cvi. cursed twice-over

The snickering coming from the next aisle could mean nothing good.

Exhaling, Remus Lupin set down the history textbook before he could shelve it and straightened from his kneeling position by the open box. His joints popped as he stood, having spent too long on his knees stocking inventory, and so he took a moment to stretch out the stiffness in his limbs.

He was a tall man, thin and a bit slouched, the shirt and trousers under his apron both rather threadbare while gray flecked his brown hair like new snow on a wheat field. The most distinct feature of the man wasn't his green eyes or his height or his patchy clothes; rather, it was the prominent red scars slashed across his face, the largest crossing his cheek and the bridge of his nose. His hand came up to scratch the tail of the scar—then dropped limp by his side.

He was young despite his weathered state—but Remus didn't feel young. He felt quite a bit like an old flannel too often used and wrung out, left out to dry in the sun until stiff and malformed. He didn't much want to go and deal with those snickers. He'd much rather be in his flat, dowdy and dubious as it was, preferably with a good book and a hot cuppa, but he would settle for his own bed and quiet evening's rest. He didn't want to go into the next aisle, and yet he heard the tearing pages and knew he couldn't pretend otherwise. He couldn't take the cut to his paycheck for damaged inventory.

Brushing off his hands, Remus paced around the corner and found four Muggle youths in patterned jumpers and torn jeans egging on the fifth member of their group, an older boy with a book braced between his two hands. Pages littered the carpet about his scuffed trainers. The group caught sight of Remus when he approached and he got the impression they would have kept on with their vandalism if they hadn't seen his scarred face. His visage frightened Muggles, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?"

The younger boys looked to the eldest, who had the good sense to toss the book in his grip onto the nearest stack without damaging it further. "Nah, mate. We were just on our way, weren't we?"

Heads nodded in agreement.

"Mmm," Remus hummed, his smile tight-lipped and more of a grimace than anything else. "You wouldn't happen to know what happened to these books, would you?"

The leader shrugged and sneered. "Strange, innit?"

"Strange indeed. Do you need help finding the door?"

They did not, in fact, need help finding the door, though Remus watched their retreating backs until they were back on the street, disappearing into the evening crowd. He picked up the damaged books and glanced at the pages on the floor. It seemed an ill portent that he opened the first volume to the section titled, "Gray Wolf, Canis lupus."

Remus' fingers tightened, wrinkling the page.

He looked around to see if anyone was about, then tugged his wand from his trouser pocket and whispered, "Reparo," mending the book, replacing it on the shelf. A long sigh left him as he finished fixing the others and reorganized them. Another simple spell could have managed the lot but taking his time gave his mind something to focus on.

Working among Muggles proved more challenging than most wizards or witches would assume; Remus had been flitting about London from job to job for years and still struggled to consciously not use magic in their presence. That was why Muggle-borns usually decided on one life or the other, at least in his opinion. Magic became part of a person's life as essential as breathing or walking or talking, and the constant need to remember not to use it in the presence of certain people became grating.

He could find work easier in the Muggle world than in the Wizarding one, given his…affliction, but without GCSE marks or A levels, Remus could never qualify for anything well-paying or permanent. He'd been dismissed for sudden absences around the full moon more than once and couldn't work anywhere more technologically savvy than a pub. He assumed it was better than being chased from the village with pitchforks, though.

Remus finished up his shift and returned his apron and name tag to his locker in the backroom, exiting through the rear door into the tidy alleyway behind the store. He left Waterstones, walking toward Tottenham Court Road and Charing Cross beyond, savoring the summer warmth after spending the afternoon stuck in the artificial chill. He walked all the way to the Leaky Cauldron, pausing to chat with Myrl Cork, a Ravenclaw alum a few years his senior, and Tom, the bartender.

"Heard there's been a Black sighting out near Aylesbury," Tom said.

Myrl put down her pint. "Aye? When?"

"Sometime yesterday apparently. Calvin Hopkirk says he saw him clear as day, nicking robes from his clothesline."

"Calvin Hopkirk is full of shite and always has been."

"Mafalda went out to check herself and send someone definitely tripped the wards."

"That doesn't mean it was Sirius Black, though. Probably Calvin's daft neighbor or the bloody wind, for Merlin's sake…."

Remus excused himself and exited into the Alley proper through the moving wall. He took half a dozen steps before he had to stop again, his breath seizing in his lungs, something cold and painful dragging along his spine. The Ministry had plastered the whole of the English Wizarding quarter with wanted posters; this one was no different from the others, if perhaps positioned a bit higher, illuminated by a convenient lamp. It shouldn't have caught him off guard each time he passed it. Remus stared into the convict's hard, unflinching gray eyes and tried to breathe.

