Fic: Postcards From The Moon for sambethe
Title: Postcards From The Moon
Author minnow_53
Written for: sambethe
Rating: PG
Summary: Five different journeys, one constant relationship.
AN: Various POVs
Thank you: To astra_argentea for reading through.
Postcards From The Moon
Sinus Iridium/Bay of Rainbows, August 1978
The Muggle coach veers sharply to avoid a dog running across the road, and Remus fumbles for Sirius’s hand, finds his own hand clutched tightly in return.
He’s so tired that he’s hallucinating songs. It’s quite good, actually: all he has to do is close his eyes and think of the first few bars and he can suddenly hear the whole song loud and clear, as if it were playing on a wireless right beside him. He’s even controlling the purr of the engine, using it to create a steady background beat.
Those nights in the tent are taking their toll on Sirius too. He’s dozing, his head on Remus’s shoulder, and Remus shifts to make sure he’s comfortable. Just for once, he doesn’t want to sleep, because if he does the songs will go away.
Sirius has insisted on bringing his guitar into the coach with him, and occasionally, when the driver makes a particularly sharp turn, it bounces on the overhead rack with a twang, breaking Remus’s concentration.
The narrow streets of the resort give way to towns laid out in wide swathes, Moorish buildings, sidewalk cafés shaded by orange trees, which will later be laden with the small, sour fruit used to make marmalade. Spain is full of what Sirius calls scenery, of culture, which both boys do their best to ignore, of squares, galleries and strange cathedrals, of tourist coaches that take you halfway across the country for just a few pesetas.
Remus isn’t actually sure where they’re going. He thinks it’s Seville, but it might be Madrid, if there’s a beach in Madrid. It’s not really important. For all he cares, they could be on the moon, as long as he’s with Sirius and they’re sitting close together on the narrow seats with their legs touching.
He still feels guilty about being second-best, a stand-in for James, but Sirius doesn’t seem to mind. At night, when they’re just falling asleep in each other’s arms, he mutters ‘You’re not sorry Prongs couldn’t come?’ and Sirius kisses him and says sleepily, ‘Don’t be silly. It would’ve been a waste of time, chasing birds with Prongs.’ Then, Remus allows himself to drift off and dream of sand, of arches and pillars glimpsed through a window, of oranges spinning in space.
Lacus Somniorum/Lake of Dreams, March 1979
Two boys and a second-hand white Volkswagen Beetle, familiar runes painted all over the bonnet and boot, the name Shadowfax stencilled on the driver’s door.
The slight, fair boy nods, his face trying not to part in a wide grin: he’s obviously been warned not to look enthusiastic. The dealer, hovering as they examine the car, hears the dark boy hiss, ‘They just bung up the price if they can see you like it, Moony.’
He then turns to the dealer, poker-faced, and says, ‘It’s in rather poor condition, isn’t it?’ He opens and slams the front passenger door. ‘Look. There’s a dent.’
The dealer shrugs. ‘Take it or leave it.’
The fair boy, unable to contain himself, blurts out, ‘How much?’
‘Twenty Galleons.’
The boy looks down at the ground, starts tracing patterns with the tip of his dragonskin boots, a present from the dark boy on the occasion of his birthday two weeks ago. The dealer has no idea how he knows about the boots: of course, he’s always been good at Divination, a great asset in his line of work.
‘I suppose we could take it for a test drive,’ the dark boy says.
‘Hang on a minute. I need to be absolutely sure that you can handle a Muggle car. These are valuable vehicles, you know.’ He can see they aren’t vandals, but you can never be too careful.
The fair boy says, ‘We can both drive. My mum taught us. And we’ve got our Apparition licences too.’
The dealer decides to trust them. ‘Not too far, though. Just to the next roundabout and back.’
The dark boy, who’s obviously the one who will be paying, takes the wheel first, reverses smoothly out of the yard. He manoeuvres wonderfully, the dealer thinks, which probably means he isn’t so good at straight driving. Funny how that works: witches tend to be exactly the opposite.
He watches them through a pair of Omnioculars, noting that they don’t gather speed but drive Muggle-fashion, a fair amount over the 30 limit but nothing too dramatic, staying on the road rather than weaving through traffic. He’s amused: obviously, they’re taking this whole driving thing seriously.
