Remus Lupin and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Chapter 2: Diagon Alley, Memory Lane

It had taken a while--hours before he was able to wrestle his shaking, nauseating dread back into it's chains, but excitement had taken its first tentative wing-beats against his heart. Glee, even. He had been given a fairly substantial stipend with which to supply his class, which he carefully ordered down next to his growing list of creatures to explore and spells to teach. He was going to need supplies. He was going to need books for research.

He was going to be a Professor.

Whenever this thought ambled amiably across his mind, the empty feeling from the news about Sirius was lit with a warm glow deep in his chest. It was pride and fear and anticipation and joy all muddled up together. He, Remus John Lupin, was going to help people. He was going to have a job and a home. He was going to have a purpose. A purpose that Albus Dumbledore obviously thought he was capable of taking on, which made him swell a little more. After the conversation had sunken in, Remus had gone to the nearest craft store and bought gold lettering. He spent half an hour applying it painstakingly to his suitcase, propped on the windowsill with the best lighting and checking with his wand to make sure it was straight, standing in the sun.

Stretching his back and his wrists, he attempted to keep from smiling like some sort of child at the holidays as he surveyed his work. Professor R. J. Lupin. He had used his own money, and had had to make the decision between the letters for his full first name or his title, but the shining gold had seemed too much like a promise to let himself forget. So he had chosen Professor, almost as if the spelling of it was like a charm, to make it absolutely and immutably true. Professor.

He was starting to get the wrenching twinges in his gut, the ache in his bones that signaled the growing of the moon, but even that did little to dim this light that had been ignited in his chest. Hogwarts would come after; there was now something to look forward to. Unfortunately, it made it hard to eat--food started smelling wrong and tasting worse. There had been dark hints in his research long ago that raw meat might help but he stoutly refused; he was not an animal. They had told him. He was not an animal. So, with optimism slightly bolstered, he got himself some slightly greasy take-out, managed to force it down and set about writing letters, requesting recommendations for his curriculum. It was an agreeable way to spend the afternoon, sitting on the floor with his knees propped up, the only sounds were the low murmuring of a television somewhere, the gurgle-clunk of the pipes, and the scratching of his quill. Luckily for him, most of the other tenants were out working or doing whatever else they might do, so it was quiet. He migrated across the room to follow the splotch of sun let in his windows, scooting every few minutes to stay in it's light.

Until his stomach gave a violent lurch that had him scattering parchment and dashing for the bathroom, where he lost his wrestling match with lunch. It was significantly worse the second time around. He rinsed his mouth, washed his face. Methodically, he collected every page with slightly trembling hands and set back to work, resolute. This needed to be done sooner rather than later, and he would have to write the curriculum while he was convalescing after this month's Change, for soon, money would be too tight to even get take out, let alone keep his flat. The job hunt needed to be started soon, after he had been sacked from his last one as a late night grocery store clerk. There had been several bad months in a row where he couldn't make it to work for at least 3 days after the full moon and after the 2nd time, they had just gotten fed up and let him go. He supposed it was better than being publicly fired for showing up looking like he was in a secret fight club after his Changes, like the last job before this.

After the 5th letter, his hand was cramping and the bone-deep ache was getting worse, with a rising restlessness he was all too well acquainted with. Sighing defeat, he rose, rolled his neck and dressed for bed.

The next day, he finished, gathered, folded and sealed all the letters--Muggle paper and envelopes as parchment and wax seals were out of his budget at the moment. He tucked them neatly into his inner cloak pocket and set to donning the robes he'd set out to air soon after Dumbledore had left. It had been a long time since he had had to move seamlessly through a Wizarding space and when he straightened his cuffs and set all his clasps to rights, he felt a little taller. A little less invisible. The comforting weight at his wrists, down his back, swinging against his legs seemed to trigger some sense memory in him as he Apparated into Diagon Alley. It was as though he was arriving as he was now along with his echoes through time; as he had been all through his school years and even before, when he had visited with his Father when he was just a lad. The cheerful chatter, the bubbling, sparkling, cracking, fizzing, furling signs and banners to catch the eye. The mournful hoots and yowling of cats from the menagerie and the wafting scent of fried meat and candied nuts wove in and out of crowd-packed streets that were a riot of robes of jewel tones and pastels. For a man who had been living alone for a little more than a decade, the clamouring cheer of it stunned him momentarily and it was all he could do to just marvel with the eyes of his childhood self. This was magic. This was belonging.

How many times had he walked these streets, a quarter of a group, goggling in windows and laughing too loud? How many times had they strolled as if they ruled these cobblestone streets by the right of their brash adolescence? Not enough, a soft voice tolled in the back of his mind and he forcefully derailed that train of thought with a shove. He would not do this in the middle of the street.

Purposefully, he strode off toward the Post Office, quirking a small smile at anyone who met his eye. A small boy wove in between his legs and a harried looking short man barrelled after him with a muttered apology. He saw the alley where the Marauder's had--no, not now. A group of young foreign witches were debating loudly in another language--Romanian?--under the technicolored umbrella of Florence Fortescue's ice cream parlor, gesturing animatedly at a map before them on the table. Roughly 5 goblins stalked past him, ignoring all else as they headed straight for the mouth of Knockturn Alley. Truly, if he felt like people watching, this was obviously the place to be. But, for today, he was armed with a budget and a purpose; the education of young people, and he refused to take that lightly.

He spent a good hour running errands after he had mailed the letters out, feeling strange not needing to send them off at separate times to stagger his spending. Rarely had he had this much leisure money in the past, certainly not enough to rent 8 separate first class owls to send his mail. Though, come to think of it, he had not had anything that urgent to say to anyone, lately.. Most of the day had been ordering in supplies rather than gathering them, but he had spent so much time talking, walking, and exploring, he felt as if he had been here several days already. The ache had migrated to his thigh bones and his lungs seemed unsure what shape they were going to take today--2 more days until the full moon. He would have to take it easy tomorrow or he would be unable to leave bed for a week after the Change as he no longer had the wonderful medical, magical aid of Poppy Pomfrey to patch him up quick and send him on his way.

Remus brightened at this thought. Luckily, he soon would. It would be wonderful to catch up with her again, once he was back--back-- again, after the summer. Only 2 more moons, as luck would have it. With this happy thought, he allowed himself to settle in the shade of one of the loudly decorated umbrellas in front of the ice cream shop to stretch his legs out before him. A man with the most enormous moustache and pipe he had ever seen was rising from the table next to him, leaving behind a haphazard stack of the Daily Prophet, dated to only a few days ago. A movement caught his eye from the front page and the contented bliss he had managed to cultivate disappeared in a rush of cold. His stomach clenched roughly at the thought, but he needed to know...needed to see...."Ah, sir? Might I...?" he gestured to the paper.

The man gave an uninterested shrug. "Eh, take 'em; they're days old, anyhow."

Remus thanked him and gathered them carefully, meticulously tapping them into place, lining up the corners and smoothing it out until he could no longer pretend he wasn't stalling. Deep breath. He looked down and before he could stop it, a soft, strangled noise managed to escape him.

My God.