Syzygy

CHAPTER THREE.

When Remus next awoke, he found himself lying on top of his bedclothes, staring up at that mysterious, spreading stain on the ceiling. It called to mind an improperly disposed of corpse in the flat above, and in the right light, resembled the visage of Jesus. Remus fully intended to get around to having words with his landlord about it … but could never get it together to get round to talking to the man, who was possessed of a fiery temper, two German Shepherds, and a large Jaguar.

He had been sleeping in a draught … the back of his neck felt all stiff and ached something terrible. Slowly, Remus sat up in bed, and massaged the back of his neck with the tips of his fingers.

Blood.

He got out of bed, and cast guarded eyes about his surroundings. Remus usually felt safe in bed … sleep was one of few avenues of pleasure which remained open to him. To be able to lose himself, however briefly, in dreams, whatever they might be of, was something that he did not take lightly. Sleep was Remus’ respite from his mundane life, and so not surprisingly, he did quite a lot of it.

But this morning, the bedroom seemed eerie. There may well have been bright sunlight pouring in through the gap where the nasty floral curtains didn’t quite fit together, and his newly bought clock radio and combination tea maker may well have been telling him that Wonky Dave and the Zany Breakfast Gang would be back with more Crazy Tunes after these messages …

Blood.

There was something about the bedroom, with all Remus’ attendant belongings; the neatly stacked piles of periodicals; the overflowing sock drawer; the bookshelves crammed to bursting point, that spooked him.

Blood.

Remus tried to put such thoughts from his mind. He slipped his feet into his slippers, and, wrapping a towelling dressing gown around himself, went through to his tiny bathroom.

Blood.

Remus turned on the shower so hot that it made his pale, sun deprived skin turn red, and stood there for several whole minutes, allowing the water to trickle down his back and sides, and swirl away down the plughole. Then, he reached for his shampoo, and proceeded to wash his hair, which was growing faster than he could keep it in check these days. It was very nearly his time of the month, and in a few short days, he knew full well he would have locked himself in, with all the curtains drawn, the phone off the hook, and a supply of Pedigree Chum and raw Aberdeen steak in the fridge. Remus didn’t especially like dog food, but thought it important to play his part properly. Normally, he was practically a vegetarian, though not through health concerns … he just couldn’t afford meat. But whoever heard of a werewolf dining on nut cutlets and lentils?

He stepped out of the shower, towelled himself down vigorously, applied the lotion to that worrying rash across his left shoulder, and then hunted around in the laundry basket for a pair of pants he hadn’t worn six times before.

Blood.

Now, dressed, albeit in a pair of Quidditch World Cup commemorative boxer shorts, Remus went into the kitchen, flicked on Radio 4 (the presenters were arguing over the actual ‘meaning’ of the Royal Wedding), and made tea. Earl Grey, with just a dash of lemon. His one indulgence, save the beefsteak.

He wasn’t feeling particularly affluent that day … work seemed to have dried up lately, and no jobs were forthcoming, and so he ate toast without butter, but with marmalade, and sipped his tea in that very proper manner his mother had taught him. One finger through the handle … stick the little pinkie out like that … just so.

After a couple of minutes, he remembered that he had forgotten to send Harry a birthday card.

* * * * *

From the back garden of James and Lily’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow was a clear and unobstructed view across the mountains for what seemed like miles. Little farms nestled in the verdant, green valleys. Somewhere, not too distant, were the vast, ugly, Muggle metropolises of the Midlands … but from here, it barely seemed plausible that Birmingham even existed.

Peter, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his jeans, walked slowly along the brow of the hill, looking down on the sparkling waters of Nant Bran in the valley below. From up here, the water, rushing over treacherous rapids which, occasionally, Muggles in canoes would try to shoot, barely made a sound.

He sat down on a dead tree stump, and kicked away the dead leaf litter, digging the heels of his shoes into the soft, damp earth. He clasped his hands together. He could, if he strained his ears, just about hear Harry’s shrieks and the splashing of water.

His left arm was itching again. He had been to see his doctor about it, but they had been unable to discern anything wrong with him. It was just a remarkably persistent itch. There wasn’t even a rash.

Gingerly, Peter rolled up the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing, and inspected the pale, glabrous skin of his forearm. There was not a mark, not a blemish, nothing to disfigure him in any way. So why, then, did it itch so painfully? Every cream, poultice and magical herb in the business had been unable to help … every apothecary from Hogsmeade to Diagon Alley had drawn a blank.

Peter became aware of someone walking through the tall grass towards him, causing it to rustle. It was Lily, showered and changed into a flowing, flowery, summer dress that hung down to just below her handsome calves.

“Something wrong?” she asked. “The guests are arriving … and James will need help with the barbecue.”

Peter sighed. Lily sat down next to him on the tree stump, and instinctively, he moved aside to make room for her.

“Tell me,” Lily said.

Peter sighed, and kicked up the leaves again with his shoes. He felt suddenly about eight years old again.