When they return, he can see that even the dark boy’s hooked. He agrees the price without arguing, which makes the dealer worry that he’s pitched it too low.
They go to his office to complete the parchmentwork. ‘Going away for Easter, then?’ he asks casually. It’s just a question, polite small talk, but the fair boy says eagerly, ‘Yes, we’re going to drive until we reach Land’s End. Right across the country, without stopping.’
The dark boy, counting out his gold, frowns at him and the other boy shrugs and goes out to sit in the driving seat, starts trying out the gears, making ‘vroom vroom’ noises like a kid.
‘D’you ever have any bikes?’ the dark boy asks when they’ve completed the transaction. ‘Cos I may come back to have a look.’ He lowers his voice, though there’s no need. ‘The car’s for him, really. I’d like something a bit more powerful. Something that can fly.’
‘You could make that car fly,’ protests the dealer, a bit affronted.
‘Maybe.’ The dark boy collects his documents together and gets into the passenger seat, and his friend turns the key in the ignition. He doesn’t reverse very confidently, but changes gear smoothly when they reach the main road. The dealer watches them until they disappear over a hill.
Mare Nectaris/Sea of Nectar, June 1979
The day after the wedding, they’re both slightly hungover, though nothing too dreadful: even Sirius wouldn’t risk getting pissed when he's best man and Prongs is relying on him to make things run smoothly.
It’s a lazy Sunday morning, with croissants from the French bakery round the corner. They don’t taste as good as the ones in France, Remus says. Sirius says nothing, because his family have always spent holidays in Swiss or Italian Wizarding resorts, where the purebloods congregate.
‘Well, let’s go to bloody France, then,’ he suddenly blurts out. ‘Seeing as you know it so well and I’ve never been there.’ He tries not to sound aggrieved though he is, because he prides himself on being better-travelled than any of his friends.
There’s a war on, and the world is going to hell around them, and they glance at each other, appalled but tempted.
‘We can be back in time for the next Order meeting,’ Sirius says.
The boat train goes from Victoria, but it’s nothing like the Orient Express of romance in the Muggle spy novels Remus keeps pressuring him to read. It’s just...a train. Not even as well appointed as the Hogwarts express, in fact. Only the destinations make it exciting.
The loudspeaker announces the departure for Istanbul, via Paris, Milan, Venice, Trieste and Belgrade and the train lurches out of Victoria, past Battersea Power Station, the Dogs’ Home, the streets of London suburbs with their red brick terrace houses, on into the countryside with its flat fields and occasional woods.
Travelling isn’t like real living: at first, it’s just going from A to B, but after an hour or so you feel as if you're suspended between your seat and the rails, and the landscape seems to be always in motion while you sit still as it goes by.
Remus points out that they haven’t really thought of what they’ll do when they reach their destination.
‘Maybe we should just turn round and come back,’ Sirius says.
They could, he thinks, ride the train forever, from terminus to terminus. Eventually, the other passengers would leave and then they could kiss. He’s already missing the feel of Remus’s hands firm against his head.
Sirius doesn’t have Remus’s knack for hallucinating songs, which he greatly envies; anyway, he probably isn’t tired enough. He does hear the music of the tracks though, the rhythmic sounds that turn into words: we soon will be there, we soon will be there... Every so often, the litany changes: Imp-e-rius curse, Imp-e-rius curse...
But then they have to get on to the ferry, and here things turn a bit dreamlike, with the rocking of the boat on the Channel replacing the hypnotic, regular song of the rails. It takes Sirius a few minutes to adjust to the motion. Once their passports have been checked, they go on deck to watch the sea parting smoothly in the wake of the ship as it chugs away from England.
The crossing is short, but it’s dark when they arrive in France. Back in the train, the window is a flat black sheet, revealing nothing. When Sirius looks out to try and discern some scenery, he can see only his face reflected back at him. Remus reflected beside him looks pale and drawn, as he so often does: but, as always, Sirius finds him beautiful.
The train draws in to the Gare de Lyon around ten, and Sirius decides that they won’t get off in Paris after all. ‘We’ve hardly been travelling at all, have we?’
Instead, he calls the porter and they book a sleeping compartment, just for the two of them. Probably it would be more fun to sit up all night in the carriage, but it’s the only way they’ll get some time alone.
