Cowboys and Angels

moment nineteen: moonglow (Christmas 1988).

His rooms - well, room, really - lay at the end of a corridor, and for all their lack of space, there were at least his. Besides, he could call them 'cozy' if he wanted to put a better slant on the reality of things.

Currently Remus sat at his desk, butter knife in hand, quill and parchment lying on a book on the old mahogany desk. The butter knife was awfully handy for slicing opening envelopes and similar, and Remus was busying himself by going through the cards and letters that had arrived for Christmas from some of his students and his families. Many were quite impressed with the difference his somewhat unorthodox teaching methods had made, even if he had been hauled up in front of the Headmaster twice now in his first six months. Some of the other staff loathed him, because Merlin forbid, the students didn't hate him, but then, he wasn't teaching for the rest of the staff, now was he? If he was, Remus thought privately, he'd be a far worse teacher.

With every new card and letter, Remus picked up the quill and jotted the name and address down on the parchment in a small, rather untidy hand. When he could find the time after Christmas he would write out the mass of thank you notes, and send them. He really was quite content here at Avalon, and he couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

The school, despite its flaws, was a refuge from his past, a place for him to reshape himself as Remus Lupin: professor, teacher, scholar, and little else. Every month he made a jaunt into London, as the Ministry provided him with the Wolfsbane Potion, and he did not tell his fellow staff members. As far as they knew was visiting his elderly mother, who resided in St. Otis' Retirement Home for Elderly Wizards and Witches.

Avalon College was one the myriad smaller and less prestigious magical schools that dotted the UK for the vast majority of wizards who weren't strong enough, or focussed enough, to be able to use the more esteemed wand magic. In Remus' opinion, it was a silly prejudice, but then he'd been quite aware some time ago that he did not make the rules, and merely lived by them as best he could.

He taught Defence Against the Dark Arts here, and two advanced subjects for seventh years: Philosophy of Magic and Muggle Politics, and was reasonably proud with the progress he had made.

Around him, books covered every surface; on chairs, in shelves, on his small, cramped bed, filling the air with the musk of knowledge. Having finished his notation, he peeled back the parchment and set it with the other things he had to take care of later. Looking down at the book under it, he recognised the leather cover, the title spelled out in gold leaf: Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Perhaps he wasn't so content after all.