Extempore

The sun was streaming violently into your window, dust particles dancing an intricate ballet. The daisy you picked last night sat completely still in the swirling vortex, a stark reminder of where you were.

The frequent pain in your shoulders returned, bringing with it a wave of nausea. It was always this way just before everything got worse. That pleasant thought rattling in your cranium, you began the morning routine. There's work to be done.

"Meeting with Mad-Eye at nine," Arthur reminded you when you ventured into the kitchen, showered and freshly shaved.

"How could we forget?" Tonks asked, giving you the slightest start. Contrary to everything you knew, you still hadn't expected her this morning. "He sent three Owls and left a note on my damn dresser. I'm clumsy but I'm not losing my mind!"

Arthur chuckled and passed the pitcher of pumpkin juice. You nodded thanks and poured a glass but did not take it from the table. Molly had entered the room and nearly leapt out of her skin upon glimpsing your untouched dry toast. At the moment she was fussing about the stove. The smell of eggs and bacon soon filled the kitchen, the pans crackling failing dismally to cover her mutterings.

"Just back from a mission and does anyone offer the man breakfast? Dry toast! He's still looking peaky as ever, the poor thing..."

"Sorry, Remus," Arthur whispered after she'd gone.

It took you something to focus your attention on his words. Somewhere in Molly's mutterings, you turned your eyes to Tonks. She had a sort of pained expression on what parts of her face you could see.

"Not a problem at all, Arthur. Molly is quite right; I could do with a proper meal."

He smiled and carried on into discussion of the newest recruit, intent on holding your attention.

"...McGonagall seemed surprised when I delivered the message last night. She seemed to think that you and Tonks must have done a fair bit of fast talking to convince him."

"Something like that," you muttered too low for him to hear.

"In any case, Elphias is coming to call later, said he wanted to have a chat with you after your meeting with Mad-Eye."

At that, Tonks leapt up, crashing into a tottering stack of dishes.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The scene was slightly comical. Arthur on his feet, body twisted with the effort to right Tonks and the dishes simultaneously.

Tonks let out a series of mild obscenities before finally righting herself again. "Sorry about that, Arthur." He waved her off nonchalantly. "I should get ready for our meeting..." she said awkwardly, and bolted for the stairs.

"She's an odd one, that girl." Arthur said sweetly, an almost paternal tone in his voice. You couldn't stop the smile from crossing your lips.

The notion that your living quarters needed serious attention occurred to you again when you crossed the threshold. For others, this thought would be followed with a movement of some kind. For you, this was part of your daily routine. (Wake. Rise. Curse surroundings. Bathe. Eat. Work. Eat. Curse surroundings. Sleep.) It had become a comfort of sorts, knowing that you could always count on your personal space to be just as deplorable as when you left it.

With half-hearted energy, you waved your wand to tidy up a bit. Several books leapt up from the floor, the desk, and the chair.... Face it, Remus. You're an addict. Glancing about the room, you weren't entirely displeased. It might have been nice if the books had landed right side up, but given your level of relative exhaustion, they had put up a fine performance.

The prospect of finishing what you had started did occur to you, but the woozy sensations of a need for only a few more minutes rest were all ready whooshing about in your mind.

Carefully removing your robes, you slid betwixt the sheets of your creaking mattress. Someone had been in to change linens; the sheets were slightly itchy on your skin. Thrashing a little in your frustration, you turned to face the window.

Your slightly compulsive habits of preservation had not been broken upon dispensation of Sirius' estate, despite being left the vast majority of the Black Fortune. It bothered you every night that the sheets on your bed were new. Your robes, neatly folded and gently laid out on the chair, seemed stiff when you wore them. Nothing you owned seemed properly broken in except this room.