“Nothing really,” said Peter, “it’s just a lot of little things …”

Lily sighed, “You can’t argue with the little things, you know,” she said. “Is that itch of yours any better?”

“Still just as bad,” Peter said. “Do you ever get the feeling that everything is just too perfect?”

“And something’s bound to come along and fuck it up?” asked Lily. “Happens to me all the time.”

Peter smiled. He waved his hand in the general direction of the mountain vista before them. “It’s just too perfect,” he said. “You’re very lucky to live here … you do realise it.”

Lily smiled. “James doesn’t think so,” she said.

Peter nodded. “I know … but I’d infinitely rather live here than in Gateshead,” he said.

“Gateshead’s nice too,” Lily said.

“That’s very sweet of you to say so,” Peter said, “but it’s not entirely true.”

“James,” began Lily, “James wants, wants to move back to Guernsey …”

“The Channel Islands? But those are … you’ll practically be back in France again,” began Peter.

Lily sighed again. “I know,” she said forcefully. “And don’t think I want to go, either. Lord knows I’ve followed him round the country at the slightest whim. And Guernsey was lovely, but we left for a reason. If we were going to go anywhere, I’d love to go back to Tyddewi.”

“That’s only just down the road,” said Peter.

“But it has to be better than this … look … Peter,” Lily paused briefly. A red admiral butterfly alighted on a leaf nearby. Somewhere amidst the trees, a song-thrush was singing. “Look, I’m not here to gripe about our house hunting woes, what’s bothering you?”

“The little things?”

“Those too,” said Lily. “If you think it important enough to affect you, then it must be important.”

“I just worry,” said Peter. “Everything seems so crazy to me … I know it sounds like a truly shit cliché, but I worry about Harry. I don’t want him growing up into this … this shit.”

Lily shuddered.

“I see what you mean,” she said.

“You know they’re saying,” Peter paused, “they’re saying He’ll be coming for you.”

Lily put her arm around his shoulders. “Call him Voldemort,” she said. “It’s silly to be scared of someone’s name …”

“You always were braver than me,” Peter said. “I often wonder what would happen if I … you know … met him,” he paused. “I mean, would I run away? What would I do?”

“I’d be the one running away,” Lily confided. “The very thought. Why did you bring it up?”

“I just get … get these flashes,” Peter said. “It’s probably nothing.”

He stood up abruptly. “We should get back,” he said. “The others will be worried … and I smell the barbecue from here …”

A pall of grey smoke was drifting across the vast garden. Music could be heard. Peter and Lily walked together across the lawn, Lily’s dress blowing in the light midday breeze.

James was sitting on a deckchair on the buff-coloured patio, watching Harry splashing in his new paddling pool. A yellow rubber duck was bobbing on the surface. James’ shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and his legs, exposed in khaki shorts that were just a shade too short for him, were still pasty and white. He was holding a can of lager in one hand, and at the sound of their approach, lowered his sunglasses and grinned broadly at them.

“The lovebirds return from the wilderness,” he scoffed. “Have you been shagging my wife again, Peter?”

Peter bent to pick up a can from the bucket of cold water where they had been placed to cool, trying to ignore the shooting pains that ran up his arm as he did so.

“Yes,” he said, keeping up the pretence of jollity … it would never do to spoil Harry’s birthday, after all. “And she *loved* it,” he cracked open the can. “How long are we waiting on lunch?”

James shrugged. “However long it takes,” he said. “Besides, nobody else has arrived yet …”

“Okay.”

“And if you touch Lily again, I’ll remove your testicles with a blunt asparagus corer.”

“Understood,” said Peter. He crouched down next to the pool, and was promptly splashed in the face by Harry.

* * * * *

Remus splashed cold water at the cat which had taken up residence on his window still. It disappeared with an anguished shriek. Remus returned to his washing up. He had never been that keen on cats. It probably, he reasoned, stemmed from the werewolf thing.

He slotted the last plate into its place on the draining rack, and pulled out the plug. The soapy dishwater disappeared down the plughole with a resounding and rather conclusive gurgle.

Remus pulled down the sash window, and walked through into the hall. There were two letters lying on the doormat, but he ignored both of them, grabbed his keys from their usual hook, opened the front door, and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.

In the days before his monthly peak, Remus quite often found himself suddenly craving the company of other humans. Perhaps it was some kind of appetiser for the anticipated feast to come. Of course, he would never, ever have dreamed of hurting *anybody* in his human form. For him, it was just pleasant to be around other people.

Even though it was barely eleven o’clock, the seafront was already thronged with holidaymakers and day-trippers. Elderly couples wandered listlessly along the seafront, arm in arm. Adults and children alike performed intricate ballets on the beach as they struggled into bathing costumes with towels wrapped around them.

Remus walked to the post box on the corner, outside Woolworths, and posted Harry’s birthday card. Ever since he had excluded himself from the company of other witches and wizards, he had declined to use owls to send his mail. So doing, he crossed over the road, and bought himself lunch from the Chinese Chip Shop.

