Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: I love deadlines; I love the sound they make as they go whooshing by. I also love Douglas Adams, but the mere fact that I'm quoting him should clue you into that. What I do not love is the fact that I forgot to do any research on the fortress at Dinas Emrys before writing this chapter. Apparently, it's currently a hole in the ground surrounded by a few stones where the walls used to be. For the purposes of this story, please envision Dinas Emrys as something along the lines of this castle: www . castlewales . com / dolw . html, except slightly more decrepit. Also, I'm uploading this from a Mac, and cannot put in the section dividers. I'll insert them as soon as my usual computer is fixed.
Sirius sat at the bar, turning his lighter over and over in his hands. Despite the evening hour, the bar was nearly empty. Most of the village was gathered in front of the church, listening to the mother of one of the abductees rant about the perfidy of wizards, and how they should all be burned at the stake for sacrificing her son to some false god. He'd gone, and listened to the first five minutes. He ought to have stayed, so that he could include it in his report, but he'd afraid that he was going to lose his temper, and say something that would blow his cover. He'd gone back to the pub instead, to have a few drinks and mull over what he'd seen.
Sirius was disgusted with himself, but he had to concede that the mob had made him intensely nervous. It had been composed primarily of older people, who had lived most of their adult lives before magic, and were still leery of it. That distrust had been compounded by the discovery of the mutilated body of one of the missing boys, who had suffered the threefold death. This, in and of itself, might have been put down to the work of a madman, if not for a bespectacled young man who was taking a correspondence course in Magical Studies, a field that Sirius had never previously heard of. The man could not resist the urge to display his newly acquired expertise, and the phrase 'threefold death' was soon on the lips of the local gossips, and from there to everywhere. It was, in short, a complete public relations disaster.
He stared into the depths of his glass, hoping against hope that he would find inspiration on how to handle the situation in his beer. He failed to find any signs or portents there, not that he had really expected any, except for perhaps a sign as to whether he should have another drink, but advice even as to that was absent. He decided, after a moment's thought, that having another would almost certainly result in a maudlin phone call to Nicola, begging her forgiveness and making a complete prat of himself. He sighed slightly, and stubbed out his cigarette. He had to go write his report; there was no point in delaying.
Remus set up his easel about a hundred yards from the ruins of the fortress, eyeing it speculatively, already feeling himself submerging into his false identity. He took a hard pencil, and with a few quick lines, laid the basic shape out on his paper. The setting sun was behind the fort, and he could see every jagged edge where the walls had crumbled, and every arrow slit. They were carefully drawn in, remaining as true to life as Remus was capable of. Then he began the painstaking work of outlining the individual stones, hampered by the speed at which the darkness was drawing in.
Twenty minutes later, it was too dark to work at all, even with the augmented vision of an ex-werewolf. Remus reluctantly flipped his sketchbook closed, and with a few muffled curses, refolded his recalcitrant easel. As he attempted to force its rusted joints to fold, he completely missed the black-clad figure emerging from the fortress, and slowly making its way down the side of the hill. Remus kicked a few pebbles into a small cairn to mark where he'd been working, making sure that he'd have the same angle of view the next day, then hefted his satchel over his shoulder.
As he walked down the path, he was already planning the rendezvous he was meant to have with Sirius. Lily's instructions, once he'd managed to decipher her handwriting, had been very specific. He was to go to the pub and sit at the bar halfway through Sirius' performance, then strike up a conversation once Sirius was done. His observations of the for tress were to be written in invisible ink on the back of the business card he was going to hand Sirius at the end of the conversation, and Sirius would give him a cigarette with a message hidden in the filter. He wasn't exactly sure how useful the message was going to be, given Sirius' inability to understand Welsh, but it didn't matter; procedure had to be followed.
