Cowboys and Angels

moment ten: scamper through the cracks (June 1985.)

I sleep a lot, now. Sleep overwhelms me, and I am pretty happy.

I am fed enough, and it is safe here. I can rest from my past, free from both who I was and who I wanted to be.

Fortunately, there aren't many expectations placed on a rat, or I'd probably fail them.

He takes care of me, so I suppose I am his. He makes sure I have a space to lie in (shoebox, matted inside with tissue and rags) and provides me with a pipet of water. At times, he sneaks food from the table for me, watching as I nibble at a bit of celery, or carrot, and at those times I think he wants to be free of his past too, and perhaps even his present. He is young, probably eight, and there is a tenderness in his movements, a hesitation that I understand. He fears beginning in case he takes the wrong path, and so he lags behind.

His older brothers are rough with me, demanding, poking, insistent. The younger ones, the twins, are wide-eyed and ever searching. They are curious, but they do not demand, and they examine me each and every time from a distance, as if I were a specimen, like the ones I used to dissect with trembling hands in Potions. Soon enough, something else has caught their shared eyes (ever on the looking for something anew, something gleaming) and they scamper off. My master is in his room, frightened of the carefree atmosphere of the household, frightened of his own family because he does not know how to be a part of it.

I make my way along a bookshelf, darting between papers and musty books, searching for crumbs. I am not hungry, but it gives me something to do, other than sit and watch that boy as he withers away, and I don't even know if I'd want to stop it, if I could. He is kind to me, but he must have his own reasons. They did, so I caught them in a trap of their own making, because I had to, because he made do it.

I dream of him sometimes, in the manner of rats.

I don't like those dreams.

All too quickly I am discovered, and a hand descends, stopping me in my tread. The older brothers laugh, loud and raucous, and their father joins in, confused but not wanting to miss out. The mother looks on, concerned, but she does not stop them. I squeal, but they continue poking. One has me by the tail, and I dance in mid air, suspending, trying to please, for they are stronger than me.

As if that would make them go away.

They are golden boys, and I have seen the trophies, stuck on shelves, gleaming and proud. I can see the pride in their father's face, and their mother's: pride my new master would die to have and I know they can do no wrong.

I know too, that when Percy rescues me from them, he is proving himself, proving himself to be different, and better, if anyone would notice. I do, and I nuzzle against his palm in thanks, but his mind is already elsewhere. A rat's affection is not enough for him, I think, but then I do not think any affection would be enough for him.

So instead, I sit, and sleep, and eat, and find a kind of sanctuary in his absentee kindness, and pretend I do not hear him cry when he is supposed to be asleep.

moment eleven: moonstruck (July 1985.)

Remus grunted slightly, setting his back as he lifted the heavy pile of books from the shelf to a waiting box, and 'ooofed' at the sudden release of tension as he dropped them the half-inch or so into the box, and then rubbed his fingers, trying to get the circulation back into them. He was packing as best he could, determined to tie off his affairs here, and depart.

Admittedly, he wasn't entirely sure where he was departing to, but he was certain such things would come to him in due time.

The last four years had been a slow, lingering trip to hell, and he was sure Dante would have indeed been proud. His release from interrogation had only been the beginning, not the end, due to spreading rumours and soon enough gossip was rife. After all, they all knew who his lover was, what his lover had done. Co-workers had hated him, avoided him, or pitied him. Which was worse he couldn't say. Conversations had ended when he had walked into a room, leading to knowing glances, the trace of a smile on curved lips, and self-satisfied condescension over things he was not fit to hear.

In the end, it had even affected his work. He may have only been a minor Archivist, but any chance he'd had for promotion had obviously been scuttled several years ago. His last assignment had been tracing all records related to "the lifespan of the Gallifreyan flutterwing", and that had been the last straw. That was the kind of task they handed out to people in their traineeship, and when he'd questioned it, his supervisor had informed him that he was being given "the work for which he was best suited."

Choosing to maintain some shred of dignity, he'd quit there and then, and stormed out.

Which created a truly memorable exit. And lots of bills he had to pay.

It was fairly clear he'd be blackballed if he tried to seek employment at another Ministry department, and so he would have to turn elsewhere for a position. Dumbledore had been gracious and offered him a position at Hogwarts, but Remus had known to turn it down. There were too many old ghosts there, and he wasn't just talking about Snape. He briefly considered exiling himself to the Muggle world for a period of time - free of the past, of the demons that sought to keep him there. But although that might be a pleasant fantasy, it was nonetheless an impossible one, and probably more pleasant because of its impossibility.

His salvation had arrived in the form of the Wolfsbane Potion a few years earlier, something he could use to suppress the beast that lay within him, something he could use to make himself normal. As if that were a possibility. But it needed trained supervision well beyond his Potions abilities in its making, which ruled out the Muggle world. Yet he still wanted to teach.

Remus knew Albus would give him a reference, and there were other schools out there. It was nearly the school term; he could probably do the firetalk round this afternoon, once he was packed. No matter what, he would get out of here, this house, this confining past. Be a new man, and wasn't that ironic? He'd spent years terrified what people might do, how they'd treat him, once they found out what he was. And here he was being ostracised because of who he'd fucked, so long ago it almost seemed like another life, and a different person.

Remus chuckled to himself, depositing another armload of books in another battered cardboard crate, and then gave a wary, guilty glance at the old boxes taped shut in the corner.

It wasn't that long ago, upon reflection.