the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 81: Hamartia

'Cause I'd rather stay here,
With all the madmen,
Than perish with the sad men roaming free;
And I'd rather play here,
With all the madmen,
For I'm quite content they're all as sane as me...

- "All the Madmen" David Bowie, 1971

Friday 2nd December 1977

In reality, Trish had had the right idea all along. People did like his poems. They even liked them enough to pay. More than a week had gone by, and in some pinch of luck, Regulus' grand joke had turned itself into a real financial venture. Eventually the girls had given up chasing him, and life returned to normal somewhat.

"We should call you the Poem Pusher," Peter said, as Remus got up from the library table. He gasped, then; "The Substance Sonneteer!"

Remus let out an apprehensive chuckle. "Careful, Pete, your poor eyebrow's only just grown back. Wouldn't want it to go missing in the middle of the night."

Peter covered both eyebrows with his hands. "You're quite right, Moons. I reckon the 'Blitzed Bard' is ten times better anyway."

"Somebody hold me back before I kill him."

"Go on already," Sirius laughed, pushing him on. "Don't want to leave your two o'clock waiting."

Remus smirked back. He was in the best mood he'd been in ever since Regulus had dropped that bomb on his life; they still found time to practice and write music, and soon exams would be over altogether. Then they'd be free to return home for the holidays, where he and Sirius could meet up in that little beach-themed bathroom as many times as need be. Yes, it was the simple pleasures, that's what Remus Lupin was after these days. Good friends, good music, and a good snog.

With his hands in his pockets, Remus left the small study room their little group had cloistered themselves in and made his way down the library's centre aisle. He was looking for something—or more accurately, someone—and found them waiting for him in the Anthropology section, looking twitchy and nervous. Remus wasn't nervous, rather, he felt brazen. He had the entire thing down pat. No holds, no exchanges, and certainly no I-owe-you's. All payment was to be made up front, and if his buyers didn't have the cash, then they would just have to look elsewhere, and now that word of his exploits had finally spread (thank you Barty) looking elsewhere was certainly easier said than done.

"You said ten, right?" The mousy boy warbled, staring nervously from behind glasses too big for his face. He was a tenth year, far too young to have such girl troubles, but money was money, and Hawkings was full of it.

"Price's gone up actually. Now it's—"

Reluctantly, Remus drew up short. The kid was white-knuckling his books and staring at him with brown eyes as big as a girl's. He had a tenner peeking out of one hand.

"... Ten. Ten's fine."

A smile split his rosy face, and he raised the ten pound note, handing it over. Remus pocketed the money and then pulled out a tiny notepad and a pen.

"Who's it for?"

The boy blinked at him. "Huh?"

"The poem. What's her name?"

"Oh, uh... Sam."

He wrote it down. "Hair colour? Eye colour?"

"Brown. B-Both brown."

"Mhm. And what do you like about her?"

"Uhm... Do you think you could just write something nice? I–It doesn't have to be too specific."