"Marly's pregnant!" A hand grasped his and squeezed. "D'you know what this means?! We're going to be par—!"

Jerking his gaze away, Remus forced his body to shuffle onward. His feet led him through the busy lane until he reached Knockturn, at which point he ducked into the looming warren and meandered until he reached the grubby outer estate bordering the quarter's outer edge. His flat resided above a dowdy pub that didn't actually have a name; Remus assumed it amassed there one night like bio-luminescent fungus attracting drunks moths and no one with any official power had thought to clear it out yet. The volume in the evenings could get rowdy, so the rent for the flat above came at an irresistible discount. Still, Remus wished they weren't quite so loud.

At the top of the steps, he caught sight of something leaning against his door—a copy of the evening Prophet. He bent on instinct to pick it up—then stopped, hand recoiling as if burnt, and straightened once more. Remus unlocked his door, disabled the wards, and stepped over the paper, leaving it on the mat to most likely be nicked by someone passing by. He didn't care.

His flat didn't reflect Remus' person very well; it didn't have a bookcase, a nice desk, or even a comfortable reading chair. It did have a decent enough kitchen, however, and Remus relaxed for the first time in hours when he took out his wand and freely started prepping himself a cup of tea. The tin rattled with the last few dregs of stale honeybush and he rubbed his scarred face, plopping onto a crooked chair by the little table. Remus told himself to get up and go buy some more but he didn't move from his spot. Instead, he leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes. Already thuds and voices echoed from the pub below and Remus listened to the noise, not bothering with a Silencing Charm. It never worked well or for very long.

Just as the first whispers of sleep started to tug at him, a knock came sounded on the door.

Remus frowned. He didn't live in the kind of place where one expected friendly visitors; typically it was the landlord—a rough gentleman from Koldovstoretz, and if a salesman popped by, he would more than likely be selling something dubious, like freshly harvested fingers or other anatomical…ingredients.

It could be the Ministry, Remus considered as he stood, wand in hand, and crossed to the door. He imagined someone, somewhere, would read the news and recall that tall, ragged boy who used to be best mates with that man. Really, Remus had expected them before now—but people had touchy memories, and despite his menacing visage, Remus was as forgettable as they came.

Taking a breath, he twisted the knob and cracked the door ajar. He nearly jumped from his shoes when he peeked out and found a familiar face watching him.

"H-Headmaster!" Remus sputtered in surprise.

"Good evening, Remus. It's a pleasure to see you again."

"W-what can I do for you, sir?"

"Hopefully an old wizard can beg your hospitality for a minute. This isn't a conversation to be had on the threshold."

"Yes, I'm terribly sorry. Where are my manners? Come in, come in."

Albus Dumbledore smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling further, and came inside. He wore plain, russet-colored robes—a very understated choice for the wizard in Remus' opinion. Why was he there? When was the last time Remus had seen him—?

He choked, then swallowed and cleared his throat. He remembered now. The last time he'd laid eyes on the Headmaster, they'd been standing by a grave in Godric's Hollow on a crisp November morning in 1981 and the older wizard had kept his hand on Remus' arm to stop him from shaking into pieces. Professor McGonagall and Hagrid had been present, the latter weeping into an over-sized handkerchief. Snape of all people had been in attendance—well, Remus thought he had. There'd been so many funerals that year. So many.

He shook himself. "Would you care for something to drink, sir?

"Tea would be lovely, thank you."

Remus started toward the kitchen, then stopped. "Oh. I—I'm afraid I don't have any tea at the moment."

"Not a problem! I never go anywhere without my own." Dumbledore's wand appeared in his hand and he gave it a swish, conjuring up a porcelain pot and a kettle that hopped itself onto the hob, settling like a hen over her chicks. "Have a seat, Remus."

He sat, and Dumbledore did as well. As the older wizard returned his wand to his robes, Remus realized he'd been using his left hand and that the sleeve of his right appeared…empty. It fluttered with his movements, the arm inside clearly not in residence. What in the world? An accident, perhaps? He couldn't imagine the kind of accident that could take a man like Dumbledore unawares, but if he'd lost his arm, it had to have been a magical incident. An alchemical project gone wrong? A curse?

"I take it you've seen the news about Mr. Black?"

Remus realized he hadn't stopped staring at the sleeve and forced himself to look away. "…yes. Bit hard to miss."

"Of course. I must apologize for broaching the subject; I imagine it's difficult to discuss your old friend."

"Friend is a strong word, isn't it, professor? We just knew each other in school, that's all."

