SDS - Changelings - 2/13
CHANGELINGS
[ masterpost]
Chapter Two: A Ghost, A King, and a Werewolf
And i wait
staring the Northern Star
i'm afraid
it won't lead me anywhere
it's so cold
he will ruin the world tonight
all the angels kneel into the Northern Lights
kneeling to the frozen lights
- Northern Star, Hole
* * *
The dormitory door crashes open and Sirius Black strides through. He's yet to lose the summer's worth of stiff dignity his parents beat into him, and stands like someone has sent a stinging hex to his unmentionables. James, propped on his four-poster to admire his broomstick before breakfast, snorts behind his hand.
Sirius starts to give him that pureblood look from the doorway, and then it becomes an even more amusing sight, because Sirius realizes what he's doing halfway through. His face then goes from pompous disdain to shock, disgust, and finally mock horror. Then he throws a sock at James. James screeches and flails like a cat dunked in water, knocks the curtain rod halfway across the room and - oh, he's dead - Remus's perfectly ordered stack of books to the floor, where the offending sock lays.
Merlin knows how they've already acquired socks on their floor the first day of term. It's a talent, James is sure. He sniggers some more. Might as well get a laugh in before Remus strangles him with a bookmark.
"Stop giggling, you incessant dolt," Sirius snaps, grin gone. "We've misplaced Lupin."
James tucks his broomstick back under his bed where it can't wander and peers more closely at Sirius. He is twisting one of the rings on his fingers, and his left thumbnail is bitten down. All the signs that this is not a joke. But better not to take it too seriously or Sirius might just fidget to death in the doorway.
James can't really blame him for being tense and pompous this morning. They all suspected Sirius had hoped his brother might just, by some miracle, be sorted into Gryffindor as well. And they all saw Sirius's face last night, hard gray eyes and stiff jaw, when the hat called Slytherin.
It will just be up to his friends to distract him, then.
"OI, PETER! COME AND GRACE US WITH YOUR PRESENCE, YE OF THE SHOWER PEOPLE!" James shouts, probably with unnecessary force.
Peter's voice echoes out of the bathroom. "I'm not gracing you lot with anything this early in the morning," he laughs, "I mean, for Merlin's sake, just give me a minute, James."
Peter rarely makes James wait. Not thirty seconds of Sirius's resounding foot-tapping later (he's found heavy combat boots somewhere), a rather damp Peter is standing by his own bed, trying to pull his cloak over his robes and towel off his hair at the same time. There seems to be little success.
"What's this then, mates?" he asks, just like he does every time Sirius and James summon him for something completely inexplicable. Sirius thinks it is almost comforting, Peter and his "what's this thens".
"Why have we need of Peter - no offence," -Peter shrugs and tries to shake water out of his ear- "but it would have been more expedient to simply look for Remus right away. Breakfast ends soon."
"You're talking like a ponce again, Sirius," Peter informs him cheerfully, stealing the sock off the floor and ignoring Sirius's outrage. He casts about for another one, but no other socks present themselves. He shrugs and puts his shoes on. "When does breakfast end? And who knocked over Remus's books? You do realize he's going to strangle us all with bookma-"
"Ten minutes," cuts in James loudly, with a shade too much cheer, "and our first is herbology. Very far away herbology. In Greenhouse Three, which is farther away than Greenhouse One. By two whole Greenhouses. But I don't think Pete'll even need all that time, will you Pete?"
"We're on a Remus hunt?" Peter asks, since no one has actually thought to clarify this. He always misses Remus the times they are, well, looking for Remus. He would make hunting for himself so much easier.
"Yes, we most definitely are. Remus can't skip out on us this first morning! Imagine McGonagall's despair when she's greeted with only a fraction of our vivacious number!" wails James.
"Don't think 'vivacious' is a word, mate," says Peter. He holds the door for the other two as they hurry down the winding stairs.
"Is so! I've heard Remus say it!"
"Maybe Remus makes up words, to test us like," suggests Peter, dodging the armchairs in the empty common room.
"He would," says James gloomily as they step out from behind the portrait hole and into the drafty corridor. "Where to, then?" James looks at Peter. Sirius looks at James. The Fat Lady glares at the three of them. Sirius thinks she's beginning to suspect that their group is behind all those times she's opened and closed by an invisible Gryffindor.