Sirius has a bottle of red wine. Good wine, Châteauneuf du Pape, one of the stores from the cellars of Grimmauld Place. He goes home occasionally to see his father, and Orion never fails to press a gift on him: wine, or money, which has helped pay for this trip. He and Remus lie on the upper berth in each other’s arms, swigging wine straight from the bottle, indignant when the train stops suddenly for a red signal and wine spills on to the thin tan blanket. Sirius Scourgifies the spot, but grumbles, ‘That was about half a glass there!’
Remus can never handle alcohol: he’s already so drunk his words are slurring. ‘Doeshn’t matter,’ he mumbles, and falls asleep with his head on Sirius’s chest. Sirius finishes the wine but lies awake as the train makes its way across the French countryside, thinking of Prongs and the good times they had, and the stupid war, and how Remus never has trouble sleeping. ‘Goes out like a light, goes out like a light,’ sing the rails.
They wake in time to see the mountains, dark pines, streams and stone, which somehow look like winter even in the middle of June.
The train draws into Geneva in the cold light of dawn, and they decide to stay on it for a few more stops. ‘We could go to Venice,’ Sirius suggests. ‘I’ve never been to Venice.’
They buy ham rolls and coffee from a woman on the platform, which are good, though Sirius is now sorry he’s missed his chance to taste the French croissants. ‘Perhaps on the way back,’ Remus says, and Sirius says, ‘I’d quite like to see Istanbul too.’ They finish their coffee: the guard raises his flag and the train moves on.
Mare Crisium/Sea of Crisis, February 1995
Two days after the full moon, Simon Blake and Rex Wolfe show their boarding passes to the stewardess and squeeze up the narrow aisle to find their allotted seats on Virgin flight 667 from Kennedy to Heathrow. The plane has a mascot painted on the side, like a ship’s figurehead, a buxom redhead with what Orion Black would have called ‘bee-stung lips’.
‘How does this thing stay up?’ Simon demands, rather loudly. A couple of teenage kids in the row across the aisle look at him and giggle.
They’re travelling Economy, which may have been a mistake, but neither of them are really au fait with Muggle business manners. All the same, Rex is pleased with what he’s accomplished, both by magic and sheer hard work. The passports are minor masterpieces, and he and Simon are dressed in smart suits and discreetly striped red and gold ties which, in another universe, could be marketed for former Gryffindors.
Rex smiles to himself, remembering how, as they came out of the shop, Simon confided that when the current crisis was past he could get into design in a big way. He’d create the Slytherin tie to end all ties, a green snake that would actually throttle the wearer.
‘You’d end up back in Azkaban,’ Rex pointed out, and Simon, who can be moody, sulked for three hours solid.
The plane takes off, and Rex closes his eyes. They must be mad, he thinks, or rather, Simon is mad, and he’s mad to go along with him. They could be hopping on to a Greyhound bus, travelling from the east coast to the west, cruising down the freeways he used to fantasise about as a teenager.
Instead, they’re leaving their tropical paradises, their American dream, to return to a wet, overcrowded island where a megalomaniac psychopath is planning to carve the Wizarding world to pieces and kill half its population in the process. Or rather, they’re going to die right now, because there’s no way this thing will stay in the air. No way. Simon is right.
He realises he’s clutching Simon’s hand and quickly snatches his own away, before those damn teenagers get an eyeful. Even if he’s going to die in the next twenty seconds, at least he’ll die with dignity.
The seatbelt and No Smoking lights go off. Rex thanks Merlin that he was given the option of sitting in a smoking section: Muggles are funny about smoking, especially American ones. It must be because their healing charms aren’t very advanced that you aren’t allowed to light up anywhere but the streets. Or on planes, because, as Rex now fully realises, planes are terrifying.
He and Simon take deep drags at their Marlboros, and Rex feels better, or at least a bit calmer.
‘Drink, sir?’ The stewardess serves them dinky bottles of gin with slightly less dinky bottles of tonic. Simon downs his in one gulp then looks round wildly for a refill. ‘Damn it, Remus - ’
‘Don’t call me that!’ Rex looks round sharply as if they’re about to be surrounded by Ministry men with drawn wands.
