Disclaimer: I wish Remus had been mine. I would have taken better care of him. (How COULD you, Jo? Why would you kill him?)
Remus didn't see the caretaker as he made his way to Sirius' flat, which suited him just fine. He wasn't in the mood to speak to Alfred—or anyone else for that matter. All he wanted was to get into the flat, throw the Sirius' stuff in appropriate boxes and leave.
All the same, he hesitated before he pushed the door open, wishing that the deep breath he had just taken was filled with something more fortifying than oxygen. A hard bottle in the pocket of his long wool coat suddenly brushed against his thigh, reminding him that he had some liquid courage at hand when he needed it.
And he knew he would need it.
The boxes were still in the middle of the floor where Alfred had dropped them and Remus went straight over and picked one up. "Garbage," he muttered.
A second box was flipped over. "Charity shop."
He ground his teeth together as he whispered, "Harry," with the selection of a third box.
A sudden thought struck him and he picked up a fourth box. "Pawn shop. You owe me, Black."
In between their fourth and fifth years at Hogwarts, Remus and Sirius had seen a Muggle magician in a park doing simple tricks for the children who stood around him, oohing and aahing.
"Where's his wand?"
"He doesn't have one. He's a Muggle."
"Then how in the hell—"
"It's all sleight of hand. He's using misdirection to—"
"Where'd the ball go?"
"It's in his other hand."
"How'd he do that without a wand?"
"Watch. He gets you to look at his right hand, but it's in his left. Watch."
"Sneaky bugger! Think I could do that?"
There was a trick for everything, Sirius became fond of saying after that. The trick for packing up Sirius' things was for Remus to forget that the people in the photographs meant anything to him. He applied misdirection by telling himself he'd only been hired to clear out the flat. He juggled his emotions, tossing the smiles, the frowns, and the tears up and away from himself as soon as he felt them.
By the time he'd cleared off the shelves in the sitting room, checked the spare bedroom, and sorted through all the things that had once been arranged haphazardly around the walls, he was tired and emotionally drained.
Hoping the resulting numbness in his brain—and a few long pulls at the bottle of vodka that was now sitting on Black's desk—would be enough to prepare him for the task, he resolutely pushed the door open to Sirius' bedroom.
It's just a room. It's just a bedroom.
But the clothes piled in the corner were undeniably familiar, and there was a unique muskiness in the air that shrieked, "Sirius!" to Remus' sense of smell.
He couldn't help it; he stumbled backward until his back hit the wall opposite the doorway. His weakened knees gave out and he fell into a slumped heap on the floor.
"I can't. I can't," he whimpered, feeling the tears behind his closed eyelids.
It wasn't fair! How could Moody expect this of him? How could Sirius? He hadn't even apologised! Was he at all sorry? Did he feel any sense of regret? How could he say that things weren't what they seemed? How could they not be exactly what they appeared to be? It seemed pretty clear to Remus: James and Lily were dead, Peter was dead, Harry was with Lily's horrible sister, Sirius was in prison, and Remus was left alone to deal with the pieces.
How in the hell could things be otherwise? What alternative universe was Sirius treading through that he could make that statement? What madness had overtaken him?
A horrible mistake in judgment, indeed.
"Fuck you, Sirius!" he whispered. "Fuck you, for what you've done to them and for what you've done to me!"
He slammed his fist against the wall, willing the wall to crumble, willing his bones to crack, if only so he'd feel something other than emotional agony that threatened to crush his lungs and make his heart implode. "Fuck you, Sirius!" he screamed.
But the wall didn't give, and if the bones did, he didn't notice because he was too caught up in the body-shaking sobs of mourning that had finally, after six weeks, decided to make their appearance.
Raido. Ehwaz...
He sat at a table in the Leaky Cauldron, drawing runes with the condensation puddled at the base of the bottle in front of him, trying to ignore the faint whispers coming from the table to his right.
"That's Lupin. He was a friend of the Potters..."
"Mannaz," he muttered, trying to drown out the woman's quiet voice.
