Cross Atlantic Misunderstandings (Chap. 1)

[xsilvercidex]

Title: Cross Atlantic Misunderstandings (Chapter One)
Author: love_torock
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Remus Lupin/Jesse Lacey [Harry Potter/Brand New]
Disclaimer: Please, don’t insult your intelligence by thinking this is real. FICTION.
Summary: Remus never intended on staying long, though if he were being honest, he never really intended on coming in the first place. AU. Crossover.
Author's Notes: It's been a while, but it's a long chapter (9671 words). Set in 2000 and written for wtf27, prompt #25: Media Crossover. Beta'ed by the awesome xcacophony (any misgivings from here on are my fault).

Prologue


Chapter One: How One Introduces Oneself.

7:03am, Monday 5th April, 2000
Spare Bedroom #3, 43 Terrance Place.
Inner Suburbs of somewhere, Remus still isn’t sure.

“Mmm, stop it, Sirius,” Remus murmurs sleepily, curling deeper into his sheets in an attempt to get away from his forever randy best-friend slash boyfriend slash person who he generally just likes. “Sirius, stop it.”

Not usually a morning person, Remus is even worse after the long night he spent meeting and greeting and then having to try and forget the entire debacle at the American Magical Embassy (he’ll have to write back to the Order about that). He swats again at the tongue sliding wetly against his neck, tickling his ear, when a sudden onslaught of facts hit him.

He’s not at 12 Grimmauld Place.

He’s not even in Scotland.

He doesn’t know what time it is.

His body aches like he’s wrestled a dragon (he probably didn’t come out of that one victorious, either).

He’s lying in a strange bed, half naked.

There is a tongue on his neck.

And lastly, but most importantly, Sirius is dead.

“Good God!,” Remus yelps, sitting up so fast in bed he flings whatever had accosted his neck to the floor with a undignified squeal and scatter. Heart beating madly against his chest, Remus pulls the blankets up to his neck in an attempt to retain some modesty as he stares, horrified, over the edge of his bed. A flick of ginger fur comes in sight, closely accompanied by an angry “mew!”, and with pointed ears, hisses at him before making an abrupt exit through his ajar bedroom door.

“I hate cats!,” he exclaims vehemently. However, he's relieved to discover he’s only been molested in his sleep by a cat… Not that that sounds any better out loud, but Remus doesn’t bother much with thinking as he wipes a hand across his face to remove the excess cat spit and flops back down to stare at the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling, as ceilings come, but it isn’t enchanted with sparkling stars. It also isn’t the dull grey he’s woken up to for the past few years, the past few years he’s spent dreaming of Hogwarts and sun stained cheeks where Sirius was on the other side of the veil and living...

“And now I sound like a nostalgic war veteran. Could I get any more pathetic?”

“Oh, honey, don’t be that way. You’ve got everything going for you! Just look at yourself.”

Remus, whipping his head about, is so startled he rolls right out of bed, eyes open wide and scanning the room quickly in the way he’s learnt to, living so many years alone and hunted. “I, like, swear, you don’t look forty. At all!”

The mirror. Right, they have enchanted mirrors.

Somewhat relieved, though highly embarrassed (because really, the mirror sounds like Molly! Heavens, Remus thinks, of all people), Remus gathers himself quickly and stands to smooth down the front of his flannel pyjama pants and runs a quick hand through his hair.

The mirror lets out a low wolf whistle, growling somewhat at the end and Remus thinks he’s going to die from the humiliation (why, why does it have to sound like Molly?!). Staring in abject horror at the gold oval frame of the vanity mirror, Remus shuts his eyes and takes those few deep breaths he knows he needs; doing the mandatory count to ten as slowly as he possibly can before muttering a quick “Why, ah, thank you. I’m going to take a shower and be off now,” and walks out of the room as fast as he possibly can.

“Be sure to make a little step in to get your clothes before going down, Remus! That is, you are going to wear clothes, aren’t you?”

“… Shoot,” he says, slamming a palm over his face as he remembers he may need to do just that if he’s to make any decent impression on anyone in this forsaken country. Why can’t he ever make things go to plan when he needs to? The short trip to the bathroom is filled with similar thoughts and Remus is sure being cursed once in his life, for his entire life, is enough. Why does this house have so many bloody mirrors anyway?!

“Oh, frisky!”

“Half naked Englishman at ten o’clock, Four!”

Something to Remus’ left screeches, making him stop for a moment (“Just my luck, this entire house is filled with depraved middle-aged voiced mirrors. Just. My. Luck.”) before thinking better of it and quickening his pace as a seductive purr follows on.

“Why can’t you just say he’s coming past like a normal enchanted mirror?”

“That’s an impressive scar you have there. Where’d you get that one? Now if only you’ll come a little closer…”

“I’m still lost, what’re you all talking about? What’s half-naked and who’s coming? We have English--”

“Do shut up Number Three, you’ll get your turn in a minute. Oh he is a gentle lookin’ one, isn’t he?”

“Why are the English mirrors always getting it better than us Americans? It just ain’t right that we work for less and longer and THEY get the handsome ones. No, it just ain’t right, I say. ”

“I said ten o’clock! And watch that you don’t miss him, his shirt isn’t done up all the way.”

“We should contact the Union about this!”

“I thought you said he's half naked? If you’ll just tell me, I won’t have t-- Well hello there, sweet cheeks,” Hall Lining Mirror #3 says and Remus resolutely pretends to suffer temporary deafness to all things inanimate as he steps into the bathroom and shuts the door with a snap behind himself.

Back pressed into the cold surface of the door, Remus shakes his head and wonders when he ever became “sweet cheeks”, “gentle lookin’” or even “handsome” and what they thought was… desirable? He allows his mind wonder to the fact that there is some sort of ‘Enchanted Mirror Union’ and hopes there won’t be some rally about this because, good Godric, Hermione would have an absolute field day.