“You all right, love?” the woman behind the counter asked, as she poured frozen chips straight from the bag into the deep fat fryer.

“Hmm, sorry?” asked Remus, who had not been paying attention.

“You look a bit out of sorts,” the woman went on. “You need cheering up.”

Remus nodded. “I guess so,” he said. Conversation with strangers never came easily to him.

“We’re having a street party on Saturday … up on the High Street,” she went on, counting out his change in coppers from the till. “You ought to come.”

“Street party?”

“Blimey, darling. What planet have you been on? That’s twenty eight new pence change.”

“I’ve been a bit out of touch,” Remus said.

“For Charlie and Lady Di,” the woman said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “You look like you need a good time.”

Remus nodded politely.

* * * * *

The doorbell went at about half past midday, but it turned out to be only Sirius, who had been down the off licence in Godric’s Hollow stocking up on bottles of Pimms and lemonade. Lily disappeared into the kitchen to chop some strawberries, whilst James and Peter played with Harry on the patio.

“Good hot day,” Sirius remarked, sitting down on the grass, and reaching for one of the lagers. “Worked up a fair old sweat trekking up from the village.”

Harry waddled over, and tried to press a red, plastic spade into Sirius’ hands.

“Thanks, what do I want with this?” he asked.

“Dig!” Harry ordered, imperiously.

“What’s for lunch?” Sirius asked, making rather half-hearted digging motions in one of the flowerbeds. Harry looked on.

“Chicken,” James said, lazily. “Lily’s whipping up a salad … ribs, steaks … none of those horrible hamburger things.”

“Dig!” Harry reiterated, clearly disappointed. He made a half-hearted attempt to climb onto Sirius’ lap.

“How’s the barbecue coming?”

James looked over at it. The coals were still smoking gently. “A little longer,” he said. “The secret is to get it burning really hot, so the meat drips juice down onto the coals, and they evaporate right back into the steaks. Gives it that great smoky flavour.”

Sirius shrugged. His culinary expertise barely stretched to heating up macaroni cheese dinners in the oven back in the flat he and Peter shared in Telford.

“Harry … stop annoying Sirius,” James said. Harry made a very petulant, angry face, and toddled off somewhere else. Sirius watched him get about half way down the garden, before falling over with a rather spectacular bump.

“Robust little bugger, isn’t he?” said Sirius. Harry picked himself up, and gave chase to the butterfly that had distracted him, which fluttered away into the bushes, beyond the boy’s grasp.

James nodded. “Aye, he’ll do all right for himself,” he said, looking proudly at Harry, who was sitting down on the grass now. He shuddered. To see his own son like this, on his first birthday, enjoying the sunshine and the outdoors, should arguably be one of the best feelings a young father can have. However, James found himself overcome with an icy fear. He wanted Harry back by the house, where watchful eyes could be kept over him. But he *knew* that was silly … Harry was a matter of yards away. Nothing could possibly happen to him. Nothing here could *possibly* threaten him.

Peter came back out of the house, carrying a large Pyrex bowl, filled almost unto the brim with crisp lettuce, cucumbers and soft, ripe tomatoes. James felt a sudden rush of blood to the head. He felt faint, dizzy and distant. There was a clatter as the spatula fell to the patio.

“Are you okay?” Sirius’ voice was distant.

James shook his head violently to clear it, as a wet dog might do after swimming. “I … I think so,” he said. “Just came over dizzy. Is Harry okay?”

Sirius looked out over the garden. Harry was, indeed, quite okay. He probably couldn’t have possibly been more okay.

“You not having a good day, Prongs?” Peter asked, setting the salad bowl down on the foldaway garden dining table, and picked James’ spatula up for him.

“I just … I guess I’m just tired,” said James. “Work’s busy at the minute, you see.”

Peter nodded. “We’re all tired, mate,” he said, sagely, “we’re all tired.”

* * * * *

Remus sat on a bench in the sun, and ate his chips. Behind him, the holiday traffic purred along the seafront. The pale, podgy faces of children were pressed against the glass.

He could hear the distant squawking of a Punch and Judy show down on the beach. He remembered those, distantly, from his youth.

Slowly, and not a little sadly, Remus closed his fingers around another chip, and popped the greasy morsel into his mouth before it burned him. He began to wish he had bothered to buy a can of Coke, as well, or something.

One of the shops on the other side of the road had the radio tuned loudly to the lunchtime news. They were still talking about the Royal Wedding … they had been talking about nothing else for some months now. Bloody obsessive Muggles, Remus thought, reaching for another chip …

A shooting pain ran up his arm.

“What the hell?” he said, aloud, to nobody in particular.

It happened again.

Remus set his bag of chips carefully down on the bench next to him, and very carefully rolled up his sleeve.

There was a livid, red mark on his arm. It looked almost like a circle.

END OF CHAPTER THREE.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER FOUR …

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