The plane suddenly plunges several hundred feet, or that’s how it feels to Rex, who instinctively reaches for Simon’s hand again. He keeps the other hand on his wand, which is hidden up his sleeve in case of emergencies, trying to remember the spell for wingless fight. Not that it’ll be any use when they’re hurtling to the ground.
The seatbelt sign goes on. Sweat pours down Rex’s face. Any second, any second now...
Sunlight floods in through the window as the plane gradually gains height again, and the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. ‘Captain Frazier speaking. Sorry about the turbulence back there. We’re shortly going to start crossing the Atlantic, if you’d like to look down.’
Rex wouldn’t, but the Atlantic is good: if the plane crashes in the sea, you can swim and there are life-jackets and Floating Spells. He loosens his hold, and Simon flexes his hand, grinning. ‘I hope you’ve got some Skele-Gro on you.’
The stewardess comes by with the drinks trolley again, and both men signal to her.
Oceanus Procellarum/Ocean of Storms, Christmas 1995
‘The only way I’d get out of here,’ grumbles Sirius, ‘is on a flying carpet. And with my luck, I’d stumble on the one my ancestors used to send undesirable relatives to Siberia.’
The twins glance at each other, and Molly, who’s bustling about with trays and teacups, cries, ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Fred.
‘We’re not going into the travel industry,’ says George.
‘Just as well,’ Sirius says sourly.
Harry glances at Hermione, who shrugs and mouths, ‘Don’t ask!’ While the rest of them have been at St Mungo’s, Sirius has evidently been working himself into one of his moods. Harry can discern a trace of that stale, alcoholic smell again and his heart sinks.
‘St Mungo’s wasn’t exactly a picnic,’ Lupin remonstrates. ‘Anyway, you hate hospital visiting, Sirius.’
‘It’s better than being stuck here,’ Sirius says. ‘I really miss being on the run.’
‘Eating rats,’ Lupin says.
‘Lying on tropical beaches.’
‘Where did you actually go?’ Harry asks, both to distract Sirius from his bad mood and because he really wants to know.
Molly cuts the Christmas cake, starts pouring cups of tea. They crowd round the sitting-room table, the children and Sirius sprawled on the floor, Molly and Lupin in the two high-backed chairs.
Sirius stabs at his cake with a fork, and says, ‘Well, India, to begin with. I even rode an elephant once. It swayed a lot, and I had to hold tight to stay on. Not unlike Buckbeak, actually, except it didn’t fly, of course.’
‘Remember the bike?’ Lupin says, and a shadow falls over Sirius’s face.
‘Maybe I’ll have it back one day... You flew on the bike with me, Harry, when you were six months old. Your mother nearly killed me when she found out.’
Molly purses her lips. ‘I don’t blame her.’
She aims her wand at the fireplace, and flames spring up as the lamps come on. It’s cosy, or as cosy as Grimmauld Place ever gets.
‘So where else did you go?’ Harry asks, before Molly and Sirius start arguing again.
‘Africa. You’d imagine it was all sun-baked and dry, but the greens are phenomenal. Even with magic, you couldn’t create anywhere more beautiful than the jungle.’
‘I loved the jungle,’ Lupin says, sipping tea out of a delicate cup with old-fashioned roses on it and a gold rim. ‘It was wonderful transforming there. I could run for miles without putting anyone in danger, and Padfoot liked it too, apart from the monkeys. Monkeys are an awful pain.’
Harry says, ‘I didn’t know you went with Sirius, Professor Lupin!’
‘Harry, I do wish you’d call me Remus. Well, he needed someone to look after him.’
‘Last Christmas,’ Sirius says, ‘we were in the rainforest. We had pineapple for Christmas dinner, didn’t we, Moony?’
‘Yes. And you said it was too hot and too muggy, and if you didn’t have a proper meal soon you were going to resort to cannibalism. So we went to America. Briefly,’ he adds rather wistfully.
Molly starts stacking dishes, clattering them together without using her wand. ‘Come on, boys, give me a hand,’ she calls.
Sirius goes to the window, leaving his cake almost untouched. Lupin wanders over to join him, puts a hand on his shoulder. They stand there silent looking out at the non-existent view, as dazzled as if the whole world were still passing before their eyes.
Harry blinks, takes off his glasses, polishes them and puts them on again. Too late: the moment is over. He could have sworn...but never mind. It’s a silly thought, really. They’re far too old.
