***CDD: there is no named 3rd year Defense textbook given in PoA, so I went with the one in the film. MinaLima embraced it as the official so ?
From the playlist:
Teacher - Jethro Tull
My Old Man - Mac DeMarco
My Father's House - Bruce Springsteen
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Ch. 10 - As The Tree, So The Fruit
First year - around the coffee table.
Second year - entryway.
Thanks to a bit of spellotape he found misplaced in the wrong drawer, third year was stuck up on the wall around the hearth.
The fourth year notes were all in an odd configuration under the window. Fifth year ended up strewn about the kitchen for some reason. Sixth year was a winding, twisting domino arrangement on the floor leading into his room, and seventh year was up on the wall opposite the bed. It wasn't particularly linear, but it became a path he walked daily with his quill between his teeth, an ink pot in one hand, and a book in the other.
He began with review - starting with an outline of first year, then making sure those concepts were sprinkled into the second years' curriculum, then the second year concepts woven into the fabric of the third year curriculum, so on and so forth up the ladder. From what he'd heard, they would need it.
To his surprise and delight, it all came back to him rather easily if he concentrated hard enough. He still needed to get his hands on the textbooks to check his work, but he found that, for the most part, he hadn't needed them to get started. After seven Defense professors, some better than others, he felt he was able to recall most of the major units he'd studied - and ones he hadn't. Because while the books and the teachers had taught him facts, they hadn't been the source of his best schooling in the subject.
That title rested on the somewhat disfigured but ever vigilant brow of Alastor Moody. He believed in the power of practical lessons rather than theoretical ones, and it was by far the best Defense education Remus ever received. Those introductory training sessions for the Order of the Phoenix were always conducted on one's feet - or, usually, getting knocked on one's arse. But it was the quickest way to get good, and more importantly, to be able to rely on muscle memory when you truly needed it.
Across all the years, Remus's notes were riddled with diagrams and plans for hands-on activities to accompany nearly every lesson. He'd done his best to get in Mad-Eye's headspace (not fully of course, because that sounded bloody terrifying). He'd even considered writing to him at one point, but taking into account that Moody may or may not have known about the Emmeline situation, ultimately, Remus decided he'd rather not risk getting maimed.
After walking the route and adding a few more scribbles here and there, Remus sat down for his daily study of the book from Dumbledore. Next up on the weekly rotation were the first years, whose names he felt he knew the least, unfortunately. He pretended not to know why, even as the scribbling sound drove his heart rate up a few clicks. Pesky ticker acting up for no good reason.
He'd done it enough now where he knew which page to skip, and yet his attention span mysteriously seemed to dwindle considerably on the days he reviewed the first year register. No reason for it whatsoever.
He opened the book, covering the left pages with the newspaper and trying to go off the drawings.
Ethan Bexley.
Flip.
Sheila Brooks.
Flip.
Miles Cadwallader.
Flip.
Ritchie Coote.
Flip.
… Er…Annie DeLeón?
He moved the newspaper.
Damn it. Olivia. Olivia DeLeón.
Flip.
Jena Duncan.
Flip.
Eastchurch. Faith. I think…
He checked underneath the newspaper again.
Damn it!
Seven pages in, and it was somehow going worse than last week.
His hand met his forehead with a smack, and he rubbed his face, utterly disappointed in himself. Every other year was nearly memorized, but not the poor firsties. Shutting the book, he decided it might be better to table his daily practice until he'd finished his errand later. That must've been it. Ruminating on it clearly wasn't helping his focus. When he'd properly dressed, he made sure not to step on any of the sixth year notes on his way out of the bedroom, then plucked a few pages from above the hearth.
One final errand before the term started. One he'd been putting off.
…
When the entryway swirled into view, Remus was still having to talk himself into it.
A perpetually tired-looking older gentleman came shuffling down the hallway right on cue. "Remus."
"Hi, Dad." He didn't necessarily have to force the smile, but it wasn't entirely genuine, either.
"You're a bit early."
"I hope that's alright."
"Of course; though I didn't get to tidy up quite as much as I would've liked," Lyall apologized. "As much as your mother would've liked, anyway," he murmured, glancing wistfully at a photo hung up in the hallway.
I've not been here thirty seconds and he's already doing this? Remus thought cynically. It didn't bode well.
"...Don't worry about it."