“It just shows. The most attention you’re going to get is from a bunch of enchanted, middle-aged, female mirrors,” Remus mutters to himself, sighing quietly as he steps into the shower and fiddles with the dials in some semblance of trial and error until the hot water comes out in a huge gush and soaks the front of his pants.

“Blast!”

Remus steps out of the steam and looks down, inspecting the front of his overworn sleep pants and grimacing; he proceeds to peel them off slowly and lets them pool around his feet in a soaking heap of wet material. His shower is long and luxuriant. He thanks the higher powers that someone had left his toiletries here last night and finally gets out when he senses that he may have used at least half the hot water for himself, though feeling only slightly guilty for it.

Wrapping the towel loosely about his waist, Remus runs his hand over his morning stubble and wonders if he should bother with shaving or leave it as is, then thinks he shouldn’t bother. Women hate facial hair, don’t they?

“You’re certainly looking a lot better there, buddy. Get a good night’s rest then?”

Jumping back, Remus stares incredulously at the bathroom mirror with his mouth gaping, not willing to believe that every single mirror in this household could possibly be enchanted.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before. Mind you those scars are pretty nasty looking, though, they have healed well. Are you the gentleman werewolf then?”

Remus nods dumbly, eyes blinking slow. He has to clear his throat a few times before managing to construct an answer, fingers clutching the towel around his hips tighter as he brings a hand up over his chest in an attempt to cover up more of himself.

This mirror was not a female.

“Ah, yes, I am. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you…”

“Number Eight, but you can call me Eight. I’m, as you may have already noticed, one of the very few male personality mirrors here and am, as it is, much more professional about this whole thing. Those women, all they ever do is bitch, whine and perve.”

There’s something about Number Eight that Remus can't help but like; quite possibly the brutal personality and no nonsense attitude. It helps that he isn't trying to get an eyeful of Remus’… assets either, and even though he is talking to an enchanted male mirror, wearing nothing but the towel around his hips and a disbelieving smile, Remus lets his guard down for just this moment.

“They can be a bit much.”

“What, you think I keep the door closed because I enjoy being seen as a misanthropic mirror?”

Eight’s voice sounds almost questioning and Remus is struck dumb as to what to say, but that doesn’t seem to matter though because Eight continues on as if it weren’t a question at all. Which, if Remus thinks about it, it probably wasn’t. “Though, given the choice, I guess I’ve chosen this here over those, out there. Anyway, you’d better hurry down if you want to catch Conor before he tries to make you a plate full of crap he’ll foist off on you as food. The boy cooks as if his tastebuds have been singed off.”

“Oh?” Remus decides not to question how Number Eight would know what Conor’s cooking tastes like, seeing how he’s a mirror’s personality and all…

“I’ve been told so anyway, not even the girls will eat it.”

That strikes Remus as nothing in peculiar. Cats are very picky and choosy with what they eat and from his time living with some of them (Crookshanks, Hermione’s great fuzzy nuisance of a cat), he was positive the ones here were among some of the most high strung. Oh yes, he’s sure of it, Remus thinks, nodding his head as he remembers meeting them.

He had wandered in behind Margaret, who had still been busily narrating about lord knows what and Remus had watched as she smashed his trunk against the doorframe a few times before she realised it wasn’t going to fit.

“Look at that, your trunk won’t even fit through the door,” she had started off saying, stating the obvious as if Remus hadn’t noticed or heard the sickening thwack of the edges ramming into the wooden frame. “Don’t worry, I’ll just flip it like this and there.”

“You know, it’ll be quite alright for me to take care of my own bags. I don’t like being such a nuisance--”

“Don’t say that! It’s a pleasure having you here and oh look, the girls have come out to meet you! Lilly, Tilly and Millie, come here and meet Remus. He’s the lovely wizard from England who’s come to stay with us,” Margaret had cooed sweetly while Remus glanced around looking for three young girls and before he could've manage a thing, something sharp dug it’s claws into his pants and clawed it’s way up his leg.

“Yeoooow!” Screeching loudly, Remus had made a grab for whatever it was that had made an attempt to amputate his leg and wrapped his hands around a sleek body which twisted and hissed at him.

A cat. A sleek, black furred cat with bright yellow eyes had hissed and spit at him and it was all he could do not to fling it straight across the room when Margaret screeched and snatched the creature right out of his hands.

“No, Millie! Bad Millie, we do not attack house guests, do you hear me? And we do not try to shred their pants either. Bad girl, no treats for you tonight.”

Crouched on the floor, Remus had rubbed his recently accosted leg tenderly and ran his fingers over the entire length. Thankfully all Millie had managed were a few deep red scratches and didn’t draw any blood. Remus’ pants, however, had been snagged open and there were a few tears down the calf, though, of course, his pants weren’t of the best quality in the first place.

“I’ll replace those! You can have a pair of Conor’s; he won’t mind. God knows the boy has enough clothes to dress a small nation as it is. Oh, bad Millie, you aren’t usually like this to guests. Bad kitty, bad.”

Margaret looked aghast while she admonished the now guilt laden cat and Remus didn’t seem to have the heart to say that those were one of the few pairs of pants he had actually liked, but that was typical Remus behaviour really.

So, with a weary shake of his head, “It’s quite alright. Cats don’t bode well with… my type.”

“Your… Oh my God! Of course, how could I be so stupid! Girls, come here right this instant.” Margaret looked stern and remorseful all at once. Remus figured it must have been one of her many gifts and watched in awed silence as ‘the girls’ lined up at her feet looking properly chastised (especially Millie, he noted with no small amount of satisfaction).

