HP: Placebo
Lupin is given a small, isolated property, for his services during the war. He holds the deed in his hands, stamped beautifully by the Department of Housing, even featuring a congratulatory statement from the Minister of Magic himself.
The place itself looks like a mess of wood, stone and brick that the wind happened to blow into the same place. Almost uniformly grey with age, it huddles, looking contemplatively suicidal as it peers over the cliff’s edge down into the sea.
It is a shack, and Lupin wonders if there is a higher power who likes making a joke out of him.
Still, he swallows his disappointment, counts his blessings (and he only needs one hand for this), and settles in. Tea in the left cupboard, alcohol in the right, sheets on his bed. Boards up the cracks, hangs curtains in the window: Gryffindor red. It is very almost like home. Almost, but not quite.
He buys himself a big, black dog.
“Be happy,” he advises it as it gives the shack a dubious sniff. The dog wears a disapproving look. It is expressive, for a dog. “For your price, I go without whisky for a month.”
Tonks visits much later, when everything has calmed down, and Lupin escorts her from the apparation point. She does a double take at the sight of his suicidal shack. “Remus,” she says, “I think the Ministry is trying to give you some sort of message.”
The dog takes this moment to come sauntering out of the shack and it stands up to place its paws on Lupin’s shoulders in greeting. It is relatively restrained, for a dog. “Hallo, Grim,” he says to it.
“Then again,” Tonks raises her eyebrows, “I think you’ve got it. The dog’s name is Grim..?”
“No,” Lupin says firmly, “It doesn’t have a name.”
He’s spruced the shack up a little since he first arrived. The walls are thickly hung, and a comfortable fire burns in the inexplicably crooked fireplace (which has been carefully disconnected from the Floo network). It is very cosy, and substantially better than some situations he’s been in. Tonks is quietly horrified, and Lupin realises, for the first time, that Tonks has never been poor for a second of her life. She could never live like he does, and this demonstration works better than a thousand age-related arguments ever could.
It feels like something hot, wet and heavy, like a dead, fermenting animal, has been lifted off his chest. Lupin is genuinely happy for the rest of her visit.
“Just us men,” he tells the dog when she’s gone. It whines at him, and he’s not sure what that means, so he continues, “But there’s something a little distasteful about drinking whisky from a mug.”
The dog barks, and Lupin smiles at it. It is smart, for a dog.
Harry comes next, all hard edges and shiny scars, although his forehead is bare. He stares at the dog, long, hard and suspicious, and says “Remus-”, but nothing more.
He doesn’t seem to mind the whisky in the mug, or the patchy shack; though, as Lupin reminds himself, this is the Boy Who Lived Under the Stairs, and someone who admires the Weasely’s taste in architecture. Lupin pours a little whisky into the dog’s dish, and Harry watches with raised brows. “Remus,” he says, “It’s a dog.”
“Not a cat then,” Lupin replies breezily, “Saved me some trouble there, Harry.”
Harry drops the subject.
Lupin walks Harry to the door, although he doesn’t know why he bothers -it is, after all, only one room- and helps him with his coat and hat. Harry puts his hand on the doorknob, and says, back turned, “Remus. Are you happy?”
“I get by,” Lupin answers truthfully. It is a pleasant enough life, though not quite whole or quite real, like the chipped veneer on his briefcase.
Hand still in position, Harry half turns his head, so one green eye is looking at Lupin sidelong. “If there’s anything I can-“
“There are,” Lupin interjects mildly, “some snakes in the ceiling. But I understand you no longer have any talent in that area.” Harry’s eye -or eyes, rather- narrows slightly. Lupin continues, “Thank-you for the offer, in any case. You’ve really done plenty for me already.”
He looks from Lupin, to the dog, then to Lupin again, and gives a quick, curt nod, before he leaves, the crack of apparation just outside the door step.
When he hears it, Lupin lets out a sigh. The dog nuzzles his hand, and Lupin frowns at it. It is too affectionate, he thinks, but pushes it out of his mind. It is good company, after all.
For a dog.
The nearest village is a fair trot away, but not so far away it makes apparation to a safe distance worthwhile. It has little to offer but a small supermarket, a few other small businesses, and a fish-and-chip store near the water. Most who live there commute by train to work in the region’s central town. It is not a tourist spot.
Sometimes, to treat himself, Lupin buys himself some chips and a cider, and sits by the rocks to eat them. He doesn’t know why he bothers, or why that should count as a treat, since it mostly involves watching the grey sky blur into a grey sea which bashes itself repeatedly against grey rocks.
No one there knows him, his fame, his stigma, or even his name. If it weren’t for the monthly trips to St.Mungo’s for his Wolfsbane, it would be very like the life of any thirty-something recluse.
He comes back to the shack (it isn’t ‘home’, and probably won’t ever be) carrying heavy plastic bags that are cutting the circulation to his finger tips off. The dog barks expectantly at him as he carefully packs away the groceries, and it gives what Lupin thinks is a highly undignified wag of its tail. With a dutiful sigh, Lupin pulls out a tin of dog food and pulls the lid off.
The tin is carefully upended on the dog’s plate, and the mass inside slides out. It remains standing in a wavering, gelatinous column. The dog sniffs it cautiously, and gives Lupin an affronted look.