Mercifully, his father had been able to hold on to this house, and long term homeownership had done him some good in his age, Remus supposed. Prior to that, the Lupins had relocated about once a year in order to keep his condition a secret; sometimes twice or three times, depending on how nosey the neighbors got. After Remus moved out at eighteen, his parents settled into a quieter, more stable existence that Remus was reluctant to deprive them of. This was the house Hope had died in, and sometimes, it was like part of her remained in the wallpaper. That's how his father acted, anyway; like she was still there in some regard, and it always made Remus feel terribly guilty. But he always gave his father the benefit of the doubt, and knew it was just how he'd learned to get by with it. He was moderately fascinated and mildly creeped out by how alike they were.
Lyall hugged him gingerly like he always did, prompting Remus to wonder - like he always did - if the cautious touch stemmed from a concern for Remus's wellbeing, or his own.
"Alright?" Lyall asked, taking in the sight of him.
"Yes. Fine," Remus said simply.
His father nicked his head down. "Those are some very smart shoes."
That approval helped shave off a smidgeon of the anxiety. Remus glanced down at his new boots with pride. "Thanks."
The Chelsea boots were purchased during his outing in London earlier that month. They were likely not in style anymore, but Remus wasn't too concerned with current trends. They used to be all the rage when he was growing up. Superficial scuffs on the leather inclined BHS to list them at a discount, and the sturdy support they offered would help to combat those infernal moving stairs. After his last pair of shoes, Remus considered them perfect.
"Come in, come in," Lyall beckoned. "Tea?"
Third time's the charm.
"Please."
"I've got some nice Lapsang Souchong, and there's a bit of Earl Grey around here somewhere. Or PG Tips, of course."
"Lapsang Souchong sounds great."
Lyall shuffled to the kitchen and Remus followed, leaning in the doorway.
"How's er…oh, what's the restaurant's name?" Lyall wondered, pointing his wand at the kettle to fill it and ignite the stove.
"…I'm actually not dishwashing anymore-"
"Oh! No, of course. I'm sorry." He playfully knocked on his head. "You're at the grocer's now."
"Kwik Save."
"That's the one." With another swish of his wand, the tea set began assembling itself on the tray.
"Yeah, it's good," Remus fibbed - for the sake of getting the pleasantries out of the way first.
"And how's the house coming along?" Lyall asked with an undertone of his own guilt.
"Good." Another lie - way less little, way less white.
"I ought to come see it soon."
"Well…It still needs quite a bit of work." Which was a gross understatement, but not a lie.
"As soon as this damn sciatica lets up, I'll be over there with two extra hands and a paint can."
"Yeah, how are you doing?" Remus felt sorry for not asking at the outset, but was grateful for the opportunity to change the subject.
"Fine, fine. Nothing terribly exciting to report."
Wish I could say the same.
His father must've noticed how he'd retreated into his thoughts. "Remus, do you…Do you need some money-?"
"No- no, Dad, that's not why I've-"
"-for anything-?"
"I'm fine."
Lyall always offered. Except for one occasion, Remus always declined.
This time, Lyall changed the subject. "You erm…you've been keeping up with the paper, I presume?"
"Yeah, I saw." You had to be willingly ignorant to have missed it. The story had dominated the front page for weeks. As the kettle spouted its high-pitched whistle, Remus winced. The full moon's approach always heightened his senses, but this month he felt more sensitive to noise than usual. Nowadays, guessing which symptoms would choose to present themselves each cycle was like a nasty game of roulette. Sometimes Remus wondered if the devil just had a dartboard in his office with all of Remus's maladies on it.
"So… are you alright?" his father asked again.
"…I mean, him being out and about is not ideal by any stretch of the imagination."
With one final flick of Lyall's wand, the hot water poured itself into the teapot. "Should we be concerned about him, do you think?"
Remus picked up the tray, ignoring the twinges budding in the middle of his back as he did. "They'll have him back behind bars soon enough." He had to keep telling himself that.
"Yes, yes you're right. He can't very well hide looking like that, can he?"
"Dad," Remus started, heading into the sitting room. "I'm erm…I've got some news I wanted to share."
"Good news, I hope?" Lyall said apprehensively.
"I think so."
With tea squared away, they settled into habitual places in the sitting room, and into the habitual discomfort, too. It had probably always been there, but with his mother gone, Remus thought it seemed more perceptible. Tangible, even.