“Now I’m going to say this once and I’m not going to say it again, so you three had better listen carefully. This is Remus and he is a very special guest who’s going to be staying with us for however long it is he’s staying.” Remus blinked and noted that there didn’t seem to be a set date for his departure and he was sure he should have been a little more put off by this, but couldn't seem to voice his thoughts as he watched Margaret continue. “I know you think he’s going to hurt us, but I’m telling you now that he is a very wonderful werewolf. Yes, werewolf. Don’t you look at me like that Lilly, I know you’ll like him once you get to know him better.”

And so it had continued for the next ten minutes, Remus standing a silent shadow beside Margaret as she had went over house rules and then Cat rules and then, as if that wasn’t enough, newly developed Remus rules. But, as it was, he hadn't been quite sure what his rules were as Margaret was very vague and only stated he shouldn’t disturb Catherine while she was working or head down the stairway by the garage. Remus had taken note to ask about any further rules he should know about later, as interrupting didn’t seem like the best idea at the time.

“Are we clear?”

A soft spatter of purring followed in reply and Remus had piped in a “Yes”, just to be on the safe side. Margaret looked pleased, the wistful look replaced to her features along with that benign smile Remus is sure was her trademark. It was then that Catherine had made her re-entrance, steps slow and calculated as she rounded the corner and brushed a hand through her dark hair, tucking a stray strand back into the large clip holding the tight McGonagall-esque bun. It had been like looking at Minerva and Snape’s love child… Remus had to hold back a body wracking shudder at the mere thought, wondering if it was possible to obliviate that entire thought from existence without any permanent damage to himself.

“Well, I suppose you finally got around to telling those cats of yours about the new house guest then, Margaret? Even though you had assured me you would before he arrived and, as it seems, was accosted by the entire herd.”

“Litter.”

“What?” Catherine then had raised an eyebrow at Margaret, who merely shrugged and straightened out her blouse, fingers pulling at the hem with an air of someone who was casually trying to divert the attention from their own mistakes to something clearly irrelevant and insignificant. Remus knew what that was like, being a Marauder had properly trained him in art of careful diversion.

“It’s a litter of cats, herd of cows.”

“You seem under the impression that I care, Margaret.” With this it seemed Catherine had also trained in the detection of diversion and wasn’t going to be having any of it.

“I was just--”

“Of course you were just. You’re always just pointing something out, aren’t you? Now why don’t you go make yourself useful and show Remus to his room while I go see to dinner.”

“Yes, Cathy,” Margaret replied, looking properly chastised, then turned to tug Remus and his trunk along.

Halfway up the stairs, Margaret had turned around and glanced down, Remus following her line of vision to spot the three cats all staring up at them. She sighed and shook her head, flicking a stray strand of hair behind her ears and continuing on. The house was suddenly very quiet and Remus had to try to occupy himself by glancing around at the tapestry lined walls, the photos within the frames unmoving and lifeless.

“Don’t your photos move?” He asked offhandedly.

“Oh, they used to, but Catherine sometimes has work people over and Conor’s always bringing home a slew of people that don’t know anything about magic. We figured after the twentieth memory we had to modify that it would probably be best if the pictures remained silent. Why, do the photos at your house move?”

Remus had to think for a moment and a fond smile came to him as he thought of his small collection of tattered photos, but then the thought of the portraits at Grimmuald Place made him cringe.

“They do. Our portraits have life as well, it’s a Dorian Grey-esque style they use, I think.”

“Oh? You’ll have to tell me about it sometime. Here’s your room. I hope it’s alright; we didn’t really have much time to think about where you would best stay, but we did get rid of all the silver and anything else like that.”

Remus nodded at the obviously considerate thought then stepped into the spacious room and thanked Margaret, saying that it was fine and all the other sorts of polite things Remus would usually sprout.

“Good! I’m glad you like it, we should probably head down to dinner, you’re hungry, right?”

And so it was, Remus had nodded and Margaret had handed Remus a small sharp key because “Wards are unnecessary and kind of lame… you know?," which Remus had nodded to in agreement anyway, disregarding that he wasn’t sure what exactly was lame with such useful and practical safety measures (especially in these times). He didn’t mention the fact that Margaret was not the most competent witch Remus had come across.

Dinner, well, dinner had been an interesting affair which consisted mostly of Margaret’s inane commentary and Catherine’s more practical questions. The cats, which had earlier been rather hostile, had been curled around Remus’s feet and chair legs, mewling quietly as Remus fed them whatever it was that was meant to be for dinner. He expected, even now, that he was meant to be under the impression the odd, yellow… thing on a stick was meant to be a form of meat, or vegetable or possibly a combination of whatever was regarded as the in between point of the two.

He hasn't been quite sure if it was edible, but Margaret had ate it heartily (mostly drowned in ‘ketchup’, a tomato sauce, Remus noticed) and even Catherine managed to look proper consuming it. Granted, she had been using a fork and knife and she had apologised for not having anything else to offer at the moment, as she had left Conor to do the shopping; a mistake she had sworn she would never repeat.

Remus learnt what he was eating was commonly referred to as a ‘corndog’ and that had been, in itself, enough to turn his already delicate palate off; he had found that the cats seemed to be enjoying it though, so there had really been no need to deny them such a small joy when he wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. Any more.

The rest of dinner Remus spent answering inquiries about his condition and how he spent the nights of the full moon. Margaret was outright shocked at the number of laws that restricted his movements and actions and he had to stop at Werewolf Reproduction Act, Clause IVX, 1506 because Catherine was sure she could read up on it all of it at a later date and Margaret had obviously been gaping at him since the Werewolf Containment Act, Clause XI Subclause V, 1453. Meanwhile, he hadn't been able to manage to get half a word in about what it was he was expected to do here for the duration of his stay or how long the duration if his stay even was.

It had been a long night and Remus asked to retire early, though by that time it was already sometime past midnight and Catherine had insisted that Margaret could wait until morning to gather a convention to protest at a later date. Remus had hoped that it would be a very late later date, because he had the feeling it would involve a lot of women and a lot of crude handheld signs which would inevitably lead to him being some sort of a second hand spokesman. Remus hates public speaking.

