You done too much, much too young
You're married with a kid when you could be having fun with me
You done too much, much too young
Now you're married with a son when you should be having fun with me
Don't wanna be rich, don't wanna be famous
Ain't he cute? No he ain't.
He's just another burden on the welfare state.
Wednesday 3rd September 1980
Whooosh - splash.
Remus landed on his feet - just about - right in a muddy puddle in the middle of the high street.
“Bugger.” He muttered, yanking his cloak up out of the way - his boots were beyond saving, socks already soaked through. He hadn’t realised the holes were that bad, it was definitely time for a new pair, he’d need to check his savings.
It looked like it might rain later, too. Bloody perfect .
Remus was in a very bad mood, and wet feet were the least of it. Still, he was in Hogsmeade for a reason, and he knew he just had to pull his (metaphorical) socks up and get on with it. He wished he wasn’t alone, but even if someone had been available to come with him (James had the baby, Lily and Sirius were in Broadstairs on reconnaissance, Marlene, Peter and Mary were all working), he’d been told to come alone. As usual.
He trudged towards the Three Broomsticks, thinking at least there would be a nice warm fire and maybe a nip of whisky waiting for him. He’d need it. Whenever he was summoned to meet someone alone, it was usually werewolf business, and that always required a stiff drink. He hoped it was news of Greyback rather than Castor.
It began to spit rain as he came within sight of the pub, and he jogged a bit to save the rest of his clothes from damp. It was a quiet afternoon in the little scottish village - the students of Hogwarts would be in their lessons, the wizards who lived in town would be at their occupations. And very few people left the house these days, if they didn’t have to.
The pub was nice and empty. Remus felt a stab of nostalgia as he entered, remembering how only two short years ago he and his friends had all sat in one of the booths, bright-eyed and naive, looking forward to their futures. Who could have known that saving the world would be such a grey, monotonous slog?
“Remus Lupin, as I live and breathe!” Rosmerta chirped from the bar, one hand on her round hip, bosom overflowing as usual. She glanced hopefully over his shoulder, “Black not joining you?”
Remus shook his head, and went to take a seat near the hearth, so he could at least try to dry out his shoes.
“Not today, Rosmerta,” he said, trying to affect good cheer, “Could I get a glass of--”
“Two glasses -- of butterbeer, please,” a familiar voice intoned. Remus whipped around, finding himself face to face with Dumbledore.
“Oh, h-hello, professor.” Remus said, embarrassed.
“Remus,” Dumbledore nodded politely. He never called him ‘Mr Lupin’, not since Remus had asked him not to, years ago. “Please, be seated,” he gestured grandly, like a vicar about to give a sermon.
Remus sat. Dumbledore always made him feel eleven years old.
“How have you been?” His old headmaster asked, kindly, gracefully taking the armchair opposite. He set down a heavy looking leather briefcase on the rug between them. Remus eyed it warily, but answered,
