When I look back upon my life
It's always with a sense of shame
I've always been the one to blame
For everything I long to do
No matter when or where or who
Has one thing in common, too;
It's a, it's a, it's a, it's a sin
It's a sin
In the spring on 1987, Remus had a spot of luck. One of Grant's old student friends now worked in the Law Department at UCL and managed to swing a job for Remus doing some freelance editing. This was a revelation; he could do the bulk of it at home, and then just take it up to Holborn once it was done. He did need to get a national insurance card, and a muggle bank account, but that was easy enough with a few tactical glamour spells at the bank.
Remus only cheated a little bit, using magic to help him read and correct spelling, but he found the work surprisingly enjoyable, and even started a little business marking exam papers for some of the local muggle schools.
"Dunno how you can concentrate so long." Grant shook his head at the pile of papers Remus had amassed one evening. "I'd go out of my mind."
"It's interesting," Remus shrugged, "I never got the chance to learn any of this stuff. Have you heard of quadratic equations?"
Grant laughed at him fondly and ruffled his hair, "You boffin."
Grant himself had been going from strength to strength at work. He loved his job, and put in extra time on the weekends and evenings whenever he could. The boys Grant worked with were every bit as much trouble as the St Edmund's boys, but that only seemed to spur Grant on. He was always telling Remus about one kid or another who'd had a little victory - a passing mark at school, a week without a fight, time off their sentence. Somehow Grant knew everything about everyone; his memory limitless, his capacity for pride and encouragement unbelievable.
"Got to cut out that article in the Observer," he might say one evening, "Sounds right up Alfie's street." Or, "Staying late tomorrow, with any luck - promised the older lads we'd have a kick-about if none of them get written up."
When he was feeling insecure sometimes Remus would wonder if Grant was only with him because he too was a troubled boy. That Grant was just trying to save him; like he tried to save everybody. He lived for a good cause.
"Shut up," Grant would grin at him, if he raised these concerns. "I've wanted to get in your pants since we were teenagers, it's got nothing to do with your tortured past."
And then Remus would remember that after all, Grant was a care home kid himself. Something which was easy to forget, because unlike Remus, he bore it lightly, with a casual shrug of acceptance. Poverty, lack of education, mistreatment - none of this weighed Grant down in the same way. At least not on the surface. But Remus had been wrong about people before.
As a result of Grant's dedication to his work, and Remus's own relatively low impact employment, Remus found himself in a position he had never been in before - having both free time and a bit of disposable income.
He didn't need much - the flat was paid for, their furniture was serviceable, and they could generally afford to keep the electric and hot water on. He bought clothes every once in a while, but he hardly shopped at Harrods. There was the drink, but he reasoned that as he didn't smoke any more, he could put his tobacco money towards booze.
What Remus did enjoy doing was going for walks. Not countryside rambles - he got enough of that on full moons - but wandering through London by himself, enjoying the streets, the people. He visited every free museum in London - the National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery, the V&A, the British Museum. He became quite cultured, in fact. And if his hip hurt (which it often did, now, as he entered his late twenties), he could easily hop on a bus.