“… I’m assuring you now, you should head down, boy. Conor’s going to insist that you eat his food and I really would not hope that on even the worst of people, let alone a nice man like yourself.”

Snapping out of his reverie, Remus shakes his head and nods, not sure what he’s agreeing to but has the sense to nod nonetheless. He was dry by now, the humidity and steam in the room clearing out and, watching as the mirror defogged itself, Remus hears the quiet sigh of relief.

“That’s better. I hate it when that happens. You really should turn on the fan or open up a window in here.”

“Oh, sorry,” Remus replies sheepishly, scratching the back of his ear and listens as the mirror laughs in silent agreement.

“Don’t worry about it too much; it happens all the time, mostly for the better. I don’t want to be watching you wash yourself every day; how absolutely perverted!”

He’s sure that was meant to be some sort of reassurance, or maybe just a joke but he can’t help that he pulls the towel tighter around himself anyway and simply answers with a nod of affirmation.

“I suppose I’d best head downstairs then.”

“Might want to make yourself decent first, that’s assuming you don’t want to head out in just your birthday suit and a towel, of course.”

Right. Eight has a good point there and Remus almost groans at the thought of having to walk back down the hallway undressed like this and then having to listen to the Molly-esque mirror make comments about him the entire time he’s trying to change. Remus figures Americans must not be too fussed about privacy or modesty either, considering this household alone has more life-like inanimate objects than all of Grimmauld place put together; though that may have something to do with the fact most of the objects at Grimmauld place are cursed, have been disenchanted or simply are too disdainful of Remus to even offer a snide comment.

Eight tutts softly and takes pity.

“There’s a robe under the basin, by the way, just thought I’d tell you seeing how it’s my job and all.”

And there is, a large all-covering light blue terry-towelling robe that Remus puts on and ties up at the front, throwing in a very grateful, “Thank you.”

The trip back to his room is much like it was on the way there and Remus actually grimaces at the cheap pick-up lines, some of which are used on him, then has to shake out the thoughts of how exactly some of those mirrors would do those things to him. He makes it back to his room in record time and dives for his trunk, pulling out the first set of clothes he manages to get his hands on: loose brown slacks, a waistcoat and a one of his many over-loved button downs.

“Your underwear’s in the bottom compartment, sweetie.”

… Good Godric, how does she know where he keeps his underwear?

“Ah, ah… thank you?”

Remus isn’t quite sure how to respond to that and tugs a pair of shorts on underneath his robe, turning his back to the room as he faces the wall to dress himself.

“Its okay,” the mirror chirps in much too happily and Remus is honestly beyond disturbed at this point. “I’m here to help after all. You look absolutely delectable in that get-up, Love, but you’ve done up the buttons wrong. May want to run a brush through your hair as well; it's sticking up at the back.”

Remus fumbles with his buttons, fingers quickly readjusting them into the right holes, and runs a hand through his hair, the strands smoothing down some. He figures he may need some socks as well and slides into some quickly before heading to the door. He’s not sure what possesses him exactly, maybe that voice in the back of his head that Sirius was always telling him to get rid of because it was constantly interfering with ‘ace plans!’, but the quiet “It was lovely meeting you,” and then, “Thank you for your help,” slip out before he can manage to hold it back. He really is too polite for his own good, and being liked was always one of his higher order priorities.

“Aw, its no problem, Cupcake.”

Remus wonders how many terms of endearment this particular mirror is going to use on him before he snaps, but, Cupcake? What? “It’s a pleasure having you here. The last person who stayed in this room was shockingly impolite. He put a cover over me!”

Imagine that. Now why would anyone do something like that?, Remus can’t help but think, then quickly admonishes himself because, Merlin, that voice has a particularly low drawl that sounds too much like Snape for his Gryffindor sensibilities.

“Yes, terrible indeed. I’ll be heading out now… have a good day?” He adds with a slight frown, thinking that it may have been a little insensitive to say something like that.

“Oh! I will, Muffin, don’t you worry. You have fun exploring too and do try to eat something; you’re looking a little worse for wear. Mind you, don’t eat anything that Conor boy cooks, damned terrible he is.”

Remus nods in way of reply, not sure he could answer without yelling out a litany of reasons he should not be called ‘muffin’ (or any other variation of a baked good, if he's being honest with himself) and closes the door with a soft snap, not bothering with a good-bye. He walks downstairs slowly, allowing himself to take in the house with enough light so he can actually see everything now and notices that it is a vast improvement from Grimmauld Place. It had light, was clean, and looked lived in, for a start. The absence of silver furnishings (though they had tried to remove them all from Grimmauld Place, they kept reappearing magically) and scornful portraits is also a nice change of scenery, however, the dark smoke creeping out from around the kitchen doorway didn’t seem to ease Remus any.

He really would have to heed the mirrors warnings about this Conor person’s cooking, it seemed.

“You think I over cooked the sausages?,” A soft, raspy voice can be heard as Remus makes his way carefully towards the source of the smoke and noise.

“Honey, there’s like, a gawd-damned fire in the pan. I think youse’ll be eating ash if there’s anything’ left.” There was a female voice there as well, the accent lilting and drawling like those country western characters in the few movies Remus has had the … pleasure of viewing.

“Maybe they like there food well cooked over there. What would you know anyway? You’re just a mirror.”

The voice in reply is haughty and indignant and Remus briefly wonders why they would have a mirror in the kitchen in the first place.

“Aw, aw, low blow, babe. That ain’t right to say about one of my making. I know every recipe ever made, you know. It’s not mah fault the best I can do is instruct. How you’re to be cookin’ it, I can’t control.”

Well, that answers that question then.

“Then obviously your instructions just suck, don’t they?”