Headmaster Dumbledore pursed his lips and Remus shut his eyes, ashamed. The water came to a boil and Dumbledore served them each a cup of tea. Merlin, how it burned to lie like that, but it'd become all too common for Remus in the time that had passed since 81', the worst year of his life. Each time he came across an acquaintance he knew in school, they would ask, "Weren't you friends with Sirius Black?" and he would say, "No, you're mistaken." Or they would question, "Do you know whatever happened to Lily and James? Did they stay together? Did they leave the country?" And Remus would say, "No, I believe they died." They didn't ask as often as the years passed, and yet Remus still lied. I didn't know him. I didn't know him. We weren't friends. The Potters died.

He lived with the lies every day. He woke up and shouldered them like an old, hideous pair of robes, his own personal hairshirt, and pretended those years of friendship, war, and tragedy hadn't come to define his daily routine. Nobody really cared what had happened to the Potters. Anyone who thought of Hallowe'en in 1981 remembered only Voldemort and his defeat at the hands of the Longbottom boy. They didn't think of James or of Lily, and if anyone cared to consider Peter, they only shook their heads and muttered, "Poor Pettigrew. Such a tragedy."

They didn't think about those twelve Muggles lost in the blink of an eye. They didn't think about Peter's ailing mother, who couldn't handle the stress of her son's death. Remus was the only one who showed up for her funeral, and for Peter's. No one mourned that gray-eyed boy in a Gryffindor tie who died the moment he deceived everyone who had ever loved him; they immortalized the monster, made up stories, forgot all the good he'd ever done or ever pretended to do. Remus was cursed in more ways than one because he couldn't forget, though he pretended not to care, just like all the rest.

He pretended it didn't plague him still, and he prayed one day for his indifference to be true.

"Is that why you're here, professor?"

"What's that?"

"Are you here because you want to talk about…Black?" Remus didn't want to discuss Black. He never wanted to hear the name again, for as long as he lived.

"No, not explicitly, dear boy." Dumbledore poured a dash of cream and a heavy dollop of sugar into his cup. The conjured dishes crowded around him, eager to serve. "How are you these days, Remus?"

The younger man blinked at the non sequitur. This couldn't possibly be a social visit. "Well enough, I suppose. And yourself?"

"Oh, wonderful as could be. Though, I am a bit less handy these days." The Headmaster chuckled as Remus sucked tea down his air pipe and coughed. "Are you keeping yourself employed? It must be difficult with the Senior Undersecretary's new laws regarding werewolf registration."

Remus twitched at the mention of the word. "Yes, I've…opted to find work in the Muggle world."

"I must say that was a wise choice." Dumbledore set his cup down. "Ah, times are not rosy as others would have us think, my friend. The darkness is everywhere, even at Hogwarts. The students need brave, good hearts like yours, Remus."

"What do mean, professor?"

"Well, I'm here to offer you a job."

Remus' brow rose, stretching his scars. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. "A job?"

"Yes, a job. The post of History of Magic professor. Your NEWTs in the subject were exemplary and I believe you would have no difficulty teaching the subject. The previous professor has seen fit to abandon his post and shed this mortal coil. The Board has not been able to find their own candidate, leaving the position as mine to fill."

"That's—Professor, you couldn't possibly hire me. No one would want me near their children with my—condition. No matter the role."

"But you are not registered, are you, Remus?" The Headmaster peered over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "Your condition, as you put it, would not need to be known by any but a select few members of staff."

"But it's not safe, sir. I'm—." A monster.

"It would be perfectly safe, I assure you. The current Potions Master is capable of brewing the Wolfsbane Potion. Have you heard of it? He would be—." Dumbledore blinked. "Amenable to producing it, should I ask. With proper administration and availability, you would not pose a threat to my students."

Remus' mouth went dry as the Headmaster spoke and he couldn't seem to unstick his tongue to respond. Of course he'd heard of the Wolfsbane Potion. He'd even tried a dose once, years ago, after applying for an experimental trial done by a budding Potioneer out of Exeter. It had been part of the man's mastery and, unfortunately, it hadn't fully worked as intended—but Remus could recall the sensation, the feel of his own mind slipping over that of the beast's, and it had been…indescribable. He would never be able to afford another dose. The ingredients alone could bankrupt a man, and that was without the cost of preparation and brewing.

"I—." Remus swallowed, his tone thready and weak. He wanted it. Merlin, how he wanted it; a career worthy of his skills, control over himself, a life outside dusty hovels and part-time Muggle jobs. He couldn't. He couldn't. Everything he'd ever touched had died or gone to pot. "I would have to think about it."

Dumbledore nodded, then stood, dismissing his tea service—though Remus noticed the full tin remained on the counter. "Yes, of course. Think on it. I will need your answer soon though, so I do hope you'll owl within the week."

