"Remus Lupin?"
The moment he hears the voice calling out his name, Remus is ready to skip out on his sizeable tab and flee. He'd thought a Muggle pub in Manchester was anonymous enough to escape the repercussions for a night, but apparently -
"It is you!"
Well. A quick exit is off the table now, unlike whatever monstrosity of a drink that the woman in front of him just set down on it. He'll blame the drink for his slow reaction time, like it'll do him any good. It takes him a moment to place the dark eyes and angular face, but he manages.
"Esther Ollivander." Don't make a scene. She might not have read the article in the Prophet. Best to keep things pleasant and short.
"In the flesh," she answers, slinking into the other seat in his booth. "I don't think I've seen you since the NEWTs."
She hasn't. Remus has kept a deliberately low profile in the wizarding world ever since he left school, until - well. The less said about that, the better. Trying to think of anything he's heard about her ventures since then doesn't turn up anything, which is not in itself surprising. Most of the people from his year that didn't turn out to be Death Eaters or Order members, dropped from his radar pretty quickly.
"You've been well?" is what he falls back, taking as large a sip of his beer as he can without being conspicuous.
"Can't complain," she answers with a shrug, taking a sip of her cocktail before her face turns serious. "I read that you tried your hand at the cursed position."
He freezes mid-drink. If she's read that -
"Sorry." It's such a bizarre follow-up that he is forced to abandon his fight-or-flight response. "I know this must not be a good time."
What a world of an understatement, and also, what an odd thing to say.
"No, I - just let me settle the tab, I'll get out of your hair."
She knows. Any minute now, she'll come out with what it is she wants - blackmail or vitriol or threats - and he doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't think he could handle it gracefully just now, when he hasn't gotten a good night's sleep since Sirius and Wormtail, and he can't be shouting in public. Can't justify whatever ideas about werewolves she has in her head.
"Horace asked me to find you."
...
"Horace... Horace Slughorn?"
"Mhm."
"What in God's name does he want with me?"
"He knew I was looking for an employee. Suggested I ask you."
That doesn't really clear up anything. Remus wouldn't have bet Horace Slughorn remembered his name after he finished school, let alone had him on the list of people to do favours for.
"Why not send an owl?" he asks, mostly to stall while he makes his beer-sluggish brain follow along.
Esther looks undeterred, evidently satisfied that she's gotten him to stay in his seat. "I did. You never answered."
Right. He's been burning most of his mail for good reason. Thin walls and howlers do not make a good combination.
"I see." Part of him wants to tell her to sod off. He doesn't care for whatever busywork Albus has found for him (because that's what this must be), doesn't have the bandwidth to do more than lick his festering wounds. But another part, the part that knows just what proportion tonight's tab presents out of his total savings, the part that dreads what will happen in one and a half weeks, knows that beggars can't be choosers. "What's the job?"
The job, it turns out, is gathering hard-to-locate potions ingredients. Once he is sober and no longer hungover (even the wolf in him is getting older, it seems), that makes a lot more sense. Esther was one of Slughorn's three prize students in their year, and the only one untouched enough by the war to jump into an apprenticeship straight out of Hogwarts. Now, apparently, she makes bespoke potions for an exclusive, and demanding, clientele.
Her offer is good, even before considering it's the only one he has. A decent wage, yes, but much more importantly, a monthly supply of Wolfsbane Potion. Slughorn must have something considerable to hold over her head to get her to do this.
Still, he thinks, taking one final look at the dismal studio flat he's been hiding out in, she at least managed to pretend she was genuinely happy to make the offer. Her dancing around the word werewolf was noticeable, yes, but she made the effort. Even shook his hand when he agreed.
He heads out in the direction of the meeting place she pointed out the evening prior, relishing the wind against his skin. Summer has come to Manchester, but it is at least not so hot that he has to seriously trade off between comfort and covering up his arms.
What does he remember about Esther from their Hogwarts years? A fairly typical Ravenclaw, studious and a touch eccentric, a minor celebrity on account of her relation to Garrick Ollivander. There is a vague snippet in his head that she went out a few times with Gideon Prewett, a Gryffindor one year ahead of them, and that it ended badly in a way that was talked about, but the details escape him. He supposes it can hardly matter now.
By the time he makes it to the intersection she marked on her tourist map, his head is mostly clear and he sees her before she sees him. Unlike most wizards and witches, Esther apparently knows how Muggles dress, but her hair of unruly blonde curls would be noticeable almost anywhere. He gives her a little wave when she looks his way and sees her face light up with an enthusiastic smile.
Holding onto what he assumes is an overnight bag, she hurries towards him, weaving between the pedestrians with what looks like practised ease. Interesting. Maybe she is not as much of a house mouse as he would have assumed.
"You got some rest?" she asks, not wasting a second in hooking her free hand into the crook of his elbow and pulling him in the direction of a quiet side street.