“Not quite the same, is it,” Lupin says gloomily, as the wind whistles through a hole in the wall.
The place itself looks like a mess of wood, stone and brick that the wind happened to blow into the same place. Almost uniformly grey with age, it huddles, looking contemplatively suicidal as it peers over the cliff’s edge down into the sea.
It is a shack, and Lupin wonders if there is a higher power who likes making a joke out of him.
Still, he swallows his disappointment, counts his blessings (and he only needs one hand for this), and settles in. Tea in the left cupboard, alcohol in the right, sheets on his bed. Boards up the cracks, hangs curtains in the window: Gryffindor red. It is very almost like home. Almost, but not quite.
He buys himself a big, black dog.
“Be happy,” he advises it as it gives the shack a dubious sniff. The dog wears a disapproving look. It is expressive, for a dog. “For your price, I go without whisky for a month.”
Tonks visits much later, when everything has calmed down, and Lupin escorts her from the apparation point. She does a double take at the sight of his suicidal shack. “Remus,” she says, “I think the Ministry is trying to give you some sort of message.”
The dog takes this moment to come sauntering out of the shack and it stands up to place its paws on Lupin’s shoulders in greeting. It is relatively restrained, for a dog. “Hallo, Grim,” he says to it.
“Then again,” Tonks raises her eyebrows, “I think you’ve got it. The dog’s name is Grim..?”
“No,” Lupin says firmly, “It doesn’t have a name.”
He’s spruced the shack up a little since he first arrived. The walls are thickly hung, and a comfortable fire burns in the inexplicably crooked fireplace (which has been carefully disconnected from the Floo network). It is very cosy, and substantially better than some situations he’s been in. Tonks is quietly horrified, and Lupin realises, for the first time, that Tonks has never been poor for a second of her life. She could never live like he does, and this demonstration works better than a thousand age-related arguments ever could.
It feels like something hot, wet and heavy, like a dead, fermenting animal, has been lifted off his chest. Lupin is genuinely happy for the rest of her visit.
“Just us men,” he tells the dog when she’s gone. It whines at him, and he’s not sure what that means, so he continues, “But there’s something a little distasteful about drinking whisky from a mug.”
The dog barks, and Lupin smiles at it. It is smart, for a dog.
Harry comes next, all hard edges and shiny scars, although his forehead is bare. He stares at the dog, long, hard and suspicious, and says “Remus-”, but nothing more.
He doesn’t seem to mind the whisky in the mug, or the patchy shack; though, as Lupin reminds himself, this is the Boy Who Lived Under the Stairs, and someone who admires the Weasely’s taste in architecture. Lupin pours a little whisky into the dog’s dish, and Harry watches with raised brows. “Remus,” he says, “It’s a dog.”
“Not a cat then,” Lupin replies breezily, “Saved me some trouble there, Harry.”
Harry drops the subject.
Lupin walks Harry to the door, although he doesn’t know why he bothers -it is, after all, only one room- and helps him with his coat and hat. Harry puts his hand on the doorknob, and says, back turned, “Remus. Are you happy?”
“I get by,” Lupin answers truthfully. It is a pleasant enough life, though not quite whole or quite real, like the chipped veneer on his briefcase.
Hand still in position, Harry half turns his head, so one green eye is looking at Lupin sidelong. “If there’s anything I can-“
“There are,” Lupin interjects mildly, “some snakes in the ceiling. But I understand you no longer have any talent in that area.” Harry’s eye -or eyes, rather- narrows slightly. Lupin continues, “Thank-you for the offer, in any case. You’ve really done plenty for me already.”
He looks from Lupin, to the dog, then to Lupin again, and gives a quick, curt nod, before he leaves, the crack of apparation just outside the door step.
When he hears it, Lupin lets out a sigh. The dog nuzzles his hand, and Lupin frowns at it. It is too affectionate, he thinks, but pushes it out of his mind. It is good company, after all.
For a dog.
The nearest village is a fair trot away, but not so far away it makes apparation to a safe distance worthwhile. It has little to offer but a small supermarket, a few other small businesses, and a fish-and-chip store near the water. Most who live there commute by train to work in the region’s central town. It is not a tourist spot.
Sometimes, to treat himself, Lupin buys himself some chips and a cider, and sits by the rocks to eat them. He doesn’t know why he bothers, or why that should count as a treat, since it mostly involves watching the grey sky blur into a grey sea which bashes itself repeatedly against grey rocks.
No one there knows him, his fame, his stigma, or even his name. If it weren’t for the monthly trips to St.Mungo’s for his Wolfsbane, it would be very like the life of any thirty-something recluse.
He comes back to the shack (it isn’t ‘home’, and probably won’t ever be) carrying heavy plastic bags that are cutting the circulation to his finger tips off. The dog barks expectantly at him as he carefully packs away the groceries, and it gives what Lupin thinks is a highly undignified wag of its tail. With a dutiful sigh, Lupin pulls out a tin of dog food and pulls the lid off.
The tin is carefully upended on the dog’s plate, and the mass inside slides out. It remains standing in a wavering, gelatinous column. The dog sniffs it cautiously, and gives Lupin an affronted look.
“Not quite the same, is it,” Lupin says gloomily, as the wind whistles through a hole in the wall.