End
Author minnow_53
Written for: sambethe
Rating: PG
Summary: Five different journeys, one constant relationship.
AN: Various POVs
Thank you: To astra_argentea for reading through.
Postcards From The Moon
Sinus Iridium/Bay of Rainbows, August 1978
The Muggle coach veers sharply to avoid a dog running across the road, and Remus fumbles for Sirius’s hand, finds his own hand clutched tightly in return.
He’s so tired that he’s hallucinating songs. It’s quite good, actually: all he has to do is close his eyes and think of the first few bars and he can suddenly hear the whole song loud and clear, as if it were playing on a wireless right beside him. He’s even controlling the purr of the engine, using it to create a steady background beat.
Those nights in the tent are taking their toll on Sirius too. He’s dozing, his head on Remus’s shoulder, and Remus shifts to make sure he’s comfortable. Just for once, he doesn’t want to sleep, because if he does the songs will go away.
Sirius has insisted on bringing his guitar into the coach with him, and occasionally, when the driver makes a particularly sharp turn, it bounces on the overhead rack with a twang, breaking Remus’s concentration.
The narrow streets of the resort give way to towns laid out in wide swathes, Moorish buildings, sidewalk cafés shaded by orange trees, which will later be laden with the small, sour fruit used to make marmalade. Spain is full of what Sirius calls scenery, of culture, which both boys do their best to ignore, of squares, galleries and strange cathedrals, of tourist coaches that take you halfway across the country for just a few pesetas.
Remus isn’t actually sure where they’re going. He thinks it’s Seville, but it might be Madrid, if there’s a beach in Madrid. It’s not really important. For all he cares, they could be on the moon, as long as he’s with Sirius and they’re sitting close together on the narrow seats with their legs touching.
He still feels guilty about being second-best, a stand-in for James, but Sirius doesn’t seem to mind. At night, when they’re just falling asleep in each other’s arms, he mutters ‘You’re not sorry Prongs couldn’t come?’ and Sirius kisses him and says sleepily, ‘Don’t be silly. It would’ve been a waste of time, chasing birds with Prongs.’ Then, Remus allows himself to drift off and dream of sand, of arches and pillars glimpsed through a window, of oranges spinning in space.
Lacus Somniorum/Lake of Dreams, March 1979
Two boys and a second-hand white Volkswagen Beetle, familiar runes painted all over the bonnet and boot, the name Shadowfax stencilled on the driver’s door.
The slight, fair boy nods, his face trying not to part in a wide grin: he’s obviously been warned not to look enthusiastic. The dealer, hovering as they examine the car, hears the dark boy hiss, ‘They just bung up the price if they can see you like it, Moony.’
He then turns to the dealer, poker-faced, and says, ‘It’s in rather poor condition, isn’t it?’ He opens and slams the front passenger door. ‘Look. There’s a dent.’
The dealer shrugs. ‘Take it or leave it.’
The fair boy, unable to contain himself, blurts out, ‘How much?’
‘Twenty Galleons.’
The boy looks down at the ground, starts tracing patterns with the tip of his dragonskin boots, a present from the dark boy on the occasion of his birthday two weeks ago. The dealer has no idea how he knows about the boots: of course, he’s always been good at Divination, a great asset in his line of work.
‘I suppose we could take it for a test drive,’ the dark boy says.
‘Hang on a minute. I need to be absolutely sure that you can handle a Muggle car. These are valuable vehicles, you know.’ He can see they aren’t vandals, but you can never be too careful.
The fair boy says, ‘We can both drive. My mum taught us. And we’ve got our Apparition licences too.’
The dealer decides to trust them. ‘Not too far, though. Just to the next roundabout and back.’
The dark boy, who’s obviously the one who will be paying, takes the wheel first, reverses smoothly out of the yard. He manoeuvres wonderfully, the dealer thinks, which probably means he isn’t so good at straight driving. Funny how that works: witches tend to be exactly the opposite.
He watches them through a pair of Omnioculars, noting that they don’t gather speed but drive Muggle-fashion, a fair amount over the 30 limit but nothing too dramatic, staying on the road rather than weaving through traffic. He’s amused: obviously, they’re taking this whole driving thing seriously.