The boy has the sort of tone Remus usually believes a Malfoy would have, disdainful and indignant, no matter their current situation. Draco had used the same tone when Molly suggested that he try putting the plates away, or even if he could look after his own washing. It wasn’t a pretty site that followed, especially not with the heated screaming which followed where Draco looked anything but dignified with his hands on his hips and Molly’s apron flung over his head. That, however, is not a moment Remus wants to recall in too much detail, though, suffice to say, Draco had learnt to pick up after himself after the third consecutive night he received a raw potato for dinner.

“Sweetie, I say you should let ‘em simmer for a few minutes and you turn the heat up high enough to roast those things to hell. Leave them there for a few more minutes, just in case the fire brigade can’t see the smoke. What more can I do when you can’t seem to follow a few simple instructions?”

“I follow them fine, you’re just bad at them.”

“How many meanings can ‘Leave ‘em to fry on medium heat for two minutes’, have?” The mirror sounds about indignant as a mirror can, Remus notes, before shaking his head at his own inane thoughts and moving to make his presence known.

Clearing his throat loudly a few times (because the first time was drowned out by continued loud bickering), Remus brushes a hand over his pants and offers a small smile as the other occupant in the room turns to look at him.

“Ah, morning there. I couldn’t help over hear your… predicament and wondered if I could be of any help? I’m Remus, I don’t suppose you would be a Mister Conor?”

The boy blinks at him rather blankly. Remus isn’t sure if he can even see him with the huge amount of dark fringe hanging in front of his eyes. The boy’s head cocks to the side, his hair sliding off his face gently to reveal bright, keen eyes and quirked mouth. Ah, he looks amused, Remus notes and finally, after what he’s sure was a good solid five minutes, the boy nods slowly and tugs at the hem of his overly small shirt.

“You would suppose right; no mister, though, just Conor. And you would be the Remus, who’s English, that Margaret won’t shut about then.” It wasn’t a question but more so a statement and Remus feels the slight heat rise to his cheeks at being talked about, not that he isn't used to it but this Conor boy seems to be implying something.

“Duly noted, just Conor, then. And yes, I would be that Remus who is actually more Scottish than English.”

“I thought the English were supposed to be all meek and polite. You sound a lot more sarcastic than I expected. Oh well, I think I like you better this way anyhow. Now I won’t have to be so nice and polite back to you all the time,” he says with a completely straight face, or at least whatever parts of the face Remus can see and well, how’s he supposed to reply to that?

“I see, then…”

“What do you see?”

“He sees the mess you’ve made of cookin’ his breakfast, that’s what he sees. Aw and good mornin’ to you, hon, it’s nice to finally meet you and all,” the mirror hanging next to the stove chirps in, to which Conor mumbles something about nosy mirrors who can’t really meet people. “Sorry ’bout breakfast though, you might wanna go get something at the mall.”

“Thanks for pointing out your own mistakes, Nine.”

“What?! You burnt the sausages, you messed up the eggs and you, my Lord, somehow screwed the toast up, even though the toaster has settings!,” the mirror squawks.

“Your details are inconsequential, Nine. I’m sure Remus is glad to meet you but I’m starving and he looks hungry too. You’re hungry, right? Good, let’s go.”

And off they do go, Conor walking straight up and grabbing his arm to take him out and he only manages to throw back a “It was lovely meeting you too!”, before they’re in the hallway to the front door.

“Jesus, that mirror never shuts up,” Conor mumbles, shaking his head, though Remus notes there’s little malice in the comment and maybe Conor likes Nine more than he lets on.

“There are an awful lot of mirrors in the house.”

“Awful? Yeah, most of them are but you get the few that’re alright. You don’t, like, have to get your hat or whatever do you? I’m starving.” Conor still has him by the arm as he opens the door, glancing back expectantly and Remus shakes his head, wondering why he would have a hat.

“No, I don’t wear hats much.”

“Don’t you? Thought all English guys wore hats, kind of like Charlie Chaplin with the bow ties too.” The walk out the door and Conor shuts it behind them with a quiet snap.

“What now? And I told you, more Scottish.”

“Same difference. What d’you want for breakfast, then? Pancakes? Sausages? Pea soup and crumpets?”

Remus makes a face.

“You eat pea soup with your crumpets?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know what crumpets are, I just heard that’s what you eat over there. What’ll be then, or should I pick?”

Americans are so strange, Remus thinks, almost utterly ignorant to those outside of the country and looking at the boy in front of him, who is probably older than he really looks (though Remus supposes he must be of age to perform magic, that’s if he does do magic, by this stage of their conversation). Remus simply sighs and nods, consenting to hand over the decision making.

“You’d best pick and where is it we’re heading? Mirror number Nine said something about a… Hall of some sort?”

“Mall, she said we should go to the mall for breakfast. I’m feeling my sweet tooth is in need of a fix, how do you feel about pancakes with lots of sugar, cream and syrup?”

“My palate will make do,” Remus replies in hopes that Conor will let him get away with maybe just some good tea and toast. “And can I ask what a mall is, exactly?”

“You’re kidding… no? Okay, you’re not. God and I thought Omaha was a dump. A mall, well, a mall’s basically where there are a lot of stores and things all in one place, under one building. I can’t be bothered to explain, how about I just show you?”

“I suppose,” he replies, voice faltering slightly and Conor just gives him a winning smile, which Remus is sure he uses quite often and by this he really means this boy has the odd sort of charm that leaks from his unblemished skin.

“Then I guess I’d better be a great host.”

- - -

10:28am, Monday 5th April, 2000
The Mall, a large building with chaotic children.
Someplace too far for Remus to know, he thinks.

Remus glances about as if he's used to being in such a crowded building, watching as huge glass moves up and down with people swarming about and looking important. He knows what escalators are, having lived with a Muggle parent, but actually seeing one after such a long time was like seeing a time machine. Conor keeps a running commentary as he walks through the throng of people, hands moving about sporadically to point things out.