"Yes, probably for the best." He feels faintly self-conscious at how sloshed he was when she found him. "I doubt blurry vision is an asset for the kind of work you have in mind."
With a delicate shrug, she comes to a halt. "Today is mainly formalities, so it wouldn't have been too bad. Besides, I'm the one who went looking for you in a pub."
"True. How did you wind up going there, by the way?"
"I just assumed that with the time you've been having, you'd be wanting to drown your sorrows. Anyone would, I mean. Not you in particular." A hint of a flush has made its way onto her face, starkly obvious against pale skin. Is she embarrassed? "In any case, my plan was to Apparate to my workshop and get things sorted there. Any objections?"
Now or never, he supposes, but his sober brain is no better at coming up with reasons not to do this.
"None at all."
Esther's grip on his elbow tightens briefly as she spins on the spot, the familiar, stomach-clenching sensation of Apparition engulfing them. A second later, they land in a narrow alleyway just off Diagon Alley. It's quiet, a stark contrast to the bustle Remus expects will be just around the corner.
"This way," Esther says with a quick nod and moves to unlock the unassuming building door next to where they landed. Heading up a narrow staircase, Remus wonders just how deliberately she is avoiding placing him in a public-facing context. Not that he necessarily minds. His isolation up north was self-imposed after all.
On the first floor, she unlocks a further door. It swings open silently, and she gestures for him to step inside.
The air smells of herbs, ash, and something faintly sweet - probably the remnants of her most recent concoction. On second glance, the room is decidedly larger than it should be. It's split into what looks like an office corner by the window facing Diagon Alley, desk and a sofa half-covered in scrolls, ledgers, and quills, and what is surely the heart of the operation: four separate workbenches, each equipped with cauldrons in various sizes, racks of phials, scales, and burners. Upon closer inspection, he can make out the occasional scorchmarks along the surfaces. The walls are lined with shelves and drawers, featuring books, scrolls, and an almost overwhelming amount of meticulously labelled jars.
"You run this by yourself?"
"So far," Esther replies with a nod and a smile that shows off just a flicker of pride, mingled with exhaustion. "But Horace was right. If I want to keep it up and still innovate, I need help. Not to mention, I can't really leave the brewing station alone for weeks on end to hunt down replacement ingredients. That's where you come in."
Oddly enough, seeing it in the flesh is really quite helpful. Maybe it's just that it makes it slightly easier to believe that this isn't a pity gig Albus is throwing him by way of an apology.
"Shall we get the formalities out of the way?" Even as she speaks, Esther is already pulling an apron from its hook near the door and slipping it on to cover her overalls.
Remus nods, and follows her motion pointing out a document on the nearest workbench.
"This is the contract," she says, pulling a quill from her apron pocket and holding it out to him. "All fairly standard. You'll be gathering and preparing ingredients, plus assisting with brewing when necessary. Pay is weekly — competitive rates — and as I mentioned last night, Wolfsbane Potion is included as part of the benefits."
Remus skims the document, his brow furrowing slightly. "You're offering room and board as well?"
She nods, leaning against the bench. "There's a guest room upstairs. It's there if you need it — if a job runs late or you just don't feel like heading back to Manchester. If you'd want to use it for full moons, we can ward it properly."
Her tone is casual, but he doesn't miss the subtle way she avoids meeting his eyes when she mentions the full moon. He sets the quill down, watching her carefully. "You've thought this through."
Esther doesn't flinch under his gaze, but her hands fidget with the quill she's holding, rapidly twisting it between her fingers. "I wanted this to work out. For both of us."
There is no pity in her tone, just an undercurrent of nervousness he can't quite place. The generosity of her offer, 'room and board included,' jars against the way he has become used to operating in the wizarding world. It's too much. He doesn't want to refuse it outright, but the reminder of how precarious his position has become remains uncomfortable.
But there's nothing for it. He picks up one of her quills and scrawls his name at the bottom of the contract. Esther takes it from the table, rolling it up into a scroll holder before placing it in a drawer. She stands for a moment like she means to hold out her hand for them to shake on it, but ultimately decides not to, brushing her hands against her apron instead.
"I'll inform the guild later today. Contributions, you understand."
Remus stiffens. "Will that be a problem?"
"No, not at all," she answers quickly, but the smile on her face has something apologetic about it. "Damocles - my old master - and Horace pretty much set the tone among the grandmasters, and they're sure to wave it through."
He nods, telling himself that is the best answer he could expect. That she apprenticed under Belby is, at least, reassuring with regard to the quality of the Wolfsbane potion. It still feels like a crack in the anonymity that has been his only defence since Snape's revelation.
"Now, let me get you set up properly." Her smile has widened and her eyes are bright as she reaches under the desk to produce a leather case, set with practical little brass buckles and etched with delicate runework. "Your kit. It should have everything you need for gathering and stabilising ingredients." Snapping it open, she places the case on the desk between them. Inside it, carefully secured by straps and dividers, he finds a selection of tools: polished scales, a mortar and pestle, tongs, phials, jars.