Sirius was halfway through 'A Whiter Shade of Pale' when a familiar figure entered the bar. He could barely suppress a smirk at the sight of Remus in tweed; it looked absolutely ridiculous on him. In fact, thought Sirius, even as he kept singing, it was absolutely pathetic that a man just past his thirtieth birthday should wear anything of the kind. No, he decided, the minimum age for tweed should be at least fifty, if not older. As the song came to an end, he decided to tease his friend a bit. As he began to play 'Werewolves of London', Remus barely stopped himself wincing; it was only seven years spent in close quarters with him that allowed Sirius to detect it.
Fifteen minutes later, he slumped into the barstool next to Remus and lit a cigarette. Taking a long drag, he looked at the man next to him. "Hey, I'm Stephen Brown. I noticed you watching my performance. So, what'd you think?"
Remus gave him a weak grin. "Very... interesting. I am Remy duBois, by the way."
Sirius shrugged. "I was kinda worried; most of those songs aren't meant for acoustic, y'know? My amp got wrecked when some lunkhead spilled a pint on it, and the stuff they've got for sale here is awful."
Remus nodded, a look of vague confusion on his face. "I imagine that there is very little market for such things in such a place as this. I am truly surprised that there is anything at all."
Sirius took another drag on his cigarette. "Yeah, so was I, actually. I thought I was completely screwed, then I realized I hadn't even brought the electric guitar at all. A stupid thing to forget, isn't it? I can't stand acoustic, especially on someone else's guitar. Hey, d'you want a cigarette?" he offered suddenly, having remembered the purpose of their meeting.
Remus nodded, and he fished in the box, finding the one that was still slightly deformed from his efforts to insert the parchment. Remus glanced at it dubiously, then lit up, trying not to inhale. "Thank you. I wish to know, do you hire out for private functions? My sister in London is getting married, and she wishes to have live entertainment."
Sirius shrugged. "It depends on my schedule; give me your card and I'll call you, all right?"
Remus smiled. "Yes, that would be adequate." He withdrew the doctored card from his pocket, and handed it to Sirius. "I fear I must depart. The hour has grown late." Remus nodded to Sirius politely, placed some money on the bar and strolled out, still trying not to breathe in any of the smoke from the cigarette still clamped firmly between his lips.
Sirius waved at him idly, and tucked the business card into the pocket of his jeans for later perusal. Then he stubbed out his cigarette, lit another, and began to seriously drink.
When Sirius woke, it was to early morning sunlight creeping through the venetian blinds and viciously assaulting him. At least, that was what it felt like; it also felt, or more accurately tasted, like he had tried to eat a pair of dirty sweat socks at some point during the previous evening. He tried to look at the clock without moving, but the angle was simply impossible. With a heartfelt groan, he pushed himself upright, and looked blearily at the clock. Half past six. Shit. Far too early to get breakfast, or even a hangover cure; the kitchen wouldn't be unlocked until ten. Oh god. He dropped his head into his hands despairingly. He was going to die.
Three hours later, his take on the world, while not any more optimistic, was considerably more pain-free. His headache had receded, and copious quantities of mouthwash had removed the impression of sweat socks. He was not exactly alert, but he was functional, and that had to count for something, didn't it? And wasn't there something he was meant to be doing? Sirius wracked his mind, and eventually came up with something about a business card. Invisible ink, that was it. Now, where had gone? He found it at last in the pocket of the jeans he'd been wearing the previous night, underneath his lighter and an inexplicable packet of peanuts.
Carefully holding the card, he lit his lighter, and carefully brought the flame near where the writing presumably was. Remus' neat handwriting slowly appeared, pale tan letters against a cream background. He squinted, and then flicked off the lighter after it became apparent that the letters weren't going to get any darker. Taking it over to the window, he scrutinized it. The message seemed to be, in its entirety, 'Upper floors gone. Will relay sketch of lower level tomorrow.' Sirius shrugged, and went to check in his report book if Lily had sent him Remus' sketch yet. She had not, so he slumped on the bed, and began to think about what songs he was going to play that night.
A/N Redux: This hasn't been beta'd; I'll repost it when it has.