Remus Lupin and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Chapter 1: Tea and Entanglement

[AN: As I'm trying to write quickly, there might be a few mess ups so please be forgiving!]

Remus J. Lupin was neatly folding the slacks of a--sadly-- no longer needed clerk uniform for a local Muggle supermarket when there was a knock on the door. He straightened, warily, and eyed the door. Landlord, confused vagrant, wrong address? Nobody visited him--there was nobody left to visit him. Perhaps they would go away.

Again, a knock. Apparently not. He pressed a hand to his jacket pocket where his wand was stowed away for reassurance as he opened the door--and choked on his greeting. Albus Dumbledore was standing in the dingy hallway of his flat, beaming down at him over his crooked nose. "Professor!" he gasped, feeling as if just him standing there in his emerald robes and hat had just stunned all the air out of his chest. Just the irrationality of a wizard of his stature coexisting with the scent of burnt bacon from down the hall was mind-boggling.

"Hello, Remus," he said, still smiling at him and Remus found his footing, precarious though it was, and quickly invited him inside. He was suddenly intensely aware of the vague musty smell that had permeated this place since before his occupation, the water stains on the ceiling, the peeling wallpaper and shoddy windows. The ground down carpet with an almost offensively indeterminable color that could range anywhere from puce to pea green, depending on the lighting and humidity. Even so, he adamantly stifled the urge to apologize or explain such accommodations. He wouldn't want to put the social nicety onus on Dumbledore to try to scrounge up redeeming features.

As graciously as he could, he gestured to the foot of his tidy if threadbare bed. "Er, do have a seat, Headmaster. I'm afraid it's the only one I've--unless you would rather I draw one up," his hand clamped upon his wand pocket as he was suddenly seized by the embarrassingly startling remembrance that he was a wizard, for God's sake, and could do things like that. Too much time scraping by in the Muggle world had caused his undercover persona to become a little too comfortable. It no longer seemed second nature to just reach for a wand.

But Dumbledore had already sat himself down and proceeded to cross his legs, hands woven together around his knee and look quite comfortable. "This is lovely, thank you."

Remus made as if to tidy, but most of his meager possessions were already stowed away in the suitcase at the foot of his bed. Using this homey momentum, he launched himself at the restroom announcing, "I'll put on some tea."

He used this familiar chore to collect his whirling and clamoring mind. Albus Dumbledore? Here? Why? Did this mean something was wrong? Had he done something? He was 11 again, standing in the Headmaster's grand office, trembling head to toe as he spoke with him before his first term. Terrified; no context; certain he was somehow in trouble already. Why on earth would the Professor want to talk to him, of all people?

He tapped the electric kettle with his wand and steam gouted from the opening--couldn't just have a teapot, as he had no stove and didn't want to rouse Muggle suspicions. Remus raked through his recent memory of anything happening in the Daily Prophet, when he found them abandoned in his limited wizarding haunts he favored nearby. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing about werewolves, certainly nothing about him. Well, he thought irritably at himself, you're definitely not going to figure it out panicking in the washroom when he's obviously come to talk. He sheepishly emerged with two chipped mugs and presented one to Dumbledore. "I only have sugar, at the moment, sorry. Would you like...?"

"2 would be splendid, thank you." Dumbledore turned his piercing, smiling eyes on him as he wrapped his long fingers around the thrift store cup and blew gently.

When Remus was done fussing, he set his suitcase rightside up and sat astride it, too uncomfortable to stand when Dumbledore was sitting. He was trying to pick apart the most polite way of saying 'what the hell are you doing here, sir?' when, thankfully, the older wizard stopped sipping and spoke. "I suppose you're wondering why I came to call today?"