After finishing up his
grindylow study, a sodden Lupin shuffled off to his private quarters for a hot shower and a change of clothes. He was starting to nurse a perverse fondness for
Stephen's hideous coat - it was comfortable and smelled rather nice, and certainly was no more appalling than some of the clothing he'd worn in the 1970's. (That
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He looked at the Darwin with interest. "Charles Darwin? I had thought for sure you meant Erasmus Darwin, fine man, wrote the Zoonomia. 1859 would put him rather out of my range, true. I was born in 1775; my contemporaries are all, at the moment, in the year of our Lord 1816, with the exception of myself and Jack."
The book was very, very interesting. Pirate rum was not conducive to understanding the finer points of evolutionary theory, to say nothing of reconciling said points with one's Catholic sensibilities. "I may need to find a copy of this in the library, I think. Forgive me." More rum!
((I've had to fudge Stephen's chronology a bit for the reason that Patrick O'Brian had more plot than he did time, and therefore set a whole slew of books in the year 1813 each of which probably ought to have taken a year unto themselves, otherwise the Napoleonic Wars would have ended too soon for his story. ))
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He looked at Stephen curiously as he poured himself another glass of rum. "You were born in 1775? I was born in 1960. I suppose that would make you my great-great-great-grandfather. Or something." Maths and geneology were not his specialities. "That must be very strange for you, being here. And being in a relationship with a woman from the distant future, no less. You must be having to learn a million new things."
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Stephen thought the idea of himself being Lupin's many-times-great-grandfather was extremely amusing. "I do have a daughter. Rather not think about her becoming the ancestress of anyone at the moment, though. She is but fourteen. Well, she is fourteen in 1816." He laughed helplessly. "It is extremely strange, I'll grant you that."
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He was quite surprised to learn that Stephen's daughter was fourteen. How old was River Tam - seventeen or eighteen? Goodness. And he'd thought Tonks was too young for him. Well, all those girls in Jane Austen novels got married at that age, so maybe it wasn't such a big deal for Stephen.
And speaking of Miss Tam, he hadn't heard from her in a while. "How is your lovely fiancee doing?" he asked. He'd drunk a bit too much rum to consider the fact that Stephen might have followed his train of thought. He took another gulp of it before continuing. "She came to me a while ago, looking for help with controlling her abilities. I referred her to Professor Dumbledore, but she ended up taking lessons from Voldemort." He shuddered. "But since they've been popcorned, I've heard no other word. Is she managing all right on her own?"
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At the mention of Voldemort, though, no amount of rum could prevent his irritation. "May the saints bless and keep whoever made that beast into popcorn," he said, darkly. "To think she allowed him to study her -- " He shook his head. He was still utterly convinced that Voldemort had cultivated River's acquaintance in order to use her as a weapon. "She thought he was teaching her, and they did have one tutorial together, but it seems to have done her no good at all, if he did indeed teach her anything of use." The memory made him blush, though Lupin could not have known the reason why; that lesson with Voldemort had been instrumental in what became of River's relationship with Stephen. "I do not think she is managing all right on her own -- I do not think she is managing at all. She needs to learn discretion, and instead she wants to tell all and sundry exactly what she has read in their thoughts. It is a continual subject of dissension ..." He was surprised at how much he was confiding in the other man.
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"Yes, we're well rid of that bastard Voldemort. I'd warned Miss Tam to stay away from Snape, and then I found out she'd sought out Snape's master instead." He shook his head. "She told me she could take care of herself, and I certainly believe her, but I was very worried about her." He wondered why Stephen had gone a bit pink. Perhaps... never mind. He didn't want to know. "I think that learning discretion and learning to control her abilities are two separate issues. I should think you would be a very good teacher in the art of discretion."
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... was sitting right in front of him. Keep your bloody mouth shut, Lupin, he told himself. But with a goodly amount of rum inside him, he couldn't help making one more confession. "That was you, wasn't it, that I was talking to on that board? You said that... love is different every time, but it's always painful. And the only thing more painful than love is its absence."
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"Yes, I was rather relieved that nobody guessed my other one. It would've been quite embarassing... well, the incident that inspired it was equally embarassing, so no harm done, perhaps, but..."
Dammit, why couldn't he just spit it out? Both of them had danced around the subject ever since the incident occurred. He was right, they really WERE awfully alike. Too alike, perhaps. He took another swig of rum, sighed, and stepped off the cliff, so to speak. "The secret was about you. About April Fool's Day."
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"It was a very strange incident," he said, finally. "I ... still think of it, on occasion."
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He could feel his face getting pink, but inspired by the rum, barrelled on regardless. "You remember, I was wearing one of Crowley's bedsheets? I couldn't find any of his clothes when I woke up... Anyway, I was worried the bedsheet might slip and you would see that... err... Oh, Merlin." He turned away, simultaneously wanting to laugh and crawl under the desk.
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