When they return, he can see that even the dark boy’s hooked. He agrees the price without arguing, which makes the dealer worry that he’s pitched it too low.
They go to his office to complete the parchmentwork. ‘Going away for Easter, then?’ he asks casually. It’s just a question, polite small talk, but the fair boy says eagerly, ‘Yes, we’re going to drive until we reach Land’s End. Right across the country, without stopping.’
The dark boy, counting out his gold, frowns at him and the other boy shrugs and goes out to sit in the driving seat, starts trying out the gears, making ‘vroom vroom’ noises like a kid.
‘D’you ever have any bikes?’ the dark boy asks when they’ve completed the transaction. ‘Cos I may come back to have a look.’ He lowers his voice, though there’s no need. ‘The car’s for him, really. I’d like something a bit more powerful. Something that can fly.’
‘You could make that car fly,’ protests the dealer, a bit affronted.
‘Maybe.’ The dark boy collects his documents together and gets into the passenger seat, and his friend turns the key in the ignition. He doesn’t reverse very confidently, but changes gear smoothly when they reach the main road. The dealer watches them until they disappear over a hill.
Mare Nectaris/Sea of Nectar, June 1979
The day after the wedding, they’re both slightly hungover, though nothing too dreadful: even Sirius wouldn’t risk getting pissed when he's best man and Prongs is relying on him to make things run smoothly.
It’s a lazy Sunday morning, with croissants from the French bakery round the corner. They don’t taste as good as the ones in France, Remus says. Sirius says nothing, because his family have always spent holidays in Swiss or Italian Wizarding resorts, where the purebloods congregate.
‘Well, let’s go to bloody France, then,’ he suddenly blurts out. ‘Seeing as you know it so well and I’ve never been there.’ He tries not to sound aggrieved though he is, because he prides himself on being better-travelled than any of his friends.
There’s a war on, and the world is going to hell around them, and they glance at each other, appalled but tempted.
‘We can be back in time for the next Order meeting,’ Sirius says.
The boat train goes from Victoria, but it’s nothing like the Orient Express of romance in the Muggle spy novels Remus keeps pressuring him to read. It’s just...a train. Not even as well appointed as the Hogwarts express, in fact. Only the destinations make it exciting.
The loudspeaker announces the departure for Istanbul, via Paris, Milan, Venice, Trieste and Belgrade and the train lurches out of Victoria, past Battersea Power Station, the Dogs’ Home, the streets of London suburbs with their red brick terrace houses, on into the countryside with its flat fields and occasional woods.
Travelling isn’t like real living: at first, it’s just going from A to B, but after an hour or so you feel as if you're suspended between your seat and the rails, and the landscape seems to be always in motion while you sit still as it goes by.
Remus points out that they haven’t really thought of what they’ll do when they reach their destination.
‘Maybe we should just turn round and come back,’ Sirius says.
They could, he thinks, ride the train forever, from terminus to terminus. Eventually, the other passengers would leave and then they could kiss. He’s already missing the feel of Remus’s hands firm against his head.
Sirius doesn’t have Remus’s knack for hallucinating songs, which he greatly envies; anyway, he probably isn’t tired enough. He does hear the music of the tracks though, the rhythmic sounds that turn into words: we soon will be there, we soon will be there... Every so often, the litany changes: Imp-e-rius curse, Imp-e-rius curse...
But then they have to get on to the ferry, and here things turn a bit dreamlike, with the rocking of the boat on the Channel replacing the hypnotic, regular song of the rails. It takes Sirius a few minutes to adjust to the motion. Once their passports have been checked, they go on deck to watch the sea parting smoothly in the wake of the ship as it chugs away from England.
The crossing is short, but it’s dark when they arrive in France. Back in the train, the window is a flat black sheet, revealing nothing. When Sirius looks out to try and discern some scenery, he can see only his face reflected back at him. Remus reflected beside him looks pale and drawn, as he so often does: but, as always, Sirius finds him beautiful.
The train draws in to the Gare de Lyon around ten, and Sirius decides that they won’t get off in Paris after all. ‘We’ve hardly been travelling at all, have we?’
Instead, he calls the porter and they book a sleeping compartment, just for the two of them. Probably it would be more fun to sit up all night in the carriage, but it’s the only way they’ll get some time alone.
