Presented as the contents of an old shoebox under Remus Lupin's bed, The Shoebox Project tells the story of Marauders-era Hogwarts through letters, photographs, and diary entries.
"This story will lift you up and make your life a little better, and...
Part Twenty-One A: A Little Vacation, Two Commemorative Photographs, One First Time For Something Anyway
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"Next time," Remus says, "I'm choosing the vacation spot. And there is going to be no sand. Do you hear me? No sand." Remus is certain he has sand in every hole, even the holes people don't think about and the holes people don't want to think about and the holes people don't even know they have. This is the magical property of sand.
Sand, no matter how old he becomes, still manages to bunch up at Remus' rear, launching an assault from behind that will never be pleasant. If there is sand, haunting vistas and stunning seascapes cease to be beautiful and begin to chafe. There is nothing less awe-inspiring than sand down your pants. "No shower will ever make me clean again," he adds, without any spite or accusation or even grumpiness. It is almost impossible to be grumpy while on vacation, even with the sand.
"I think," Peter says, "that some people don't get sand everywhere." "It's not true," Remus assures him. "Everyone gets sand everywhere. However,some people are too completely off their nut to care."
"You mean like James and Sirius." "It's a sickness," Remus confirms. "But I think they might even enjoy it." There is really no "might" about it. James and Sirius do enjoy it. They are That Kind of Boy. They like sunshine, and excessive movement, and being buried in scratchy substances on purpose. Right now they are in the water, diving and leaping about idiotically, like otters, and yelling, and risking jellyfish and probably sharks, and other more dangerous things, which Remus would contemplate except the sunshine has drained the life from his brain and body. He feels like he weighs about six hundred drowsy pounds. It is, he has to admit, sort of glorious. When they first got down to the seashore he tried to read a book, but ten minutes of attempted literacy left him feeling dizzy and rubbery and like a drying curl of seaweed, and now he is using the book as a sunshade, where it is doing vastly more good. Idly, he picks sand from his teeth.
"I think Sirius is coming," Peter says confidentially, after what might be about five minutes or might be about three hours.
"Oh dear," Remus sighs, trying to care. "He's going to drip on you," Peter says. "He has that look." "I can't move my legs, so that's too bad for me," Remus says. "Oh, bother, Sirius, you're blocking the sunshine. Do go away."
Sirius is dripping on purpose. One has to give him credit; he achieves very good dripping angles. No one else can drip like Sirius Black, with such stunning accuracy, with such frightening determination. "Haha!" Sirius says. "I am dripping on you. What are you going to do about that?" "Get wet," Remus replies amiably. "Oh look. I already have. Your move." "And he doesn't even swim," Sirius laments. He flings himself down into the sand, wet and gleaming, and rolls around until he looks like a breaded cutlet. "Sand, sand, sand. It is glorious. It is prickly and invasive. Like freedom."