"How are we expected to comprehend-merlinburnit-how're we supposed to know where to go?" Sirius demands, rubbing at his face and running his fingers through his dark hair.
"Have you actually forgotten Peter's incredibly uncanny ability to find just about anyone who's hiding?" James demands.
"Ah," says Sirius, but there is a sudden light behind his eyes. It has felt, up until a moment ago, that the long summer is all there is. But Peter's knack for discovering Those Who Would Really Rather Stay Hidden, Thank You brings to mind the pranks and gallivanting of yesteryear. He begins to suspect that he didn't actually died on the platform after all.
How useful, this "being alive" thing.
Sirius tosses his hair, though it is a bit short. Maybe he should grow it out. "Lead on," he tells Peter, gesturing down the hallway.
"Shh," says Peter, eyes closed and hands clasped in front of him, "The master is at work."
Sirius scoffs, not very quietly.
Peter wants Remus back. At the end of last year he started kicking Sirius when he's being rude.
Ignoring Sirius for now, Peter hums to himself and rocks back on his heels. "He's probably somewhere you two would deem, erm, pathetic."
"Hey now!" comes the protest.
"I mean no offense," says Peter in his best "we come in peace!" voice, holding up his hands. He pauses. "And I'll bet you the last chocolate frog it's a bathroom."
"Oh come on, I thought we didn't have to deal with that predictions bullocks until next year," Sirius whinges. "Who made you Divination professor?" Peter winces at the loud voice echoing off the stone.
"Please, Sirius, this is a sciencspific process."
Remus Lupin, as it turns out, is, in fact, in a bathroom. Proving Mr. Pettigrew's substantial skill, luck, or ability to predict coincidences, it is also the most pathetic bathroom. Said Remus Lupin probably holds the school wide record for the shortest amount of time taken to find refuge with Moaning Myrtle.
It had been the afternoon of his first day of classes.
Still, he really prefers to translate "pathetic" to "private". Which it is if you don't count Myrtle. But Myrtle isn't likely to tell, and not just because she has no one to tell anything to. She actually seems to like him.
No one likes Myrtle. And those first couple months of school, no one liked Remus either.
Long story short, it is a good place to puke his guts out on the days around the transformation, when the moon is already tugging his body like fishhooks in flesh and mind. It is dizzying and nauseating and makes him think his very blood is made of Dark magic, but Myrtle doesn't seem to mind the bad company.
As good a refuge as Myrtle provides for this, even Remus can only deal with so much of Myrtle's drama and he's been in here since four this morning.
"Poor, poor sickly boy," croons Myrtle. "I was sickly too, you know."
She follows Remus from the toilet stall to the sinks, where he sticks his face under a faucet. It's very nice, because he can't hear Myrtle while his ears are submerged. Unfortunately there is a time limit, and when drowning is no longer an option Remus straightens, sputtering. Myrtle is still talking. With shaking hands he screws the tap off and tries to dry his face and hair on his threadbare school robes. His hands are shaking too hard to do it well, and he swears.
"Poor us sickly little kids. I was such a sickly girl. It eventually killed me." She whimpers, and drifts unsteadily towards the ceiling.
Remus stiffens. He tries to banish the statistics of Werewolf deaths, the lycanthropy his mother just called "eich salwch" - your illness - and the life expectancy, but it is all too well memorized and floods his brain with stunning speed. He's not sure there's ever been a Werewolf who locked himself up and lived past his teens
Don't like confines, these child Werewolves. Whether it's his parents' bunker, built into the mountain, or the shack in Hogsmeade, the wolf will not stop trying to destroy them both.
Remus Lupin may have had to grow up fast, and he may be the most mature of all his friends, but he is scared and hurting and he wants, so much, to live.
Remus snaps. He is angry because the only alternative is crying. "Myrtle, last year you explained - at length - that you where in here because you were being teased. If you'd been sick, you'd be haunting the hospital wing," It's fear, and the madness of the moon that speaks, and Remus immediately regrets it. Nasty thing to say, even to a hypochondriac ghost with a taste for melodrama.
Oh Merlin, he has to stop using big words like that around Sirius and James and Peter or he'll never hear the end of it. Why, why is he so good at annoying people? Remus watches gloomily as Myrtle shrieks about the bathroom, spraying him with freezing water. He leans against the mirror, trying to stop his shivering, and glances at the high windows. The sun looks suspiciously high.
"Merlin's bloody-Myrtle, do you have the time?"