Lyall poured them each a cup, then sat back in his armchair. "So, let's hear this news."
Lifting his cup to his lips, Remus blew on the surface of the tea, savoring its smoky aroma and stalling. Go on, just get it over with.
And though this was not what he was about to share at all , in that moment Remus realized that Lyall had a grandchild who he would likely never meet or even learn of. This was for the best. One look at that girl might send him into cardiac arrest. Remus's stomach began to churn all over again, and he set down his tea. With lesson planning monopolizing his focus, pretending the girl didn't exist had mostly gone well up until now.
He decided that enduring whatever Lyall would have to say was going to be a better alternative to dwelling on those little brown eyes again; so in a very James-like manner, Remus ripped the plaster off in one go. "I'll be taking up the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship at Hogwarts this year-"
Lyall's cup clattered on its saucer and sent a dribble of tea onto his waistband. "Hogwarts-?"
"Merlin, Dad." Remus felt around for the handkerchief in his back pocket and handed it off to his father. "Dumbledore will supply the Wolfsbane potion whilst I'm there." He made sure to throw that in before things got too far.
Lyall gripped the handkerchief, but was too confounded to dab his trousers with it. "...Teaching," he mumbled, like he was having to chew the sentence in smaller bites. "...Teaching students…"
"That is what teaching is, yeah." It came out more smart-mouthed than he would've liked.
Lyall was mute for a few moments. Then:
"That's…Goodness Remus, that's…"
Oh Merlin, here we go.
"…It's a nice thought, but I cannot help but wonder if this is perhaps…" Lyall trailed off.
"…Perhaps what?"
"…Unwise."
"…It was Dumbledore who brought me on," Remus emphasized. You know, the wisest person alive.
"And Dumbledore has always been good to you, but… exposing you to the students does concern me," he said delicately.
Though he knew his father hadn't meant it this way, the word choice made him feel like some sort of horrible pathogen. "I'll undergo the transformations behind a locked door in my office, far from any dormitories, and with a potion that helps me keep my wits about me."
"Suppose there are children who sneak out of their beds," Lyall countered.
"Silencing charm…Dad, you do know I've been at this for a while, don't you-?"
"This would require that you are very disciplined about your potion, and when you've got a full schedule of classes to worry about, it's entirely possible you could miss a dose."
"The Potions Master will administer it himself, which adds an extra element of accountability. It's very unlikely-"
"But it is a possibility, Remus. Whether you like it or not, these are the things you have to consider."
"I have considered them. So has Dumbledore."
Remus could see him trying to work around what he really wanted to say.
"…They'll learn about werewolves. In your class."
"Third year will."
"You don't worry some of them will notice?"
"I have an opportunity to teach that chapter from a different perspective. You know, I could-…" He swallowed, not wanting to sound overly ambitious. "Maybe I could change the way this generation views lycanthropy."
"And tell them what-?"
"Dad-"
"That werewolves aren't at all dangerous-?"
"No, but perhaps that they're not inherently soulless, evil, and deserving of nothing but death."
The atmosphere hung thick, as if he'd aired out a dark, putrid box that was never meant to see the light of day.
They stared at each other, both of their lips parted and their brows low over the specters haunting each other's eyes. Remus thought they must've looked very alike in that moment.
"…Someone taught you that," Remus elaborated more gently. "It isn't your fault that you thought that way." He really hadn't meant for that to slip out, and he felt terrible, but it was perhaps the only thing he could've said to get Lyall to surrender.
Lyall's gaze drifted off somewhere else.
"I understand your concerns, I do," Remus ceded. "It's not that they're… unfounded, but…" He began anxiously running his hands down his trouser legs. "...Do you remember that conversation we had when I finished school? I don't want you to feel obligated to worry…"
"Yes," Lyall muttered defeatedly.
"…It's one night a month," Remus uttered just above whisper, like he was ten and trying to convince his father to let him go outside and play with the other children.
"Yes," Lyall muttered again, now completely disengaged.
Remus couldn't bear to sit there and be confronted with those specters in his father's eyes that looked an awful lot like Fenrir Greyback, so he left his un-sipped teacup and stood. "I thought I might borrow the textbooks again. Do you still keep them-?"
"They're still in the study." The books had first belonged to Lyall.
"Do you mind if I…?"
"Go on," he excused him.