"... Sirius Black. I heard the Aurors took him in for questioning, but —"
"Remus Lupin!"
He looked up quickly, feeling his head swim slightly as he did. The Firewhiskey made it impossible for him to concentrate on the face leaning over the table toward him at first, but then recognition set in. "Dedalus Diggle."
The man was smiling, but it wasn't as bright as usual. Instead, he seemed uncertain, almost wary. "How are you? Been getting along alright?"
"I'm well enough," Remus replied, sounding more than a little sulky, even to his own ears.
"—not guilty, but who knows for certain? If Black was able to hide his true nature—"
Diggle's eyes shifted to the other table and his ears, which stuck out comically from beneath his bright blue top hat, slowly blushed red. "Actually, it's a good thing that I ran into you today. I think I've got an Augurey living in the forest beside my house —"
"—never can tell who was a Death Eater —"
"—and I know you have a way with creatures," Diggle continued, his cheeks now flushing and his eyes darting to look at the gossipy witch at the table next to them. "I wondered if I could impose upon you to come and have a look-see."
Remus sighed. It wasn't as if he didn't have anything better to do. "When would you like me to stop by?"
"Tomorrow morning, maybe? I know it's short notice—"
"No, tomorrow is fine," Remus assured him.
The woman's voice droned on: "—would've gotten life in Azkaban, just like Black —"
Diggle adjusted his hat a little more firmly on his head. "Are you sure you're alright? I don't suppose it's been all that easy. And you look a little... tired."
Remus raised his bloodshot eyes to meet Diggle's. The large amounts of alcohol he'd consumed in the past two hours made him brutally honest when he said, "Don't worry, Dedalus. It only hurts when I breathe."
With that, he got up and walked out, sparing a withering glare for the mouthy witch who'd been talking about him.
It was dark already, even though it was only a little after five in the afternoon. The streets were jammed with people heading home from work, heading out to eat, heading into shops for Christmas gifts.
"What do you think, Moony?"
"Prongs, is that a snitch?"
"Yes! It's one for Harry to chase around the house!"
"Does Lily know about this?"
"Why would you ask that?"
"You still have it in your possession and you're still talking about giving it to Harry."
"She'll be okay with it. I'll talk her around."
"You'll be sleeping on the couch for a week."
He hunched his shoulders as he walked, as if to shield himself from the cheerful shop windows and the occasional sign that warned him that there were only so many days left to buy his necessary gifts.
I wonder what happened to that snitch.
Yes, there was doubt of it: Christmas was going to bring its own form of hell with it. There'd be no way around it. And he'd have to visit his parents for sure.
Guilt raced through him. His parents were good people and didn't deserve for him to ignore them as he did. But it was because they were good people that he did.
"I wish I had your parents, Moony."
"You just want anybody's parents other than your own, Sirius."
When they'd heard the news of the Potters' deaths, John Lupin had immediately come to London to find Remus. Unfortunately, the Aurors had found Remus first.
His father had been waiting in the Atrium when Dumbledore had finally managed to get Remus released. Mr Lupin had taken Remus back to the Lupin cottage, but after two days of being treated like he was going to break, Remus had left. He didn't want pity. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted... He wanted it never to have happened, actually. But as that didn't seem to be an option, he just wanted to go on as best he could. He couldn't do that with his mum fussing over him and his dad watching him worriedly.
They'd written him several times since then, and he'd told them he was fine, but he knew the moment they laid eyes upon him again, they'd know how badly he'd been lying to them. Then they'd try to get him to stay and he didn't have the excuse of a job to return to in London. He didn't need to have skills in Divination to tell him how his visit would end. He would end up hurting them. Firstly, because they'd see he was hurting and hadn't come home, and, secondly, because he'd have to fight with them to let him go again.
A man stumbled out of a door and into Remus.
"Look out!" Remus said gruffly.
"Sorry." The man turned and quickly walked away, his head bowed.
Had he been crying?