Myrtle stops swooping to sniff. "How should I know? I'm dead aren't I? Dead in the bathroom."
"My Mum says Elvis died on the toilet," he soothes. "Not sure who he is, but she sort of swoons when she talks about him. I think he must've been a Muggle celebrity." Remus shakes his head a little, wolf-style, sending stray drops of water smattering across the mirrors. He's forgotten how disturbing it is to think of his mother swooning.
This is hard to banish from his brain, however, when he glances up to see Myrtle fall into a swoon of her own.
"Elvis? You don't mean my Elvis Presley? He's so…his hips…such an American. Such a voice," she flies a loop-the-loop, hands pressed to her transparent chest. Then she swoops down to peer at Remus's face, her watery eyes just inches from his. "I used to have a whole collection of magazines with his pictures. Oh, I miss those."
"Er, Myrtle, look, I'll owl my Mum for some pictures. She had some Muggle ones. Just, I really need to go now. I'll be late for classes." He really wishes he doesn't have to go, even if staying means more of Myrtle's mood swings and toilet water in his robes. If he pukes again, in History of Magic for example, Professor Binns might actually notice. His friends will definitely notice, unless Sirius is even more oblivious to the actions of People Who Are Not Sirius Black than usual. Being that it's probably impossible for Sirius to become any more self-absorbed, this seems unlikely.
"Blast," says Remus to the sink. It hisses at him. Even Hogwarts bathrooms are strange. He stumbles to the next sink.
Full moon on the second night of school - what kind of luck is that? His stomach clenches again. Weakly, Remus tries to cast a drying charm on his clothes, but it only takes them from soaked to soggy.
A small sort of accomplishment, Remus supposes.
He is normally so good at charms. Remus laughs tiredly, bitterly. Normally, he is a little more together than this. He is civil and polite and not hiding in a bathroom with a volatile ghost with whom he feels some odd kinship.
"Normally, normally, normally," Remus says in a sing-song, bending over the sink. Classes are definitely starting soon, and he's missed breakfast; he doesn't even have a schedule. He can hear footsteps hurrying up the corridor, and rising voices.
Familiar voices.
"I swear this castle renovates itself every summer! Couldn't they hand out maps at the start of term?"
"And miss all the fun watching the ickle firsties panic when they take a wrong turn and end up in the dungeons instead of the Astronomy Tower?"
"Okay, maybe they should just give us maps."
"We're really the last ones who'd need them, Pete. We know more of the castle than anyone except Dumbledore, I'd expect."
"Yeah," says Peter, voice growing louder still, "But it would be nice. To keep track of the passages, you know."
Remus really, really hopes against all logical thought - and he hates going against logic - that the other voice was actually Regulus Black and not his much more likely elder counterpart, and that Regulus has several friends who sound exactly like Remus's friends.
The voices grow louder still and Remus tries to feel optimistic. He only succeeds in becoming a little more queasy.
"Peter, that's the girls' bathroom, isn't it?" James sputters. "I've seen Remus! He's not a girl."
"And why were you looking? Are you really, really sure there's not even a little girl under there?" leers Sirius. Remus feels ultimate doom impending, doom that can only mean the death of all his pride and manhood. This doom's name is Sirius Black and it is about to find him hiding in a girls' bathroom and that will be the end. In retrospect it is amazing he's made it this long with any masculinity intact. Remus supposes twelve years is a pretty nice accomplishment. It is a weak consolation.
"It's the abandoned girls' bathroom," Peter finally explains. "We hid from Filch in there last October. Nearly drowned, remember? But if he's anywhere, he's here." There is a sound like a gulp. "Who wants to go first?"
"What are you afraid of?" Sirius mutters. "We didn't actually drown, now did we? There are a lot worse things in the world than cursed bathrooms."
Remus looks at the hissing sink to his left speculatively. It is silent.
"It was just a ghost, remember?" James reaches up to knock, just in case girls actually do use this bathroom, but Sirius Black does not bother with pleasantries. He blasts the locked door open and steps in shouting, "Hello all, we've lost a Remus Lupin!"
James, unfazed, follows at his elbow, lazily twirling his wand. "We thought possibly you could return him," he adds.
They are met by a ghost drawing M+E in hearts along the wall with toilet water. She stares at them, and then whips around to a brunette boy who suspiciously resembles the missing Mr. Lupin. He is bending over a sink, and is apparently attempting to become one with the bathroom furnishings.
