Danger by Moonlight

The wind was worse than it had been the other day, and when you are carrying a bulky item like, oh, a painting of your flatmate squatting in the snow, it is hard to protect yourself from it. I tried to huddle into my coat, but I only had one hand, so it failed miserably and my cheeks were red by the time I made it to Arty Lane. I had money in my pocket this time, but I had to pay bills so I would have to paint another meaningless piece to sell to a rude American tourist so I could buy the devastatingly good paintbrushes I wanted.

Lupin's shop was open for business, and as I opened the door, a chime announced that he had a customer. The man himself was hiding in fantasy, and he scurried out when he heard the bell. I noticed that he looked better fed than when I saw him, and I vaguely remembered there being a full moon days before my last visit. The human mind works in mysterious ways.

'Miss Weasley.' He said in a relatively warm tone. Everything seems warm when you compare them to the weather outside, and his voice was warmer still. 'Am I to assume that my technique worked at that what you hold in your hand is a piece of priceless art?'

I smiled. 'You are to assume that your technique worked to a certain degree and what I hold in my hand is a piece of work I wish to give to you for said technique.'

He raised an eyebrow and motioned me to unwrap the painting from its prison of paper and plastic. I opened it like a present on Christmas morning, and showed him the product of visiting a furniture shop with my stunning yet equally brainless roommate. Lupin looked over it before nodding slightly and taking it from my hands. 'Thank you. I like it.'

'Good. Julie hates it.'

'Julie would be...?'

'My flatmate. The girl in the picture.'

He shrugged. 'Oh course she would. She doesn't look as graceful as girls usually want to appear, yet she still looks beautiful.' Lupin was looking at his walls, probably surveying them for good places for artwork.

'My yes.' I replied. Julie possesses the worst combination a girl can have: looks and naivety. She stumbles through life without having to work because she can't, and gets taken advantage of far too often. She doesn't care though because she doesn't know any different. It would take too much work on my behalf to change this, and then I would have screwed her over because she wouldn't be able to allow herself to go down to those levels.

'I think this needs to hang over by the classic literature shelves.' He announced, and I followed him as he walked over to see if it was possible. 'Magic is a most useful tool.' Lupin said with a grin, and I gave him one back, thinking over the times I had resorted to magic to get my own way. With a few well-chosen words, he had the painting securely fastened to the wall.

'Tea?' he asked, and I accepted. If I kept visiting Lupin, I would convert to the dark side of tea and carrot cake.

We walked past the divider again, and sat down at his table. We were in his kitchen, because he lived above the shop. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, and the newspaper from this morning rested on the table, awaiting someone to open it and read the scandals inside. He tapped the kettle again and poured the hot water into the cups to prepare the tea, and soon the delicious smell of tea filled the air.

'Do you mind me asking what you have written?' I asked him over the brim of a fresh cup. My nose was getting warm from the steam, and I didn't mind.

'Go ahead. Ask.' He gave me an almost-smirk and I repeated the question. 'I wrote a horror book. You know what they say. Write what you know. It sold quite well. I always thought it was too realistic and gruesome to be allowed on shelves where children could buy it. But then I remembered I was a child too once, and I decided to write an extra bloody scene. Just for the little child in my mind who bought it hoping for some violence, or better yet, sex.'

I smiled again. His voice was getting warmer, unlike the tea in my cup which was getting closer to a drinkable temperature the longer he talked. 'So you were a pervy little child who enjoyed books about werewolves chomping on couples doing it?'

He set his cup down. 'Indeed I was.'

We both thought this was funny, so we chuckled and drank small sips of tea. Not enough for our tongues to burn. 'I was a dark and boring child.' I told him, which made him raise an eyebrow. He wanted more information. 'There was the whole bullshit with Tom Riddle and then all the kids in my year ignored me for a bit, but after that I was OK. I wasn't the same, though, but who would be? I took up painting after dating Dean Thomas in my fifth year. He was good, and he told me it helped him stop stressing about exams. It works.'

'I get the same way when it comes to writing. When I can write, that is.' He added the last bit as if an after thought.

'I would love to read your book.' I said wistfully. He would probably never let me. If I wrote, I would hate to show anyone who knew me even remotely. It is so private and, considering it is from his personal experience, he would either have to be used to having his life inspected, or in a "not giving a damn" mood.

He pushed a battered paperback in front of me without a word. The cover was bent back, and most of the pages were dogged, but I could read that it said Danger by Moonlight. 'Is this it?' I asked, picking up the book and looking at the blurb.

'Yes. That's the thing about being published. They put it in book form.'

I gave him a half-laugh and read the back of the book aloud: 'Robert Franks is a polite, honest and hardworking high school teacher. He enjoys the occasional drink, his women leggy and red-headed and every other night but the full moon. "Danger by Moonlight is terrorising. Linton creates a jewel in the usual bloody horror market." "...breathtaking and so life-like it hurts..."' I put the book next to the tea cup. 'So, the name John Linton appeals to you, does it?'

'John's my middle name. Linton is from Wuthering Heights. When I wrote it I seriously doubted any student of mine to have read Wuthering Heights, or to connect it to me.' He gave me a look that defied me to say otherwise.

'I've read Wuthering Heights...' I murmured softly. 'I didn't know your middle name was John, so you were half right.'

'It appears so.' Conversation lulled. We sipped. We looked at the book and the table. I inspected my fingernails and decided I should probably leave. 'I might go now.'

He stood up this time. 'It was nice having you here. Thanks for the painting.'

'Thank you for the book.' I slipped it into my bag and made my way to the door.