For reasons Remus had neither the psychological knowledge nor the desire to discern, the study was the tidiest room in the house, and always had been. Even with permission, Remus crept in with a sense he was intruding somehow and began running his fingers along the spines displayed on the bookshelf. The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble was the first to be plucked from the shelf and set on the desk.
"I have no idea where the Arsenius Jigger text got off to," Lyall said from the doorway.
"I can make do with Scamander until I get to school," Remus absolved him as he pulled Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them and set it on top of the Trimble. The book jogged his memory, and he produced the folded parchment from his breast pocket. "Could I er…Would you mind looking over my notes for the Boggarts lesson?" Remus asked, in a feeble attempt at an olive branch. "I think I'd like to get an expert's opinion."
Precisely as Remus had hoped, Lyall perked up a little, and accepted the papers from his grasp. "I'd be happy to."
"I'll need to get my hands on one for it."
Hooking his reading glasses over his ears, Lyall leaned up against the desk and unfolded the papers. "You will. There's always at least one in the castle somewhere."
While Lyall poured over the notes, Remus pulled a few more books to add to the pile: Bagshot's A History of Magic, as well as The Standard Book of Spells, both grade six and grade seven. None of them were required texts for Defense, but good to have on hand as supplements, he thought.
Lyall lowered the papers, observing the growing stack. "You'll need something to put those in…I've still got your old case in your room upstairs, if you'd like," he offered in his own attempt at an olive branch.
Looking up at his father, Remus smiled gratefully. For all his flaws, he'd only ever tried to make the best of a shit situation. "...That'd be great."
He left Lyall in the study with the lesson notes and ascended the stairs. For a moment, Remus stood out in the hallway and stared at that quilted bedspread in his room, swallowing tightly as he tried in vain not to think of Emmeline. Emmeline, seventeen and bewitchingly bashful, with her bare skin pressed to his and her head upon his chest and her arms wrapped around him like nothing could ever make her stop.
He was growing desperate to get back home and shove his face in those textbooks.
Shaking the memory from his head, he went straight to the closet and found the case squashed under a few cardboard boxes. He managed to yank it out, but frowned at the state of it. It had seen better days, literally and figuratively; but it had carried him through seven of the best years of his life, so if he was going to be less pessimistic, he supposed it was just well-loved.
He scrunched his mouth up in thought as he ran his finger over the peeling lettering stamped in the corner.
R. J. LUPIN
Drawing his wand, he charmed the letters.
PROFESSOR R. J. LUPIN
Because of the nature of the charm, the added letters weren't in any better shape than the ones that followed; and yet Remus couldn't suppress his smile. That's nice, that.
He caught a glimpse of the stuffed dragon on the shelf as he stood back up, and without really knowing why, he stashed it in the case. Not three steps into the hallway, and the case burst open, sending the poor dragon tumbling to the floor. The latches were either misaligned or broken, but he didn't have any other containers available to him, so he shoved the dragon back in and stuck the case under his arm.
Down in the study, Lyall was grinning approvingly and folding the notes back up. "This is really quite good, Remus. Well done."
"All thanks to you, really."
Once the books were loaded up, Remus thought it best not to burden his father any longer, and he wanted to be as far from that bedspread as possible. "I'll write you once the term starts," he promised, tucking the case under his arm again, but grappling with the excess weight of the textbooks.
"I do have one question," Lyall said as he walked him to the door.
"Yes?" Remus grunted, adjusting the case.
"...Why are you doing this, really?"
Even with the weight in his arms, that made Remus halt in his tracks, and he turned. "...I'm doing it because Dumbledore asked me to."
"...Are you?" Lyall pressed. "I just wonder-...I know how fond you were of your time there-"
"Thank you for the books," Remus interrupted, eager to escape Lyall's pervasive disappointment. He hoped the Boggart notes might've placated him a bit more.
"Remus, wait," his father stopped him.
He turned wordlessly, awaiting another admonition.
"…I love you," Lyall reminded him without an ounce of obligation.
Remus huffed a sigh. "…Love you too."
"Be careful," Lyall's voice swirled into his disapparition as he departed.
…
As soon as Remus touched down in the cottage and relinquished the case, the sense of relief that washed over him was as palpable as the discomfort in the sitting room had been - but short-lived.
"…Oh- fuck me!"
He hadn't even drunk his tea, he realized.