“That’s Old Navy, you might like the merchandise there,” he says, pointedly stopping to give Remus a critical once over before nodding his head slightly and Remus has to glance down at himself.

He doesn't look too bad, all things considered, at least now he doesn't have gaping holes or mismatched patches all over his clothes and surly the fact that they were close to fitting had to count for something. Sure, they may be a little old fashioned and worse for wear, bordering on the unfashionable to the young possibly, but they were very respectable and had held together well and Remus wasn’t exactly one to read Witch Weekly’s Column For The Hapless and Disastrously Dressed Wizard.

“Might have to take you to get something later. We should try out some Abercrombie and Finch for you, their new fall range suits your skin tone.”

Conor nods resolutely and Remus has to wonder what exactly his tone is, words like pale, pasty, haven’t-seen-sun-in-years and white-as-snow seemed to come to mind, but he shoves them back as Conor continues to openly study him.

Fingers tapping at the base of his chin, Conor moves forward suddenly and tugges gently at the collar of Remus’ rather respectable Oxford shirt, thumb grazing over the bared skin of his neck and Remus raises an eyebrow pointedly.

“I think I look respectable,” Remus answers, clearing his throat as cool fingers all too casually brush against his rapidly warming skin and he blinks when all Conor does is offer a benign smile.

“Respectable is very last decade, Remus. Oh and don’t get your delicate sensibilities get to you, if I was hitting on you, you’d know.”

“I see.”

And that was it. One last tug at his collar and Conor lets go, ambling off and continuing on with some inane commentary that Remus doesn’t bother listening to. Well then, Remus says to himself, if American boys weren’t just the oddest creatures he’d ever met, which says something, he thinks, because he’s seen and met a lot of forest creatures and interesting beings in his time, but he supposes their motives have always been rather glaringly obvious.

He sees Conor wave in his own animated way and notices that Conor’s also slowed down somewhat in expectation and assumes that Remus will catch up and escort him side-by-side. It’s nice in a strange way, that someone has become so comfortable around him already, something Remus isn’t used to experiencing and before he can be assaulted with bitter thoughts, Conor stops.

Turning back suddenly and flicking his wrist at a store front, Remus glances towards it with slight horror.

“How do you feel about pastel colours?”

- - -

10:45am, Monday 5th April, 2000
Second last change room, Marco’s Gentlemen’s Wear.
The Mall, Somewhere, New York, USA.

“I don’t think... I really don’t think that this is quite my colour,” Remus mutters, fingers pulling at the hem of the rather garish orange shirt that Conor managed to convince him into trying and Remus visibly relaxes as Conor shakes his head.

“You’re right, maybe red… Yeah, I think red’ll look good. Here.”

And another shirt and pair of pants are thrust at Remus. He sighs, taking the proffered clothes and stands back as Conor steps away and draws the curtains closed. Remus changes as quick as he can, sliding off the soft cotton shirt proclaiming something that was probably crude and suggestive, but he figured this was American culture and really, a rooster? How very crass.

“How’s it look?,” Conor asks from the other side of the curtain and Remus looks at himself in the mirror. Well, at least this ensemble wasn’t quite as ‘fitting’ and well, he did have nice shoulders, didn’t he?

“Better,” he replies, pulling the fabric back for Conor to inspect and Remus really isn't used to being under such scrutiny of this sort, where he knew he wouldn't be judged for what he was but merely how he looked. No, scrap that thought, Remus thinks, this is exactly how most looked at him, minus maybe the pursed lips and wandering hands.

“Well get that and the tweed jacket. Okay, change back, we’re done here. I don’t like the store clerk, she keeps staring at us.”

Staring at us, right. Remus doesn’t bother to tell Conor that the girl has already asked Remus if Conor is his nephew because honestly, some things just weren’t worth divulging, especially if it concerns Remus’s orientation.

“I don’t think I brought enough--”

“Sure you did, don’t argue with me.”

Finances. How exactly is he supposed to pay for this? He didn’t know that breakfast would entail a shopping spree and if this gets any more… any more taxing, Remus is going to have to put up some restrictions and maybe shop at stores that didn’t have carpets this plush and store clerks that dress like they are about to attend a Ministry function because, how is he supposed to pay?

- - -

11:27am, Monday 5th April, 2000.
Front Counter, Old Navy.
The Mall, Still, New York, USA.

Remus shuffles the bags in his arms, watching as Conor swipes the small silver card and signs the little receipt that had scrolled out of the same casher. Again. It's becoming a routine of sorts now, one which Remus is understanding more and more of with every purchase they have made, which was basically Conor thrusting clothes at Remus, Remus putting them on and then Conor approving or disapproving which then led to exactly where they were at this moment.

“Thank you, sir, we hope to see you again soon.”

Another thank you, another armful of bags and Conor waving his hand dismissively, leading to Remus supplying their “thank you”s in return (the boy was talkative enough for the both of them and yet never spoke to any of the staff in stores) and off they went.

The pair of them have received more looks than Remus could have imagined, the workers blinking oddly when Remus seemed to be the one trying out clothes and Conor the one paying with his magical silver card, because it couldn’t be anything but as there was no fuss following the exchange. Remus thinks it is actually rather convenient considering how bulky Wizarding money was. Muggles clearly were much more advanced in matters of shopping, but he figures that was due to how much of it they must do. They had only come for breakfast, after all, and now here he was with almost an entire new wardrobe in his arms.

It was only after the fifth or so store they had entered that Remus finally understood what the weird looks were for, watching as an older man accompanied by a busty young woman, who giggled too often for it to be sincere and smelled of a thousand pulverised roses, who tried on even more than Remus but bought a lot less. He had flushed heavily, gritting his teeth, and had almost refused to try on any more clothes but he realised that only caused Conor to talk louder and insist more forcefully. Which basically meant he tried to stand in the small, cramped change rooms with him and Remus doesn’t think he’s ever met anymore more stubborn or quick fingered -- there really were a lot of buttons on his shirt.

