Certain Dark Things || Book Three

xi. cursed twice-over

The snickering coming from the next aisle could mean nothing good.

Exhaling, Remus Lupin set down the history textbook before he could shelve it and straightened from his kneeling position by the open box. His joints popped as he stood, having spent too long on his knees stocking inventory, and so he took a moment to stretch out the stiffness in his limbs.

He was a tall man, thin and a bit slouched, the shirt and trousers under his apron both rather threadbare while gray flecked his brown hair like new snow on a wheat field. The most distinct feature of the man wasn't his green eyes or his height or his patchy clothes; rather, it was the prominent red scars slashed across his face, the largest crossing his cheek and the bridge of his nose. His hand came up to scratch the tail of the scar—then dropped limp by his side.

He was young despite his weathered state—but Remus didn't feel young. He felt quite a bit like an old flannel too often used and wrung out, left out to dry in the sun until stiff and malformed. He didn't much want to go and deal with those snickers. He'd much rather be in his flat, dowdy and dubious as it was, preferably with a good book and a hot cuppa, but he would settle for his own bed and quiet evening's rest. He didn't want to go into the next aisle, and yet he heard the tearing pages and knew he couldn't pretend otherwise. He couldn't take the cut to his paycheck for damaged inventory.

Brushing off his hands, Remus paced around the corner and found four Muggle youths in patterned jumpers and torn jeans egging on the fifth member of their group, an older boy with a book braced between his two hands. Pages littered the carpet about his scuffed trainers. The group caught sight of Remus when he approached and he got the impression they would have kept on with their vandalism if they hadn't seen his scarred face. His visage frightened Muggles, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?"

The younger boys looked to the eldest, who had the good sense to toss the book in his grip onto the nearest stack without damaging it further. "Nah, mate. We were just on our way, weren't we?"

Heads nodded in agreement.

"Mmm," Remus hummed, his smile tight-lipped and more of a grimace than anything else. "You wouldn't happen to know what happened to these books, would you?"

The leader shrugged and sneered. "Strange, innit?"

"Strange indeed. Do you need help finding the door?"

They did not, in fact, need help finding the door, though Remus watched their retreating backs until they were back on the street, disappearing into the evening crowd. He picked up the damaged books and glanced at the pages on the floor. It seemed an ill portent that he opened the first volume to the section titled, "Gray Wolf, Canis lupus."

Remus' fingers tightened, wrinkling the page.

He looked around to see if anyone was about, then tugged his wand from his trouser pocket and whispered, "Reparo," mending the book, replacing it on the shelf. A long sigh left him as he finished fixing the others and reorganized them. Another simple spell could have managed the lot but taking his time gave his mind something to focus on.

Working among Muggles proved more challenging than most wizards or witches would assume; Remus had been flitting about London from job to job for years and still struggled to consciously not use magic in their presence. That was why Muggle-borns usually decided on one life or the other, at least in his opinion. Magic became part of a person's life as essential as breathing or walking or talking, and the constant need to remember not to use it in the presence of certain people became grating.

He could find work easier in the Muggle world than in the Wizarding one, given his...affliction, but without GCSE marks or A levels, Remus could never qualify for anything well-paying or permanent. He'd been dismissed for sudden absences around the full moon more than once and couldn't work anywhere more technologically savvy than a pub. He assumed it was better than being chased from the village with pitchforks, though.