the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 38: November (Part 1)

Boys, boys, it's a sweet thing,
Boys, boys, it's a sweet thing, sweet thing;
If you want it, boys, get it here thing,
'Cause hope, boys, is a cheap thing,
Cheap thing...

- "Sweet Thing" David Bowie, 1974

He remembered it like a flash—a jab of what felt like pain but somehow wasn't, just behind the eyes. They'd been so busy mopping up the rest of the prank, teeth still chittering from the frosty waters of the Dubh, that he'd forgotten. James and Peter's side had taken the brunt of the mess, and afterwards they'd all fallen into bed like zombies. The same.

Before it all came back Remus thought he must have been dreaming, which he didn't do very often. He was flying maybe, or weightless somewhere, just floating along. It wasn't like being in water; in water you were still able to feel the weight of your arms and legs as they fought to keep you upright. Instead he felt like air—complete nothingness. He'd come apart at the seams, breaking up into little bits of matter until he was nothingness itself. He'd think later how that should've scared him—the thought of becoming nothing—but when you were so used to being everything at once, being nothing didn't seem all that bad.

He remembered his mother's trunk during that dreaded hour of night that was too unreasonably late to be up, but too horrifyingly early to be awake. Remus called this time of night the 'shit hour', because you could do shit-all during it and shit-all about it. Couldn't talk, couldn't play music, couldn't turn on a light, could only sit and think; mostly about things you could do shit-all about. It was all-around shit. You could always worry though, since worrying was shit too.

His heart had leapt into his throat as he threw off his covers, dropping to his knees and reaching beneath the bed to find it. For the first few seconds his fingers fell upon only empty air, and he briefly wondered if the trunk had also disappeared into nothingness, but then his palm collided with the familiar leather surface of one of its corners and he fought to reach the handle. Dragging it out as quietly as he could so as to not disturb his roommates, Remus smoothed trembling fingers along the outside. The leather was damp, moisture already seeping into the cracks along its seams where it would eventually break it apart from the inside-out like a cancer.

Not entirely a masochist, Remus didn't stop to wonder if the water had made its way inside. Using the tiny luggage key, he popped the trunk's top and breathed out as he stared down at its contents.

They were fine.

The trunk's exterior had held the test of time and prank. There was no hint of damp or mistreatment, not even along the delicate silk lining. The records were still pristine, albeit slightly dusty from six years of neglect. Perhaps it would've been better if they were ruined—the covers left soggy so he'd have no choice to throw them out or risk mold. It'd be half the hurdle, gone. But Remus had never been very lucky.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?

"Shit," he mumbled. Told himself.

He shut the trunk.

* * *

Friday 5th November 1976

The Hawkings rumour mill could've rivalled the BBC with how well it collected and carried news. It took all of one day for word of their 'late-night dip in the Dubh' to spread across the entire campus, though at the behest of Regulus and his cronies or Mary and her beautifully big mouth, no one could be sure. Up until that moment Remus had been certain there wasn't a single thing about the school that could surprise him anymore, but the prestige that running around freezing and naked in nothing but their knickers brought really threw him for a loop.