Remus looked at the shop from which the man had staggered and rubbed his chin with his forefinger. "Why the hell not?" he asked himself, retreating to an alley he'd just passed, already reaching into his pocket for one of two boxes that had been magically reduced in size.
A moment later, he emerged from the alley, a fairly large cardboard carton in his hands which he lugged into the pawn shop that had attracted his attention.
The man behind the counter was dressed in a suit and tie, which looked out of place in this world of abandoned knives, forsaken instruments, and mismatched silver patterns.
"Whatcha got?" he asked Remus in lieu of an actual greeting and nodding toward the box.
"Little of this, little of that," Remus grunted as he hoisted the carton up onto the counter. "Lost my job. Bloody inconvenient time, right before Christmas and all."
"Don't think you're going to get one penny more out of me just because it's Christmas," the man growled. "Always the same with you buggers."
"Wasn't thinking that at all," Remus lied.
He watched as the proprietor removed the items, sorting them into piles that made sense only to him.
"Is this silver?"
Remus looked at the cross dangling from the chain and nodded.
"...But you're not religious, Padfoot."
"Considering how close that curse came to me last night, I'm beginning to think I should be."
"Is this really signed by Johnny Rotten?"
"It is."
The man eyed him suspiciously. "You don't look like the punk type."
"I don't, do I?"
"I've got to get this poster signed!"
"We'll never get close enough, Sirius!"
"Prongs, some help?"
"Damnit, you two! We can't be throwing spells around —"
"It was only one spell, Moony — Hey, Johnny, ya ol' bastard!"
More gold chains found their way into a pile, as well as a pair of silver candlestick holders.
"If anything happens to me, Moony, I want you to have these."
"And do what with them? Melt them down into bullets to kill myself? I'm not sure if I'll miss you that much, Padfoot."
"I nicked them from my mother. Sell them and keep the money. It will drive my mother into a frenzy and make me a happy man. What do the Muggles say? Save it for what kind of day? A rainy day? A snowy day?"
"Rainy day. Save it for a rainy day."
"Well, that's a bloody ridiculous saying, considering it's always raining in England."
"Nice jacket."
Black leather creaked as the man twisted it around, looking for tears or scrapes.
"Of course I need a leather jacket! It's practically a bloody requirement when you've got a motorcycle."
"I thought you weren't the sort to follow a stereotype."
"Fuck you, Moony."
"Isn't language like that also stereotypical?"
"Then, if you don't mind, oh lycanthropic one, please engage in copulation with yourself. Better?"
"I'll give you one hundred pounds for the lot."
"The bloody hell you will!" Remus exclaimed. "That jacket is worth that alone!"
"Worth it to you, maybe."
"Worth it to anyone looking for a nice Christmas gift," Remus countered. "I want five hundred for the lot."
The man stared at him and then laughed. "Stupid bugger! There's no one in this city that would pay five hundred for this shite."
"It's not shite, and you know it. The candlesticks are worth one hundred on their own. Mr Rotten's signature might get you another fifty or seventy-five, in the right place."
"Two fifty."
Remus rolled his eyes. "Four seventy-five."
"Oh, now you're not even trying."
"And you are? Stop fucking around and give me a real figure here."
The man looked the things over carefully, and then sighed. "Alright, four hundred."
Remus stood motionless for a moment and then reached over and started stuffing the things back into the box.
"Hey, now! What in the hell are you doing?"
"Taking my business elsewhere," Remus said quietly.
"No, wait! We're still bargaining, ain't we? Bargaining's not done until I say 'final offer'. And did you hear me say 'final offer'? I didn't think so!"
"I told you to stop fucking around once. I'll not say it again. Give me your final price and let's be done."
The man stared at Remus for a long minute before he made his final offer.
Remus stood outside the shop, his fingers wrapped securely around the four hundred and forty pounds that now rested in his pocket. It was too bad he couldn't sell his memories to the pawnbroker as well, he thought. And then he smiled grimly.
His memories wouldn't even buy him a cup of coffee.
Thanks to those who have reviewed and put this story on alert. I appreciate it greatly--certainly more than you know!