truthfully, Friday office pub breaks have never much appealed to Remus. It's all too bleak, too depressing, too laddy, even with the constant presence that is Marlene Legs'n'Hair. They all come back tipsy and annoy him all afternoon when he's overworked and overtired and wants nothing more than to crawl into bed but still has four hours to go.

Maybe it would be easier if he was a part of it. But when he'd first arrived at Pollock, he'd been so anxious about the idea of drinking in the day time that he'd refused all the friendly offers, and people had simply stopped bothering to ask. He's the office bore. He knows that. He embraces it. Well, tries to anyway. It's a bit disheartening, to be honest, like being the maudlin kid at school who never has a partner for trips because all he talks about is death. Like, it's his fault that he's left out of things, but it doesn't make him any less aware of it.

Then again, having Caradoc swagger over, clap Remus on the shoulder and say, "Come for a pint, Lupin, you definitelyneed it, you great queer," is a lot different to having Sirius Black give him a friendly, hopeful smile, saying he shouldcome, but not demanding it.

So Remus bites back an excuse from the catalogue in his head and says, "Yes, yes alright," and this time he finishes his goodbye properly.

When he gets home, Jonathan's thrown up on the living room carpet and the people in the flat above are having noisy sex.