"This is thorough." Remus is half amused to see Esther standing up a touch straighter, pride gleaming in her eyes. "What are the runes for?"
"Preservation and temperature adjustment, mainly." She runs a finger along the rune sequence next to the clasp, expression suddenly wistful. "Mirabel Nott's work."
The name rings a bell in Remus' mind, but it takes him a moment to place it. "Theodore Nott's mother?"
Esther nods. "Yes. She died just last year. Complications from Dragon Pox."
Remus remembers the boy from Hogwarts - tall, lanky, and generally keeping to himself. One of the less troublesome Slytherins, all things considered, appearing almost entirely apathetic. Maybe that was grief.
Gathering herself, Esther appears ready to move on from the topic, pushing the case in his direction with a smile. "In any case, I hope it serves you well. Shall we take a look at your first job?"
It's a two-day journey according to the itinerary she has sketched out, extracting Rowan sap in Somerset and tracking down a supplier of powdered Erumpent horn somewhere around Bristol. Her kit includes a tent, modest by many wizarding standards but entirely comfortable. Remus finds he cannot really complain, even as he has to spend the better part of an hour cleaning his hands of the sap's sticky remnants.
Even the supplier's brusque hostility - not to Remus personally, it appears from the way he's shouting at the customer ahead of him - isn't enough to dim his satisfaction with the work. He apparates straight back to Esther's workshop, irrationally proud of being finished ahead of schedule. The scent of herbs and ash welcomes him as he turns away from the wall, wand raised in habitual vigilance. Esther is hunched over a cauldron at one of the workbenches, curls pinned back but frizzing slightly at the edges from the steam. She looks up, face lighting up in an easy smile as she gets up and wipes her hands on her apron.
"Back already?" She waves her wand at the cauldron and the burner under it dims. "I wasn't expecting you until the evening."
"Finished early," he says simply, setting the kit down on an empty bench and unlocking it to reveal the specimens he's brought back. "Your supplier was eager to get me out of the shop."
"Barlow?" she asks with a snort. "Yes, he's prickly. I usually avoid him, but he's got a fantastic source for this stuff. Thanks for dealing with him."
As she inspects the samples with a critical eye, Remus finds himself feeling oddly like he is once again a 5th Year pupil presenting his results to Professor McGonagall.
"Perfect," she mutters, half to herself, holding up the phial of sap to the light. "I'll need this for a commission next week. Horn looks good as well."
"I'm glad."
"Have you done this kind of work before?"
He hesitates for a moment, wondering just how much is appropriate to share with her. "A few times, for friends. When it involved magical creatures mainly."
"Good to know." Esther doesn't seem inclined to pry further, nodding to herself and storing the ingredients before replacing the containers with fresh ones in his kit. Then, she clears her throat, suddenly tentative once more. "There's something else."
Ah. Did the registration not go as smoothly as she suspected?
"What is it?"
"If my calculations are right, you should begin taking Wolfsbane Potion tonight." She nods in the direction of a cauldron sitting on the bench furthest from the door, bubbling slowly away. "I have some prepared over there."
For a moment, the words don't quite register. When they do and he meets her eyes, the air feels uncomfortably heavy between them.
"You must have gotten started on that before - "
"I did. It seemed reasonable." Her expression hovers between nervous and determined. "I thought it might be a nice thing to do."
Remus' first instinct is to bristle. The gesture feels presumptuous, condescending. Too close to outright stating that she must have known he had no options that would compare. But the look on her face doesn't quite match that.
"You didn't have to do that," he says finally.
An awkward shrug, then she walks over to where the potion is exuding a blue smoke.
"Take a look?"
He's hardly an expert, although he supposes he does know what the finished product is meant to look like. This batch looks and smells very much like Snape's version did. When he says as much, Esther gives a nervous chuckle.
"Yes, I would expect so."
"Why is that?"
"I taught him this one. Damocles was out of the country when he asked to learn, so the job wound up with me."
Snape studying something under anyone, let alone someone who's their own age rather than a venerable master, is a comical thought despite Remus' complicated feelings about the man. Still, this was a sweet thing to have done.
"Thank you, for this. I appreciate it."
"My pleasure." Her smile has a relieved note now. "Well, as I said, I wasn't expecting you back just yet, so I don't have a list yet, so feel free to take the rest of the day off. We can bottle some of this if you want to take it with you."
They do just that, and once they're done, Remus heads back to his flat. It feels cold compared to the workshop, but it can't quite take away from his impulse to smile. True, a new job doesn't come close to solving the issues he'd been drowning three days ago, but it undeniably helps. With a kettle on the stove, he sits down to write a letter to Albus regarding the hunt for Peter Pettigrew.