Dea woke slowly the next morning, trying to determine her location without opening her eyes. It had become a game for her many years before, when every night had been spent in a different place.
The Black house. With a slight sneer, Dea recalled Sirius's mother's portrait, screeching loudly enough to be heard in outer space. "Crazy old bat," she muttered, climbing out of bed stiffly and prowling off in search of a bathroom. By the time she had found one and was done with her day's grooming, she desperately hoped Remus was around. She had things she needed to vent about.
When she found him in the kitchen reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of tea, she sat down and immediately began to speak. "Maybe I missed something in the years I was gone, but when did it become fashionable or tasteful to hang house elf heads on the walls? And do we have any coffee?"
Remus looked up from his paper, blinking a few times as though to catch himself up with her small speech, which had all been said rapid-fire and in a single breath. Finally, wrinkling his nose at her choice of beverage, he conjured a steaming cup of coffee for her. "The house elf heads were… a bit of a tradition in the Black household. We've so far been as unable to get them off the walls as we were the wonderfully conversational portrait of Sirius's mum." He took another sip of his tea and watched as she plopped several lumps of sugar into her coffee. "It's too bad Kreacher's head isn't up there," he added. It should have been strange to have her sitting across from him, hair still wet from the shower she'd taken, talking comfortably. But it wasn't, and for that he was grateful.
She'd slept fitfully the night before, calling out for her parents in her sleep, and at least once calling out for Severus.
"Kreacher?" she asked, bringing him back to the present moment.
"Yes, the last house-elf. Traitorous mite. Not really sure what happened with him, you know. After Snape questioned him, it was sort of…" He trailed off and shrugged.
"Ah." Dea didn't know what to say, and so took a sip of the sweet and scalding coffee in front of her. Drumming her fingers on the table, she studied Remus through her lashes. He was a bit too thin, his robes in bad need of mending—or perhaps, she thought, he was just in need of new robes. It didn't look as though they could take another mending. Afraid she would embarrass him but willing to risk it, she eyed him across the table. "Would you let me fix your robes?"
He colored then, if only a little, the paleness of his cheeks pinking up a bit; he grinned sheepishly. "That bad, eh?" He strove to keep the embarrassment out of his voice; after all, it was hardly his fault people were too ignorant to hire a werewolf for… well, much of anything. Besides, with his duties to the Order, he had no room for a job. If and when he survived the final showdown with Voldemort and his followers, he'd worry about a job. But for now, he'd not bite the hand that tried to feed him.
"Well, I am going away for a bit, on what you might call a diplomatic mission." He'd been unofficially assigned ambassador to what purists called "half-breeds"— Anything and everything that didn't fall neatly into the category of human or non-human. "I don't suppose it could hurt to look my best." Self-consciously, he ran a hand through his graying hair. "Though I am afraid even my best is a bit lacking."
Dea had to work hard not to gape at him. Lacking, right. With his fine-boned face, big unusual eyes, and wiry body, Remus Lupin would have fit right in with the Romantic poets whose pictures were still making college girls sigh. "Whatever," she said a bit too quickly. "Then let's have a go."
"Do I need to take my robes off for this?" His face colored again and he set his tea down with a sharp smack of porcelain on wood. "You know, ah… to have them fixed."
Though the unintentional innuendo was not lost on Dea, she was already focused on the robes. "No," she said off-handedly. "Leave them on, but stand up." And before he could ask any further questions, she began pointing the bright orange wand and muttering quietly. She stood to walk in a circle around him and he could feel the material growing heavier on his frame.
Finally, she stood in front of him, arms crossed and eyes clouded. Then the clouds cleared and she smiled. "Done." She laid her hand on the chair she'd vacated, wrapping her fingers around one of the rungs so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Expecting nothing more than a simple mending, Remus looked down and his eyes widened. What had been a threadbare, fading black robe was now a thick and heavy ebony vestment, the sleeves neatly hemmed and the collar dipped to show a bit of the open-throated white shirt he wore beneath.
"Well," he said quietly. "I must say that's a sight better than the mending I do." He raised his eyes to her and, seeing her pallor, cursed. She was hanging onto the chair like a first-year grasping a wand and her eyes were half-shut. "Damn it," he said, taking a step forward and, pressing his hand to her shoulder, forcing her down into the chair. "More than just mending, eh?"
"It's fine," she insisted, closing her eyes and letting the wave of dizziness pass over her. It had been more than mending; it was more like creating altogether. She was weakened by her travel to England, but it was more than that. She was weak because her mind was on other matters, weak because she had been only a half-moment away from crying for weeks. "I'm just out of practice is all." Shaking her head as though to clear it, she looked up at him and nodded approvingly. "I did a damned good job."
"And you're even modest," he said dryly, backing away from her though he was still concerned. She wasn't well, and hadn't been for some time. "Amadea, the magic… it should be effortless, you know."