"Yes, Professor."

The older wizard turned to leave. Remus was staring at the table, so the sudden touch on his slumped shoulder startled him. "You are not a monster, Remus," Dumbledore said, his voice soft. It wasn't the first time Remus had wondered if he could read minds. "No matter the phase of the moon. There are far, far worse people out there."

"…thank you, Headmaster."

"You may call me Albus, you know." Dumbledore patted his shoulder. "Be sure to write."

The door opened, then closed. Distantly, Remus heard the faint 'pop!' of Disapparition and he released the shuddering breath held captive in his chest. Dumbledore hadn't stayed for more than half an hour, and yet he'd tipped Remus' world on its ear. A job. A chance.

Hogwarts. His heart swelled in his chest at the mere thought of the old castle, the green forest and the dark, rippling waters of the lake. Could he go back? Could he really return and not lose himself to the memories? No one remembered the Potters. No one remembered Sir—Black, or Peter. No one gave a thought to that wicked fire that took Marlene and E—.

Somebody had to remember, didn't they? Somebody had to remember so they wouldn't be lost forever.

He rose and stumbled into the bedroom, where he sat on the edge of his bed and, after a pause, gave in to the urge to open the nightstand's drawer. From inside, he pulled out a folded photograph, and with slow, careful movements, Remus opened it just enough to peer at the image of a small, black-haired toddler in her mother's arms.

He had already made his choice.

x X x

Not terribly far from that London flat, a black dog slunk through a darkened lane on his way to see his goddaughter.

He came to a stop behind a bin to wait for a dotty old bat in carpet slippers to trundle past. His nose scrunched as he watched her, the smell of cats almost as thick as the smell of rubbish coming off the bin. He waited, and when the woman's vague muttering dwindled, he darted out from his hiding place and hurried past Wisteria Walk along Magnolia Crescent, pausing only to circle and sniff a sign that read 'Privet Drive.'

It looked just as it did in Sirius' head—ridiculously Muggle and plain, with that itchy feeling all wizards and witches felt in the presence of too much electricity. He'd visited once more than a decade ago; Lily had been a few months pregnant and visiting her sister, for what reason, he couldn't recall. The details had long since gone fuzzy. He'd come roaring up the drive on his motorcycle to pick her up because she couldn't Apparate and James had been called off by the Aurory—he didn't know why. All he really remembered was Lily's sister, Petunia, and her horrified face upon spotting him loitering by their house. The bint had been gobsmacked as if he'd stripped starkers and gone frolicking through her begonias.

Good times, he thought, panting. Good times.

Sirius padded up one walk and then another, sniffing plants and bushes, pretending he was an average stray minding his own business. He didn't rightly remember the number of the house but it hadn't been far from the corner…right? Things muddled themselves in his mind, bouncing about like pixies in a sack. He kept his nose down and sniffing, trying to find some hint of Harriet. Would he remember what she smelled like after all these years? Would she recognize Padfoot? Would he recognize her?

He trampled through the flowerbeds of Number Four, making a full circle of the garden before passing under the open den window. He stopped upon hearing a familiar, nasally voice.

"—matter, this is our home, and we won't have any of your sort in here!"

"Damn straight," echoed a louder male voice. "The wretched girl isn't even here! This nonsense with this Black fellow—."

Sirius peeked over the sill, unable to help himself. He recognized Petunia right off, and the fat bloke at her side had to be her husband—Vern? Bernie? Dursley. There were two others, though, that he hadn't thought to find; Emmie Vance and bloody Diggle, the wacky tosser! They'd been in the Order and both had been a pleasant sort, Diggle a bit too eccentric for even Sirius' taste, but pleasant all the same. They didn't appear pleasant at the moment, however. Both stared down the Dursleys like they'd spotted a nasty bug on the carpet.

"Whether or not Harriet is here is immaterial," Vance said, her tone cool enough to droop Sirius' tail. "You're related to her and Black knows she was sent to you."

Outside, Sirius huffed, breath fogging the glass. Oh, shite. She's not here?

"We're here for your family's protection, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley," Diggle squeaked.

The bloated Muggle hauled himself to his feet, his face gone red as a beet. "You listen here!" he thundered, pointing one sausage finger at Diggle, who stumbled and lost his garish top hat. "We don't need your sort coming round here, hanging on the bell at all hours—!"

Someone tossed out a Silencing Charm—sending both Muggles into hysterics—and Sirius decided it was time to leave. Disappointment weighed him down, but he stiffened his spine and set off at an easy lope, no one taking note of the great black dog running down the street. If Harriet wasn't here, then it was time to move on.

He had to get to Hogwarts.


A/N: Yay, Remus!