Reading is Fundamental to Our Understanding- (PG) Remus Thursday Next crossover
Title: Reading is Fundamental to Our Understanding
Rating: PG
Summary: Remus likes to read, or an absurd Thursday Next crossover.
Disclaimer: I own neither book, but go read The Eyre Affair if you haven't yet.
Remus felt a chill fill the air, like the moment when the moon grows just past first quarter. His eyes flew open and he found himself standing not in the Weasley’s kitchen, where he had actually been sitting, but rather standing in the dusk by a billboard that issued a welcome to the town of Swindon, County of Wessex. Across the road was a second poster this one declaring that one should “Eat More Toast.” After years of poverty, during which toast was begrudgingly a staple, Remus did not feel inclined to comply.
Instead he just wondered how he’d made it here. He hadn’t spontaneously Apperated and he was fairly sure he hadn’t fallen asleep. To make matters worse, his wand was sitting on the table next to his cup of Earl Grey, leaving him frighteningly defenseless. It was not advisable to travel around during war time, a marked member of one of the factions without protection. However he’d always been hesitant to leave his wand in his waistband as so many wizards do after hearing some particularly gruesome stories about accidents that had befallen good wizards. Attempting to wandlessly Apperate did not sound like a good idea, it was only a day since the full moon and he was still feeling peaky, most likely he’s manage to splich himself.
Remus considered approaching one the fellow pedestrians standing on Swift Lane, but the man standing on the box ranting that everyone should take acceptance of Bacon’s authorship into their hearts made him rather hesitant. While he stood there considering that he might simply find a phone and ring Arabella, a car driving along the road slowed near him, pulling to a spot several meters away. A man exited, wearing what appeared to be some official uniform, at odds with his dreadlocked hair and copious amount of jewelry. He was certainly not a Muggle policeman or army officer, Remus could recognize those uniforms, but few wizards would be seen in his getup either.
“Hello there?” he enquired, a cheery voice tinged with professionalism and wariness.
“Hello.” Remus answered succinctly. The last thing his day needed, other than a pack of Death Eaters, would be dealing with some suspicious, official-type Muggle.
“What’s your name and what brings you to Swindon?” the man asked, gazing a little suspiciously at Remus’s threadbare robes.
“Lupin and who might you be?” Remus answered and avoided the question for which he had no answer.
“Officer Stoker, SpecOps 17.”
“Ah. Well hello officer.”
“So, you didn’t say what brought to town.” He continued to stare intently at the robes. “The Friar Lawrence Enthusiasts gathering perhaps?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Remus lied. “I’ve always been interested in fictional Italian curates.”
“That conference concluded six months ago.”
Remus went a bit pale. Officer Stoker then whipped out a mirror and held it up to Remus’s face.
“Excuse me?” Remus asked, a bit taken aback.
“Sorry, I had to check, you’re a bit pale, you see. We’ve had a bit of a problem with infestation recently. St. Alban’s was overrun you see.”
“A church with vampires?” Remus asked. Well it looked like the man may not be a Muggle, after all.
“Of course. You didn’t think all vampires are C of E did you?”
“Well...”
“You never did answer about your business in town,” Stoker continued now that he had ascertained that Remus did not plan on prescribing a blood letting.
Given that this man appeared to neither be a Muggle or a Death Eater, Remus decided to simply tell the truth. “I’m not quite sure. I was at a friend’s home, then suddenly I was here.” Though it seemed a relatively innocuous admission, for example he could have been drunk or speaking metaphorically, his words caused Stoker to look on in fear that even the threat of fangs had been unable to elicit.
“I’d better call Thursday.” He mumbled and began to move to his squad car.
“Actually, it’s Monday.” Remus offered.
“Stay right here.” Stoker stalked to his vehicle and sat down in the front seat. Grabbing the radio he spoke with urgent, yet hushed tones. Remus listened closely, glad to be able to rely on his own superior hearing, as opposed to other tricks, like Extentable Ears™.
“Paging Thursday Next, Paging Officer Next. This is Officer Stoker and I have a code 42, Repeat this is Spike with a code 42…Oh so she’s not in the office right now. All right, could you radio her my information…Oh, radio silence. Fine. Would you be able to take a message?...Yes I will wait for you to find a pen…I have a code 42. It means its like the time with Rochester or Christopher Sly and the falling out of the narrative…No, the plot and imagery did not get in a fight, be serious.
“I have a fellow by the name of Lupin…Yes like the flower…I’ve never heard of him either. Between his dress, which is a bizarre variation of a monk’s robe, his physical state: pale, thin, scarred, and his speech I would guess its some minor Romantic work. Besides, he has that emotive, angsty sense about him. He’d seem to be the type to fall into spectacular fits of self doubt. I know for a fact he is post Romeo and Juliet as well.
“Do you think I should bring him down to the station?...Oh, fine. We’ll just wait here then…Here is the intersection of Swift and Defoe, the little one.”
Stoker emerged from the car and Remus waited for him to indicate what would happen next.
“Well, um, we will just wait here, I guess.” He eloquently informed Remus.
After several minutes of strained silence where Stoker seemed torn between questioning him and shooting him with the poorly concealed firearm that Remus thought was illegal for Muggle police men to carry, Remus succumbed to temptation.
“What is it that Section 17 does?” he asked breaking Murpholistopolies’s, a 13th century Greek wizard, law: Never ask a question whose answer you don’t wish to know.
