Sheet of Water

A clock is pinned high against the wall. Black and white. Numbers and hands are black; the wall is white. The sharp ticking cuts the air. A man sits tiredly behind a pale gray desk, signing papers. He removes his specs for a moment, rubs his eyes, puts the specs back. Another one and he will be able to go and have lunch. God knows how much he needs a break. He takes a brand new set of sheets, calling aloud.

"The next."

A tawny haired man makes his appearance through the door, coming in warily. The officer proffers him a chair - the only one in the room, apart from the officer's - he sits. The man holds his head high. Half of them enters here this way, but are few those who go out behaving the same, thinks grimly the officer. Not in the mood for bets this time, though. Better get started. He lowers his head to read from the sheet.

"Name."

The man seems taken aback. What was he waiting for, tea and biscuits? The officer mentally snorts. The other recovers rather quickly.

"Remus Julian Lupin."

"Indeed. Age."

At the pun, something hard flickers behind the man's eyes. The jaw is even more set. He replies, his voice even.

"Eighteen."

"Sex, male. Location and address."

Images of a colored crowd, gleeful voices and waving hands, in a station. A door made of heavy wood, a worn out sofa, warm arms.

"London. 85 Inverness Terrace."

"State."

Sorry, taken. "Unmarried." You weren't my type anyway. Ops, he almost said that out loud.

"Job."

Excited chattering after the curfew. A procession of papers during the last years. Heated discussions over a dinner set for two. You'll be an Auror, Remus, and a damn good one at that.

"Unemployed."

"How old were you when you were bitten."

The man wonders inwardly where the officer's question marks have ended. Probably having a pic-nic with his politeness, which is MIA as well. A sure thing is that he's been watching too many Muggle war movies with a certain highly strung flatmate of his. But war movies are still better than nature documentaries, which should really be avoided. Hence being the target of embarrassing questions and- well.

"I was five." And stupid. Probably the other would even agree (Sirius doesn't, Sirius never did, Sirius calls me a stupid for thinking so and calls himself a stupid for letting me do it), if only he had raised his head once from the stack of papers. All in all, he should know that eye contact isn't enough to contaminate anyone.
(But Sirius handed me Snape)

"Have you ever bitten or hurt or maul anyone."

As if they wouldn't have already known, if he ever did.

"No."

Well, if you don't count two or three rabbits.
The officer breaks the questions routine in favor of searching for something. A folder. Labeled "Lupin, Remus J." Behind his stone face, the man starts worrying. And he revises his answer- just in case he said something wrong. Just in case he said too much.

"Those aware of your state are: John Lupin, Marlene Jensen Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Poppy Pomfrey, and - the gaze skims through other few names - the Hogwarts' current Faculty."

This time it's not a question. He nods. Then he remembers that his interlocutor still doesn't bother looking at him, and he lets out a "Yes." Then the other does raise his head.

"Who else knows about you."

Gaze back. Don't flinch. If you want to pretend, you better do it well. Look away and he'll think you're hiding.

"No one. Else."

Then, the officer throws himself through a verbose exposition of werewolves' right and duties. Duties and rights, more likely. So verbose, and so strangely familiar that the man realizes sardonically he could have not bothered to go through the entire Code by himself, with the rows that followed. After all, the other seems to have memorized every line. But then, the nastier points won't take him by surprise. Even if he somewhat still doesn't believe every part of it - no matter what he said to Sirius, no matter what he said to himself.
The sing-song voice comes abruptly to an end, and the man fights the urge to ask if he can go, now. Evidently he still can't: the officer merely turns the papers toward him, pointing a blank at the end and handing him a quill.
He reads the sheets, signs, sends back the stack.

"You can go." And he raises the head, for the second time. The two watch each other for a moment, until one of them raises, nods his head as a greeting and walks out.
As the door closes, it's almost as if a weight has lifted from his shoulders. Every step that lands closer to the exit, some tension fades from his body.
Other few more down the hall, one across the threshold and an arm hooks the man's neck. Two different laughs entwine down the way to number 85, Inverness Terrace, toward a wooden door and a worn out sofa.