Remus had stopped bothering with that back at store #8 (he took to numbering them, just to keep count because the store names were all lost the moment he walked out) and given into being seen as either an ill fashioned uncle or (Merlin help him) Conor’s mantoy.

Humility is something Remus has always been used to, after all.

The only line he draws is at the pair of strangely cut leather trousers and matching mesh shirt Conor picks up, exclaiming a loud “Unless you intend to wear that yourself, I suggest it stay on the rack” and sighing when he places them back. He's met with an amused grin and Conor returning to look over the more modest coats.

“Are we almost done?”

“Almost? Well, I guess for today then. I have to go shopping later for myself and my American Express charges too much interest after I exceed the limit. I should probably use the gold one instead, hey?”

Remus figures Conor is musing to himself, because if he thought Remus was going to reply to that than he's more disillusioned than Remus had thought during the Versace store transaction.

“You do what you think is best.”

“You’re right, I’ll stay with this. I’ve got to learn how to finance things better anyway.”

Remus doesn't bother saying he should probably start with not spending mass amounts of said finances on a house guest he barely knew because that might just send him back into The Rant Of Doom, as Remus has affectionately come to think of it as. It involved a lot of arm flailing, even more store clerk abuse and enough creative forms of torture (because wearing spandex, whatever it may be, was surly a form of torture) for Remus to think that Conor would have made either :
a) a very successful evil overlord,
b) a creative minion of death, or
c) a shopping partner.

“Indeed,” he says, which is simply a standard Remus reply for anything he either doesn’t want to comment on, doesn’t know how to answer to or, if he really thinks about it, when he just couldn’t much be bothered to think.

“Okay. So…” Conor starts, eyeing Remus and his multitude of bags and Remus is sure it means that they’re done because, Lord, his arms are going to fall off. “Do you like the new spring range?”

Remus hated being wrong; right now was no exception.

- - -

12:30pm, Monday 5th April, 2000.
The Lava House, A Small Café.
Same Chaotic Mall, sans nosy store clerks.

Breakfast becomes lunch by the time Remus manages to convince Conor that he really had planned to just come for some toast and tea and no, he really hadn’t thought about Conor taking him on a shopping spree and buying him enough to last our the next two centuries.

Their bags are piled in a small mountain on the floor and chairs beside them and Remus glances over at them warily every minute or so, just to make sure they wouldn’t somehow spontaneously burst out in song and dance and that it truly is over. At least he hoped it is.

Gulping down some concoction of jasmine tea and chai, Remus decides against telling Conor that it tastes like he was drinking flower petals and that americans have the absolute worse tea he has ever had the displeasure of coming across, because being gracious is almost ingrained into him. Conor, meanwhile, is sipping delicately at his organic apple and carrot juice, something which Remus personally thinks looks like blended clay, and providing commentary on some sort of lake he had been to… Saddle Creek?

“I think maybe I should go down to Omaha for a visit, see how the new kids at the Creek are fairing,” Conor is saying as Remus continues to stare forlornly at the pile of bags and wonders how many small underprivileged children he could have sent to Hogwarts with that money. “They’ve got a new sound studio, which is good I’d say, after the last batch of tinkering and echoing tracks that for some reason most people thought was meant to be on my CD, they decided not to risk that chance again. Cursive weren’t so successful in pulling that stuff off, you know?”

Why did people insist on asking Remus if He Knew, because for the life of him, Remus generally doesn’t have a flipping idea what they’re all on about. And what in Godric’s name is Conor on about, first it was children living by a creek in Omaha and then it was as if they were working on this creek and then next he was on about CDs and handwriting. Wasn’t the boy ever taught about techniques of conversation rule #12: Do Not Change Topics Every Sentence?

“Indeed.”

Conor smiles, flicking through the menu again even though he has already ordered a toasted foccacia with avocado and Remus wonderes how much longer it would take before his food would be out.

“How long are you staying with Maggie and Catherine anyway?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Remus begins and its true, he really doesn’t and then he stops altogether because how much did Conor know? Well, enough to threaten and consort with enchanted mirrors so it obviously wouldn’t be breaking the secrecy code to talk to him, would it?

“Maggie mentioned you had a condition.”

Remus blinks.

“I might…,” which Remus notes is the understatement of the century.

“Said it involved Catherine’s potion making skills too,” Conor says solemnly and Remus mentally ticks off that it is fine to talk to him about the Wizarding World, though he's still a little apprehensive about telling Conor about anything that involved himself.

“That it may.”

“Is there a reason you’re being so cryptic? You don’t have some crippling and contagious disease like, like… Wizard’s Syphilis, do you?” Remus’s eyebrows shot up so far he's sure they’d run back into his hairline, but Conor looks serious and Remus doesn’t know what to say.

“I have Lycanthropy.” Seemed like the start.

“Is that all?” Conor looks visibly relieved and Remus isn’t sure how he feels about that. It's nice that he isn’t being judged and called a beast as such, but it's also disconcerting that a sexually transmitted disease seems to worry Conor a lot more than a life threatening condition that turns Remus into a bloody curdling monster every month.

“What do you mean is that all?,” Remus sounds utterly incredulous, as he well should. This certainly hasn’t been the reaction he expected nor one he has ever received, save maybe from Sirius and Dumbledore but that seems so long ago and natural that Remus doesn’t consider it.

“Well, do you plan to bite me any time soon?”

“Merlin’s balls, no!”

“And, it’s just a guess now, but Catherine will be taking care of your problem every month, right?”

Remus nods dumbly, “Yes.”

“So then, what? Do you want me to go fetch an angry mob with torches? Should I go dig out my trusty pitchfork? Would that make you feel more at home, because I could arrange that… if you want?” Conor waves around dismissively as he speaks and Remus isn't sure if he's actually kidding or not because, um, he honestly is glad that that hasn’t happened.