"You didn't tell me you have friends," Myrtle hisses at Remus, and dives into the plumbing. A little wave of water rolls across the bathroom floor, just high enough to get all of their socks wet and suspiciously smelly.
It is quiet. Everyone looks at Remus.
He pukes into the sink.
The next morning all of them, except Remus, are seated in the too-warm Charms classroom, which is very bright and smells, Sirius decides, like burnt sugar. Sirius traces the old scorch marks on his desk. He is thinking very hard about marks on his desk and not about any other desks, especially any to his right side which should rightfully be holding a Remus. Both the scorch marks and possibly the burnt sugar smell are the fault of the four of them and the impromptu end of the year party last June.
"That flambé was doomed from the start," Sirius mutters, picking at a particularly nasty scorch mark.
"Yes, but we all knew the risks," says James, who somehow always knows just what Sirius is talking about. "Oi, Shepperd, that's not your seat!" Alice Shepperd sends him a withering glare, but moves out of Remus's desk.
James has already kicked Bones, who is Gryffindor and Sirius even likes, and then Sprout who is one of the Hufflepuffs and never had a chance, out of the seat Remus chose yesterday.
Flitwick is babbling on in his high little voice about what they'll be learning this year for the second day in a row. Sticking charms will apparently be prominent in their education. Sirius is struggling to express, even to himself, how little he cares.
To his left, James spreads a crumpled bit of parchment on his desk, throwing Sirius and Peter significant looks. He mutters darkly when he manages to smear ink from his own fingers across the paper.
"Alright mates," whispers James, "this is the letter he sent me. Got it the last day of summer."
Peter digs a similar piece of parchment out of his pocket. "Here's mine," he says, a little loudly. Flitwick eyes them from atop his stack of books. "First warning, boys."
"But it was just me, Professor," protests Peter. Flitwick, a year's experience with the four of them under his belt, ignores him.
"Good show, mate," hisses James. "Just keep it quiet."
He takes Peter's letter and his own and places them next to each other on the desk, as if all the secrets of one Remus J. Lupin will reveal themselves from two short, boring missives.
Out of the corner of his mouth James hisses, "Sirius, give us yours."
"Don't have one," Sirius mutters. When they'd planned the Great Letter Decoding Mission, he'd decided this little fact wasn't important.
His fingers drum a staccato on the desktop and his leg jiggles. At their looks Sirius grudgingly elaborates. "Mother and Father didn't keep my letters from me, if that's what you lot are thinking. Remus didn't owl me." He doesn't say that they read them all before they were put in his hands. They'd given him time in the cellar for having such disreputable friends, but for the first time it had felt worth it, just taking detention for the cause.
But they knew about Remus, thanks to the tattletale cousins - probably Narcissa, she's always looking for ways to look good for her Auntie Walburga. When no letters came, his father mocked him, because his precious little Mudblood friend hadn't deigned to send him so much as a word. It worked too well. Sirius is still terrible at keeping emotion from his face.
He is getting better, though. Not good enough to fool James, so it's lucky Peter gets a sneezing fit just then.
Peter sneezes again. "Blast," he says, "Hagrid's dog strikes again." He picks a stray hair off of his robes. "I don't know how these get on me; I swear Hagrid must shed, too."
"From his beard," quips James. "Make sure to scourgify those robes, Pete. I think you've taken Remus's again."
Peter looks down. "Oh, thank Merlin," he says. "That's why they're so blasted tight. I thought I'd gained ten stone in a night."
"Then stop stealing our clothes, you poof," says James, elbowing him. Peter flushes.
"James Potter, fine way to speak when you're wearing my hat," hisses a voice from behind. Lily Evans glares fire.
While James attempts to save his own skin from the ginger she-demon (and possibly anger her infinitely more in the process), Peter turns back to Sirius.
"Remus probably didn't want to get you in trouble," reasons Peter, "He's seen how your cousins react to you being friends with him."
"Arseholes, all of them," James cuts across before Sirius can go ballistic.
"MR. POTTER," shrieks Flitwick, "LANGUAGE!"
Banished from the classroom and several points poorer, James crouches, hatless, in the Charms corridor and watches people pass by. It is busy this time of day at the start of term, with a lot of lost first years sprinting through and teachers hustling about on a free hour. Not a bad place to be, all things considered. Some high stained glass windows let in a hint of September sunlight. He pulls out the two letters and pokes at them with his wand. It's difficult to slouch in a cool way against the wall when he's feeling so thoughtful.