Sirius has a bottle of red wine. Good wine, Châteauneuf du Pape, one of the stores from the cellars of Grimmauld Place. He goes home occasionally to see his father, and Orion never fails to press a gift on him: wine, or money, which has helped pay for this trip. He and Remus lie on the upper berth in each other’s arms, swigging wine straight from the bottle, indignant when the train stops suddenly for a red signal and wine spills on to the thin tan blanket. Sirius Scourgifies the spot, but grumbles, ‘That was about half a glass there!’
Remus can never handle alcohol: he’s already so drunk his words are slurring. ‘Doeshn’t matter,’ he mumbles, and falls asleep with his head on Sirius’s chest. Sirius finishes the wine but lies awake as the train makes its way across the French countryside, thinking of Prongs and the good times they had, and the stupid war, and how Remus never has trouble sleeping. ‘Goes out like a light, goes out like a light,’ sing the rails.
They wake in time to see the mountains, dark pines, streams and stone, which somehow look like winter even in the middle of June.
The train draws into Geneva in the cold light of dawn, and they decide to stay on it for a few more stops. ‘We could go to Venice,’ Sirius suggests. ‘I’ve never been to Venice.’
They buy ham rolls and coffee from a woman on the platform, which are good, though Sirius is now sorry he’s missed his chance to taste the French croissants. ‘Perhaps on the way back,’ Remus says, and Sirius says, ‘I’d quite like to see Istanbul too.’ They finish their coffee: the guard raises his flag and the train moves on.
Mare Crisium/Sea of Crisis, February 1995
Two days after the full moon, Simon Blake and Rex Wolfe show their boarding passes to the stewardess and squeeze up the narrow aisle to find their allotted seats on Virgin flight 667 from Kennedy to Heathrow. The plane has a mascot painted on the side, like a ship’s figurehead, a buxom redhead with what Orion Black would have called ‘bee-stung lips’.
‘How does this thing stay up?’ Simon demands, rather loudly. A couple of teenage kids in the row across the aisle look at him and giggle.
They’re travelling Economy, which may have been a mistake, but neither of them are really au fait with Muggle business manners. All the same, Rex is pleased with what he’s accomplished, both by magic and sheer hard work. The passports are minor masterpieces, and he and Simon are dressed in smart suits and discreetly striped red and gold ties which, in another universe, could be marketed for former Gryffindors.
Rex smiles to himself, remembering how, as they came out of the shop, Simon confided that when the current crisis was past he could get into design in a big way. He’d create the Slytherin tie to end all ties, a green snake that would actually throttle the wearer.
‘You’d end up back in Azkaban,’ Rex pointed out, and Simon, who can be moody, sulked for three hours solid.
The plane takes off, and Rex closes his eyes. They must be mad, he thinks, or rather, Simon is mad, and he’s mad to go along with him. They could be hopping on to a Greyhound bus, travelling from the east coast to the west, cruising down the freeways he used to fantasise about as a teenager.
Instead, they’re leaving their tropical paradises, their American dream, to return to a wet, overcrowded island where a megalomaniac psychopath is planning to carve the Wizarding world to pieces and kill half its population in the process. Or rather, they’re going to die right now, because there’s no way this thing will stay in the air. No way. Simon is right.
He realises he’s clutching Simon’s hand and quickly snatches his own away, before those damn teenagers get an eyeful. Even if he’s going to die in the next twenty seconds, at least he’ll die with dignity.
The seatbelt and No Smoking lights go off. Rex thanks Merlin that he was given the option of sitting in a smoking section: Muggles are funny about smoking, especially American ones. It must be because their healing charms aren’t very advanced that you aren’t allowed to light up anywhere but the streets. Or on planes, because, as Rex now fully realises, planes are terrifying.
He and Simon take deep drags at their Marlboros, and Rex feels better, or at least a bit calmer.
‘Drink, sir?’ The stewardess serves them dinky bottles of gin with slightly less dinky bottles of tonic. Simon downs his in one gulp then looks round wildly for a refill. ‘Damn it, Remus - ’
‘Don’t call me that!’ Rex looks round sharply as if they’re about to be surrounded by Ministry men with drawn wands.