“No, I think I’ll be quite alright without the… benevolent welcoming, I think all those,” Remus gestures towards the bags, “are enough already.”

“Good, because I've already put my pitchfork away.”

Remus blinks, again.

The pair tapered off to mindless conversation once more, mostly about life in Scotland (“Well, it’s cold as you would expect, but the tea there is a great deal better. Much larger range without all this other crap you lot shove into yours.”) and how Conor came about living with Margaret and Catherine (“I’m an apprentice to Catherine… the woman’s an absolute fucking Nazi. Oh, they were these German soldiers that…”). Remus learnt that Conor pretty much lived a double life, one amongst the Muggles as a musician, which made Remus wonder how he survived (musicians hardly made much money), and the other with Catherine and Margaret where he trained to become another Potions Master.

“Well, not a Potions Master, but I thought it might be nice to one up my father. He’s always going on about what a disappointment I am. I recorded a CD at 14, had myself signed by the age of 15, released my own album that same year and I practically have a cult. What’s he ever done? Nothing except create a bunch of stupid potions that cured hags of their ugly hunch and that stuff you take? Wolfsbane? Yeah, I think I’ll be helping Catherine with your next batch.” Conor sounded bitter and Remus understands that, though he suspects that Conor’s father is a lot more prestigious than he makes him out to be, if he really had created the Wolfsbane.

Their food arrives and Remus stares down at his plate of salad greens, blinking mutely as Conor starts cutting up what looked to be a bread roll with green slime on it.

“I ordered a Shepherd’s Pie, a steak sandwich and a bowl of soup. Did they take this to the wrong table?”

“Hm?” Conor glances up at Remus, down at his too small salad and then shrugs. “I don’t know, why don’t you go ask the kitchen?”

“I think I will.”

Sliding his chair back, Remus grabs his too small plate with even smaller portion of lettuce and carrot pieces and takes it to the small window where the food seems to be transported out.

He knocked on the window.

“Yes, can I help you sir?” A man with a handlebar moustache peers out at Remus as if he's the scum beneath his feet. How typical.

“Actually, you can. I didn’t order this salad.”

“No? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive.”

“Oh, I see.” The man stands behind the glass and curls the tip of his moustache slowly. Remus shoves the plate under the window.

“I ordered a pie, a steak sandwich and a bowl of soup.”

“Did you now?”

Remus is a polite man, he truly honestly believes he is. He's not only a polite man, but he's also a patient man. Coupled together, Remus usually is a right gentleman but right now he's being really tested.

“Yes. I. Did.” He manages to ground out tersely, trying as hard as he can to drown out the patronising tone of the waiter.

“Yes, I think he did, Michael.” A voice appeared beside him and Remus glances over at a rather petulant looking boy, a little older than Conor, with the brightest blue eyes he's seen since Dumbledore.

“Oh! Mr. Lacey! I didn’t realise you were here.”

“Obviously not. I don’t suppose that’s my salad wilting beside your arm, is it?” The boy has an air of utter superiority, the sort Conor has but with a little more… a little more of something Remus couldn’t quite place just yet.

“What? No, no of course it isn’t, let me just get you another one.”

And the waiter disappears, leaving Remus to stand there with this complete stranger who's clearly a lot younger than Remus but holds himself as if he's a wise and sage man. He's dressed smartly though, a pair of grey slacks with a matching suit jacket and if it weren’t for the pink t-shirt and scruffy shoes, Remus would have thought he was a businessman.

“I guess you’re the one that ordered all the meat then?”

It takes Remus a moment to realise he's the one being addressed.

“Yes, I did. Is it at your table?”

“It is. I’m sitting in the corner with the guy in the red beanie. You can go get it if you like,” he replies, hand pointing towards a corner booth where another boy, dressed much more casually, sat, slumped and digging into what Remus thinks may have been his Shepard’s Pie. “Jesus Vinnie… you may want to order again."

Sighing, Remus resigns himself to remaining hungry for a while longer.

“It’s alright, someone should enjoy it, I guess.”

“Well he doesn’t need it. He’s, well, he was on a diet until about two spoonfuls ago.”

“Diet?,” He questions.

“Yes, it’s a band thing. Our promo manager thinks all this studio time’s making our minds and bodies lag, so he’s put us all on some diet.”

Remus was poised on the point of reply, wondering if everyone in this damned city was a musician and how they went about making all this money but the waiter had returned and was already blabbering at them before he had time to catch his breath.

“We’ll have your salad down in only a few moments, Mr. Lacey.”

“What about my food?”

Rude Handlebar Moustache Waiter (as Remus had affectionately come to name him), merely blinks.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to get mine?”

“Remus, what’s taking you so long and how… oh. Fancy seeing you here, Jesse Lacey.” Conor had come to see what all the commotion was about and why it was taking so long for Remus to get his food.

“Could say the same for you, Conor Oberst.” The boy’s voice is tense, eyes shining, and Remus saw the corner of his mouth twitch just the slightest. He also notices that they addressed each other with their full names.

“Mr. Oberst! I didn’t realise you were here! Oh, look at this. Two of New York’s biggest rising male leads here, in my small restaurant, in just one day.”

“So it would seem,” Conor manages to say, eyes still trained on Jesse.

Remus glances around, not entirely sure what exactly's going on because it seems that Conor and this Jesse were having a stare off in the middle of a café, fingers twitching, and Remus briefly entertains the thought that they're going to start Duelling right there, and the waiter, possibly owner, might have a mild coronary from their mere presence.

“Oi, Jess, I… Conor?”

And yet another voice and person is added to the equation and Remus really just wants to eat. He’ll settle for the salad right now.

“Vincent Accardi!," the waiter drops the plate he's holding, eyes wide, and Remus is sure it's the end of him. “This is amazing! The three of you, three, here in my restaurant!”

He was never going to eat, was he?