“Werewolf and Vampire Disposal, dealing with the forces of darkness and the like.”
“Oh.” Remus responded. The International Statute of Secrecy didn’t seem to be in effect here, but Murpholistopolies’s Law was. It was perversely reassuring that some things were constant.
Given that this modern Van Helsing hadn’t quite figured out his own “furry little problem” Remus thought he might make this vexing situation useful for the Order.
“In that case, you haven’t happened across Fenrir in your hunt have your. I’m looking for him.”
“Fenrir?” Stoker squeaked.
“Yes.”
“You are looking for him.”
“You might call it a quest. It’s vital I find where he has been hiding out.”
“Where in Scandinavia did you say you were from?” Stoker questioned, grasping for any control of this situation.
“Oh, no, I’m not from Scandinavia. I was born in Liverpool and educated in Scotland.”
With that Stoker looked so confused he simply fell silent. Remus busied himself reading a pamphlet left lying on the ground that declared in bold letters “Crimea is a Quagmire” and “Goliath Perpetrates an Unjust War Based On Faulty Intelligence.” In the dim streetlamp light he wondered if he could make a run for it well enough to get somewhere secluded to try that wandless Apparation, but he abandoned that idea when Stoker’s movement cause his firearm to flash. A werewolf disposal expert would have silver bullets, undoubtedly.
Stoker stumbled through a few more vague questions and muttered more about the coming Thursday, but mostly they waited in silence punctuated by the occasional passing car. Remus noted that there were more Delorians in Swindon than he had ever seen in all his years wandering after the end of the last war.
Suddenly a panicked women’s cry rang out, electrifying the night. “Help me. Someone, Please help me.” A quick look to confer and Stoker and Remus shot off, sprinting toward the sound. Remus ran quickly, his furry biology helping him to dash more quickly through the well kept streets than a man of his age and condition should. Next to him, Stoker kept the same pace, his dreadlock dancing some modern frenetic piece behind him.
They reached a small residential street and spied the women at the entrance of the Thomas Cole Public Park. She shouted her plea for help again, spurring them on to reach her.
“What is the matter ‘mam, I’m SpecOps.”
“Up there.” She whimpered, pointing aimlessly toward the sky.
Remus’s eyes darted around, searching for the green image of a serpentine supper he had all too often seen at the sight of a disaster. The floating skull was no where displayed in the heavens. In his case, Stoker looked toward the moon, wanning gibbons and bright, as if something would be illuminated against the growing orb.
“No,” the women stated aggravated that her rescuers were so falling down on the job. “In the tree, it’s Irving.”
Remus quickly moved his gaze to the tree, expecting to find a small child who’d climbed up the branches and was now unable to return to ground, or at least a kitten. Instead, perched in the branches was an ungainly bird with stubby wings and a round beak.
“I just got Irving yesterday. There was a sale at Pete & Dave's Dodo Emporium on the V4.2 line. I think he can fly a little bit! I was taking him out for his nightly walk, and when I looked back, he was up there!”
“Well, ‘Mam. We’ll help you get him down, then.” Stoker promised, but not before he waved what smelled like an italian restaurant on a hot day around her head like a priest giving a benediction.
“I think I’m lighter than you, let me climb up on your shoulders and I will grab the dodo.” Stoker looked him up and down before nodding his assent.
With the ease that spoke to his years of practice of using other people as human ladders to access hidden rooms, Remus scaled up Stoker’s back. Left hand grasping a tree branch, his right hand reached out toward the bird.
“Here Irving,” he called, attempting to be soothing. The dodo stayed solidly put. Several variations on the call almost failed to make him budge. Finally, as his thighs beginning to be weary he grabbed Irving with a predatory motion.
The women reached up to Remus and he gladly divested the squirming bird into her arms. With nary a thank you she was off, cooing that “Mommy loves little Irving.” As the two love birds headed off into the distance Rmus returned to the ground.
“Thanks for your help.” Stoker offered him a hand.
“I was glad too.” Remus accepted the gesture.
“We should head back to wait for Thursday.” Stoker offered. Remus hoped they wouldn’t be outside through the next three nights until they reached the obviously important date.
“How long will we be out, Officer Stoker?”
“Call me Spike.”
“How long will…” but as asked again the feeling that had heralded his arrival to Swindon returned.
“Lost in your book? Is it good?” Tonks loudly asked, looming over him as she stood too close. The tea kettle on the stove started to sing the background, further adding to jarring noise.
“Well,” he looked down at the novel in his hands, “well, I didn’t make it very far in. I must have fallen asleep.” Remus explained, blinking too often.
“It looks Muggle, is it?”
“Yes. Hermione thought I might like it.” Speaking was becoming easier.
“Good then. You’ll have to finish it later, we need to go to headquarters.”
Remus stood, but his behind lacked that feeling of expansion that usually occurs after sitting in a chair for hours as he must have been. Following Tonks out the door to the edge of the garden where the wards end he tried to order his thoughts, beginning with the most recent.
“Do you know what a dodo is?”
“It’s a magical bird. Once native only to Mauritius, Muggles landing on the island endangered the bird so greatly that they began to stay invisible permenently to avoid the new predators. It’s quite intelligent and very difficult to catch, though it supposedly lives on Madagascar now, as well.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, Luna told me. She visited while I was in St. Mungo’s after the Ministry. It was quite interesting. Have you ever heard of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?”
Tonks did not wait for an answer but, apparated away first. Remus followed, all the while thinking he should finish the book.