No need to feel thoughtful alone. James waits.
Not more than a minute later, Sirius appears with a little grin. A few Hufflepuff girls are shrieking inside.
"Thirty-five seconds," James says, "You've gotten lax."
Sirius snorts.
"I've left Pete in charge of the countercharm," he says, apparently in reference to the continued yelps and the scrape of moving furniture. "Though I think I left out a couple details."
Steam begins to waft out from under the classroom door.
"Tropical jungle?" James inquires, feeling at little left out.
Sirius shook his head. "Sauna, and not even a real one. It was on short notice. We flooded the room and I turned some books into those nice warm stones and a couple desks to benches." He wrinkles his nose. "I never get the bath salts right. Need Remus for that, his are all minty and nice."
James grins and pats the stone floor next to him. "Come sir, join me on my throne. Together we'll find a way too woo dear Remus back to you."
Sirius kicks him and settles down onto the sun-warmed stone. "I don't care about his charms, I care about his Charms. We're all too heavy on the transfiguration."
"Too much Transfiguration?" gasps James, "Never!"
"Show me the letters, you git. Then explain what in Merlin's name you think you're going to discover."
James's face behind his glasses becomes far more serious than normal.
"I'm trying to figure it out," he says. "His mum's sick, right? He mentions it in Peter's letter. What if it…runs in families or something?"
Sirius narrows his eyes. He hates it when people talk about anything that runs in blood, but this is James. "So you're saying he's sick too?"
"Well, maybe," James nods, wild black hair sticking up all over the place. "Pete brought it up when he disappeared last night. He had to have gone to the hospital wing - we all saw how sick he was yesterday, but he insisted on going to classes."
"Remus always goes to classes. He likes them." Sirius rolls his eyes.
"Right, I suppose. Though it's unnatural, don't say things like that, Sirius. No one likes school. Anyway, he made it look like it was normal - he didn't act like he was sick at all. It was just a normal Moody Remus Day. Maybe on those days he's all moody, it's cause he's feeling off."
"Or maybe he had a stomach bug and is moody 'cause he's, er, worried. About, er, his mother." Sirius still doesn't know how to talk about family, his or anyone else's.
James shrugs hopelessly. Sirius pokes at the letters with his wand and mutters "Aparecium." Nothing happens.
"What's that for?" asks James. Sirius looks surprised that he has to ask. "Invisible ink." Many of the Black family's letters are written that way. He gives James that look that means he's just said something he thought was perfectly normal, but is realizing is one of those strange and eerie things which are the norm solely in the House of Black. Sirius smiles sheepishly as the bell rings for lunch. He and James stand in unison to wait for a very soggy Peter to exit the classroom.
"Sorry you missed it James," Peter pants. "It was a pretty wicked sauna. Though it smelled kind of fruity; I think it was the bath salts."
"Burn the bath salts," grumbles Sirius, "burn them like my great great great great Aunt Alberta in the Inquisition."
"Language!" comes Flitwick's tremulous yell from the billows of steam.
Sirius grins and leads them in the lunchtime sprint down to the Great Hall. He really doesn't want anyone to bring up Lupins or illnesses or anything that would force him to remember how white Remus's face was in the bathroom, or how his hands shook and no one seemed to notice.
Sirius isn't used to noticing. He doesn't like it.
Every time.
His eyelids flutter, confused. He thinks that there should be two more, the clear ones that slip across his eyes when he lunges.
His mouth tastes like raw meat. Once, long before he came to Hogwarts, he woke up with one of his own fingers wedged between his teeth. It had taken him a while to figure out what it was. His mother screamed and screamed. A healer friend, one of the last to owe his father a favour, had put it back on.
Every time, when his human mind kicks in, when he realizes no human should have three eyelids or a breath rank with flesh, he is sick with the fear. It swarms his ears, sounds like maggots, like the burning horror and his Mam's face when she held the tiny finger and couldn't stop screaming to breathe. His poor Mam. She was just a Muggle girl, grown up on the Welsh seaside with parents who worked the mines. When she discovered his father, and magic, it had all seemed so mesmerizing, so much better than the life she could've had with a Muggle man. So she ran away with magic, only to have a Werewolf as a son. She'd not been prepared.