The plane suddenly plunges several hundred feet, or that’s how it feels to Rex, who instinctively reaches for Simon’s hand again. He keeps the other hand on his wand, which is hidden up his sleeve in case of emergencies, trying to remember the spell for wingless fight. Not that it’ll be any use when they’re hurtling to the ground.
The seatbelt sign goes on. Sweat pours down Rex’s face. Any second, any second now...
Sunlight floods in through the window as the plane gradually gains height again, and the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. ‘Captain Frazier speaking. Sorry about the turbulence back there. We’re shortly going to start crossing the Atlantic, if you’d like to look down.’
Rex wouldn’t, but the Atlantic is good: if the plane crashes in the sea, you can swim and there are life-jackets and Floating Spells. He loosens his hold, and Simon flexes his hand, grinning. ‘I hope you’ve got some Skele-Gro on you.’
The stewardess comes by with the drinks trolley again, and both men signal to her.
Oceanus Procellarum/Ocean of Storms, Christmas 1995
‘The only way I’d get out of here,’ grumbles Sirius, ‘is on a flying carpet. And with my luck, I’d stumble on the one my ancestors used to send undesirable relatives to Siberia.’
The twins glance at each other, and Molly, who’s bustling about with trays and teacups, cries, ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Fred.
‘We’re not going into the travel industry,’ says George.
‘Just as well,’ Sirius says sourly.
Harry glances at Hermione, who shrugs and mouths, ‘Don’t ask!’ While the rest of them have been at St Mungo’s, Sirius has evidently been working himself into one of his moods. Harry can discern a trace of that stale, alcoholic smell again and his heart sinks.
‘St Mungo’s wasn’t exactly a picnic,’ Lupin remonstrates. ‘Anyway, you hate hospital visiting, Sirius.’
‘It’s better than being stuck here,’ Sirius says. ‘I really miss being on the run.’
‘Eating rats,’ Lupin says.
‘Lying on tropical beaches.’
‘Where did you actually go?’ Harry asks, both to distract Sirius from his bad mood and because he really wants to know.
Molly cuts the Christmas cake, starts pouring cups of tea. They crowd round the sitting-room table, the children and Sirius sprawled on the floor, Molly and Lupin in the two high-backed chairs.
Sirius stabs at his cake with a fork, and says, ‘Well, India, to begin with. I even rode an elephant once. It swayed a lot, and I had to hold tight to stay on. Not unlike Buckbeak, actually, except it didn’t fly, of course.’
‘Remember the bike?’ Lupin says, and a shadow falls over Sirius’s face.
‘Maybe I’ll have it back one day... You flew on the bike with me, Harry, when you were six months old. Your mother nearly killed me when she found out.’
Molly purses her lips. ‘I don’t blame her.’
She aims her wand at the fireplace, and flames spring up as the lamps come on. It’s cosy, or as cosy as Grimmauld Place ever gets.
‘So where else did you go?’ Harry asks, before Molly and Sirius start arguing again.
‘Africa. You’d imagine it was all sun-baked and dry, but the greens are phenomenal. Even with magic, you couldn’t create anywhere more beautiful than the jungle.’
‘I loved the jungle,’ Lupin says, sipping tea out of a delicate cup with old-fashioned roses on it and a gold rim. ‘It was wonderful transforming there. I could run for miles without putting anyone in danger, and Padfoot liked it too, apart from the monkeys. Monkeys are an awful pain.’
Harry says, ‘I didn’t know you went with Sirius, Professor Lupin!’
‘Harry, I do wish you’d call me Remus. Well, he needed someone to look after him.’
‘Last Christmas,’ Sirius says, ‘we were in the rainforest. We had pineapple for Christmas dinner, didn’t we, Moony?’
‘Yes. And you said it was too hot and too muggy, and if you didn’t have a proper meal soon you were going to resort to cannibalism. So we went to America. Briefly,’ he adds rather wistfully.
Molly starts stacking dishes, clattering them together without using her wand. ‘Come on, boys, give me a hand,’ she calls.
Sirius goes to the window, leaving his cake almost untouched. Lupin wanders over to join him, puts a hand on his shoulder. They stand there silent looking out at the non-existent view, as dazzled as if the whole world were still passing before their eyes.
Harry blinks, takes off his glasses, polishes them and puts them on again. Too late: the moment is over. He could have sworn...but never mind. It’s a silly thought, really. They’re far too old.
End