"Well, it's not!" she said, her voice rising to a shout as she thumped her fist on the table. "Some of it is, but not all of it. Not even nearly most of it!" Shaking her head, she stood. When he started toward her, she flung a hand out to stop him. "I'm fine!" But she could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked out of the kitchen.
~~~
Remus left the next day, informing Dea matter-of-factly that he had people and other creatures to see, to entreat in the cause. "I think it's best you stay here," he said in an apologetic tone. "It's best if your existence is known by as few as possible."
"I understand." Guilt stole her words, made her quiet and questionless as he prepared to leave.
"You can go to Hogwarts if you wish, just owl Albus." He slung a pack over his shoulder and looked at her steadily. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings the previous day, but the simple fact was she needed to be careful. He knew he wasn't the only one who wouldn't like to see her hurt.
"I don't want to go back there," she said stiffly, casting her dark eyes away from his. Risk another confrontation with Severus? Not likely. Sighing, she forced herself to meet his gaze once again. "I'm sorry, Remus," she finally said, running a hand through her hair.
"You are too hard on yourself, Amadea. That, at least, has not changed." So saying, he stepped by her, turning back to look at her speculatively. "Keep an eye on Buckbeak, will you? He's enough food to last, but he likes a bit of company." And with that, he was out the door, walking into a street from what would have appeared to be thin air to a bystander.
Alone again, Dea decided her best course of action was to explore the big, old house. She'd go mad if she had nothing to do, and she figured there were plenty of things in the house that could use simple healing spells. She walked around the house, fixing broken or bent boards, patching wallpaper that was sagging or torn, brightening up fixtures that seemed to have had a permanent layer of tarnish on them.
When she came to a hallway of bedrooms, she merely opened the doors and peeked in, a little spooked by the idea of so many rooms in a house with only one person. But when shoving open a door revealed a room full of things that were obviously Remus's, she couldn't stop the curiosity that Dumbledore had commented on so many years ago. Pulling her lip between her teeth and feeling only marginally guilty, she crept into the room.
A few cages stood here and there, large-eyed creatures huddled into the back corners of them, hissing or chattering. A small, roughly-hewn wolf sat on top of a bureau, a once gaily-colored tag hung around his neck. She turned it in her fingers, a fond smile playing about her lips as she read the faded handwriting. To Moony, the wildest of the Marauders. Love, James and Lily.
She dropped the tag as though burned, feeling as though she was intruding upon something more personal than she'd intended. She turned to go, then saw the bottles.
Countless bottles stood on a small bedside table, some empty, some corked and filling the empty space at the top of the bottle with a curiously thick-looking steam. She bent down to look at the labels and felt her heart twist a little at the familiar, fine-handed, spidery handwriting.
For RL only! Wolfsbane Potion. Take one (1) dose before each full moon. Results will last for duration of said moon. SS.
Potions, she recalled, had always been a strong suit of his.
The sound of the downstairs door slamming had her wheeling out of the room, shutting the door behind her with as much stealth as she could manage. She was at the head of the stairs when she was stopped by the sight of two identical redheads at the foot of the stairs.
"Found her, mum," one called out cheerfully, waving a hand.
"Wicked robes. Very garish," the other said, flashing her a thumbs-up.
"We sell robes at our place—"
"But they all change color or dissolve into nothing at a set time—"
"Which is really quite funny for those wizards who go bareback under their robes."
The exchange between the two was more than a little confusing, and Dea had barely registered what they'd said before they both grimaced, clapping hands to their ears and howling in pain.
"How many times, eh? How many times will I have to tell you two to have some manners? And you're adults now! It's appalling!" Molly Weasley came around the corner, pointing her wand at the twins and apparently twisting their ears. "Hello, Dea," she said warmly, the snappish tone gone. "We came by to call. That, and to give you a bit of an advance warning. Things always seem to… cycle down after a confrontation, but as they will, they cycle back up again. So this place will become quite busy."
"Grand Central," Dea said, smiling. The puzzlement on Molly's face simply made her sigh.
"These are two more of my sons… the ones we normally hide." Magically, Molly shunted them both forward with a speed Dea had to admire. "George." One twin bowed theatrically, "And Fred." The other tipped an imaginary hat.
"Would you like a sweet?" Fred asked in a facetiously innocent voice.
"No, thanks," Dea said, starting back down the stairs. Even if Molly hadn't introduced them, it would have been obvious who they were. They were merely slightly smaller versions of their brother Charlie, with redder hair and definitely wickeder eyes. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to take candy from strangers."
George looked at his mother. "You're right, Mum, she is smart."
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she nearly stumbled. Another redhead sat close in conversation with a curly-haired girl who was already a head-turner, and a raven-haired boy who looked up at the sound of her approach.
"Oh, dear God," Dea said, her heart in her mouth. "James."