Remus can move more than just his eyelids now. He doesn't feel very human, even if his body seems to finally have chosen that shape. He needs to make sure he's not done anything to make his Mam scream again.
"Mam, wnes iei wneud?" Remus whispers. His mother insists on Welsh when they speak of the wolf. "The dead language for the deathly secret," she would say, and touch the hollow at the base of her throat, where his not hung, waiting for his tongue to slip.
So the first words, before he remembers Hogwarts and Scotland and English are, "Wnes iei wneudy tro hwn?"
Did I do it this time?
"Sleep," says a voice, mid-aged and rough and tired. All those tending the good-as-dying sound the same, Remus thinks. Pomfrey and his Mam both. But she's not answering him. Why isn't she answering him? Oh Merlin. Oh no, no, not this.
Remus's breath comes fast. Pain stabbing, blood in his esophagus, on his cracked lips. "WNES I EI WNEUD?" he shouts, and the blood flies from his throat and falls in a cloud of red pinpricks on his sheets.
"You're speaking gibberish," Pomfrey informs him. "Shush. Sleep. It's early yet; just barely lunchtime."
It's not gibberish. It's Welsh. It's the language of fear. Remus has not stopped being afraid, somewhere in his mind, since he was six years old.
He says this aloud - he has no idea what language - and vomits before Pomfrey can get the bowl to him. The puke is yellow like raw eggs. It steams. It's not pain that's making him feverish and ill, not yet. No, it's fear and the smell of moulding wood on his skin.
A splinter as thick as his thumb is imbedded in his forearm, but he can't quite feel it yet. The instincts in his head are warring. He leans forward and tries to tug the wood out of his flesh with his teeth, whining.
He's forgotten he has thumbs again.
Some part of Remus deep in his head sighs and shakes its head, and it is the most comforting thing he's ever felt. It is human. Then it is gone.
Pomfrey clears the sick off of him with a wave of her wand, her face unreadable to either wolf or boy. He is at her mercy. The wolf doesn't like it. The boy is afraid. Neither will show this.
Fear roils in his stomach, in his ears, and his body is confused as to what shape it should be in.
"No one is hurt but you," says Madame Pomfrey, not reacting to the look of horror on his face. "Now, please speak English or I will not be able to understand you. You are not at home anymore, Mr. Lupin. Term has started."
This explains some things. This does not, however, explain how many eyelids Remus is supposed to have. Is it humans who have three, or the Werewolf? Hasn't he always had three? Where have the clear ones gone? There are holes straight through his lips, but not teeth to make them.
Remus tries to right the capsized boat. This is how he pictures his mind. It's a slippery, tippy thing and when it's the wrong way up he can't remember his own name.
But Pomfrey has said something important. One more month without human blood on his hands. This is good, but it cannot last. The next month he will hunt again, and the next, and the next. Remus is a good gambler; he once won all of Peter's monthly allowance off him in one evening of exploding snap, and his Mam won't play poker with him anymore. It is all about the odds and the numbers.
Remus knows the statistics. He's read his father's old files. The werewolf will win, eventually. Given enough years all chances of success fall to zero.
The Werewolf breathes down his neck. It is there in the hospital bed, and its saliva runs red and the dirt of its fur streaks the sheets. It is about to eat Remus, and then it will become the next Loki crawled out of Valhalla and devour the world.
Animal fear, human fear. Instinctual panic magnified by human imagination. His mind capsizes again, all the way. Flips.
Pomfrey stands over him and forces a potion down his throat.
Remus sleeps, and dreams of moonlight on stones and an unobstructed sky, and the quiet snuffle of a wolf behind him, but it is not behind him, because they are one.
Simple, that. So simple, and so terrible.
Then Sirius is in front of Them, lips blue, and mouth's "It's just normal, isn't it Remus?" before They tear out his jugular. His blood is blue.
Mam
The Cottage on the side of the Mountain
Snowdonia, Wales
September 4th, 1972
Mam,
There's a girl here who's a fan of the Muggle (non-magic, you know) celebrity "Elvis Pressy". I remembered that you used to have a lot of pictures of him (am I right?), and I wanted to ask if you'd mind sending some along for her. She's lost all her photographs and seems to miss them a lot.
Nid oedd ylleuadyn rhyddrwg. MadamPomfreyynfedrus iawn. Peidiwchâ phoeni. Gobeithio eich boda dadyndda.
Remus
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