'Miss Weasley.' He said, and I turned around. 'If you ever need a job, you know, if the people on the street are being less culturally aware than usual, then you can always ask me for one. I do all the packing and shelving and serving here, and when it is busy I could always use a salesgirl.'

I smiled at the offer. 'Thank you, Professor. I appreciate it.' I looked outside on the street where people were walking straight by a musician singing her heart out. Few even stopped to hear her for free, and even less placed money in her hat. I sighed, as if I was looking at me with stands of painting and no money in my wallet. 'I might have to take you up on it too.'

'No rush.' He assured me, and I gave him one last look before heading outside. I had not realised how comfortable I had been until I walked into the wind and the street.

'Home again.' I said to Simon. He was playing with spoons in the kitchen. Julie was out for some reason and we had the house to ourselves. I put my bag down and decided to make some toasted sandwiches, which was the staple diet in our house. We bought loaves of bread, milk, cheese and ham and lived on that for a week.

'I have to tell you something.' Simon said.

'I'm all ears, Si.' I announced and I searched in the cupboards for the salt.

'I can't remember.'

'Not a good idea.' I buttered the bread thickly and placed it on the steaming hot sandwich toaster. Grated cheese came next and then the meat. 'You can't remember any of it?'

He shook his head. 'It had something to do with Julie and money.'

'She didn't take money out of my drawer, did she?'

'No, no.' He hit the spoons on the bench in frustration.

'Calm down Simon.' I told him. 'Julie can tell me as soon as she gets back.'

We sat and watched the cheese bubble on the sandwich maker, and my mouth watered as smells poured out. Simon played with the spoons some more, coming up with a few decent rhythms. When they were cooked, I had them on a plate and we dug in.

I had one in my stomach before Julie came through the door, looking excited and cold. She sat down at the table and took a sandwich, not even saying "Hello", or "May I have one?"

'Where have you been?' I asked, mildly curious, especially after Simon's memory failure.

'The street. I was working.' She gave me a toothy smile and I took a deep breath.

'Do you remember that talk we had a while back about bringing men to the flat and getting paid for having sex?' I had to say it in careful tones. The first time was awful enough without having to go through it again.

'No, no. I was singing.' She produced a handful of coins and notes from her pocket and placed them on the table in front of me. At an educated guess, I could see that she had about five pounds thirty. 'I've been singing since twelve and they gave me money for it.'

'You sang for four hours and got five pounds? Well done.'

'Thanks Ginny!' She said happily, biting into her sandwich.

'I think I may have to take Lupin up on his offer.' I muttered to myself. Simon had found a great excitement in the spoons again, and Julie was counting her money proudly. Neither one of them knew what I was going on about, nor had any interest in finding out.

Being a struggling, yet amazingly beautiful and talented, artist was less lucrative than I had first imagined. That was a lie. I knew it would be tough, but I was too lazy to do something better. I loved painting and I loved my roommates even if I was a little too sarcastic at times. At all times. I loved my room with the paint bespeckled floor and the cheap stereo I bought to listen to music. I wanted to live like this, but I needed more money to keep living like it.

Lupin. He had a bookstore. I wouldn't lose my arty title and I could have fun anyway. I also loved reading, and he was good company. I would have to investigate his earlier life and see if he had ever lived like me, which I suspect he did. He was good company and had a good sense of humour. They met my standards.

I cleared my plates and went into my room. The door was locked, my shelves were full of paint and there was a blank canvas awaiting me. My stereo (a Muggle invention) was silent, but I had no desire to turn it on at the moment. I didn't think I had it in me to paint. I was devoid of all emotion and inspiration, but it would only be a temporary thing, I could feel it. Creativity was skulking in the shadows of my mind; I just needed to be patient.

It was impossible for me to be patient, but I could pretend I was being patient by reading the book Lupin had written. I took it out of my bag, threw my bag over into the corner, and opened the book. My bed was bloody uncomfortable, so I spent a few moments fussing over the covers, and then I got back to reading.

I opened the book to a random page. It was about the middle of the book and as good a part of it to see if I could get hooked. I did it far too often, but it usually led to me buying or borrowing the book. If I could read a random page, I would be able to read the book.

"Blood. It tasted like nothing else I'd ever eaten before. It was chocolate and wine and the best steak all rolled into one. I wanted to swim in it, to devour the entire body whole and gorge myself on the blood. My instincts told me 'No', so I ate my full and continued. Snow paved the ground, making the walk easy on my paws, and I floated down the street, a ghost. Smells met my nose, and I followed them. I was so excited, I was skittish. A child in a toy store."

My fingers flicked back to the start. So. Lupin could write. That bookstore of his was looking better and better with every word I read.

Author's Note: Thank you to Iselin once more. You are my favourite beta reader in the entire world :)

Echo256: Thank you :). I shall!

PyroGurl4: I updated on the GROWL site because I was so discouraged over the lack of interest this fic generated. I commend you on your stick-to-it-ivness.

Iselin: Thankies m'dear. I do love this fic. I don't know why. It just makes me feel all warm and squidgy inside like a half-cooked muffin.

Sir Crig: Thank you Sir :) I also commend you on your abilities in scrubbing green paint off yourself!

s.s.harry: Thank you for liking my story. I like the fact you like my story. I have written more. Enjoy. (Unless you read it on GROWL, in which case...I have no idea what happens then)

Kristine: Hey, don't bag out the butt, man! The butt holds a special place for me as a person. I suppose Ginny needs to get out more ;). Anyway, thanks for reviewing!