Sirius had, of course, left almost his entire estate to Harry. That was to be expected - relied upon, in fact - what surprised you, though, was the provision, scratched in minute scrawl at the very bottom of the worn parchment, which placed you as the singular trustee until Harry came of age. Harry, of course, was long since seventeen but far too deep in his manic pursuit of Voldemort for mundane tasks like finance. He'd asked - insisted, actually, that you continue to oversee the matter of Sirius' estate.

A great portion of the finances was put under your management. Sirius had set three trusts; one for the Order, one for Harry, and one, possibly the most thoughtful, to care for children should their parent's pass as result of their involvement with the Order. (Grinning, you recalled Molly's reaction - she seemed to take it as a bit of an insult; a reminder of the day when she had collapsed while combating the boggart from the writing desk.) Sirius left most of what remained to you, though he had made several other dispensations. S.P.E.W. was left with enough to keep Hermione off of the collecting tin for quite a while and a contract was set with the Weasley twins for stealth, secrecy and concealment aid research.

Vaguely, you recalled the summerhouse in the Yorker. It had been disused for the greater part of twenty years but, with a little planning, you had hopes of taking Harry there during the Easter holidays. Molly had advised you against it, of course, feeling that it was unwise to give a man so young as Harry hopes of a life like that - a home and a family - but, you felt strongly that the boy ought to know he had a place of his own. It was something you had longed for at his age - somewhere to go and, unlike Molly, you rather thought a man needed something to hold on to during the darkest moments. No one could contend that Harry's life would mot be filled with them.

Your train of thought was broken by a clatter from the room across the hall and then the slamming of a door.

You were in your dressing gown and barreling down the hallway before you remembered that the portrait of Mrs. Black had come down.

Now that you were in the hall, however, it was impossible not to hear the hiccupping sobs in the room across from yours or notice the cloak swishing out the front door.

For what felt like an age, you waited in the hall, hoping that the tears would subside. When they didn't you waited still longer but it was strange, standing in the hall wearing only a dressing gown, and so you slipped as quietly as possible past her door and sunk into your once overstuffed chair.

As the night dragged on it became increasingly apparent that you were nowhere near the elusive mind-set that true sleep required and, instead, you stared blankly at the ceiling, lost in memories.

It was noise in the lower floors that finally tore you from your musings. Molly was already fussing over breakfast. Heavy cast iron pans occupied each of the burners on the massive stove.

"I thought I'd do a bit of cleaning this morning. Why we haven't taken a look into the ballroom is beyond me. With Hermione, Ginny and Ron coming soon, having a more secluded place to meet would be lovely - I do hate locking the children out of the kitchen."

"They aren't exactly children anymore, Molly," you muttered.

"Oh, they very well are. They may be of age but they're still too young for this business." Momentarily, you opened your mouth to protest but elected not to, pointing out that she still thought Fred and George were too young would only have upset her. "In any case, Harry will be here later today as well and.."

The coffee you were pouring nearly spilled onto the countertop, rescued only by a sweeping movement of Molly's hand, replacing the full cup with an empty one. She had been a mother, even in her school days. From what you'd heard, she was forever scolding her classmates for breaking rules and not wearing scarves. She was maternal, even in her very tone - her voice always seemed rushed, slightly frantic, but never without its sense of concern.

"You knew perfectly well Harry was coming, Moody told you yesterday. We see him so rarely these days," her tone dropped dramatically, almost as though she was near tears but, when she straightened herself up again, she regained her usual firmness. "You might at least try to make yourself look presentable." Abruptly, she slammed a plate of food in front of you.

Before you could thank her, she was gone, presumably all ready continuing her mission to release the rest of the house from its moldy captors.

The morning, you suspected, would be another morning among the many that you would be forced to fill with idle activity. Today was night missions, not your favorite of tasks, what with the overwhelming exposure to the moon.

The rest of the morning was spent in the library. Every day in this house was a new discovery. Last summer, Hermione had been looking for a quiet place to look over her new course books and discovered this room. It had taken weeks to sort out the texts that dealt with distasteful material but now that the room was clean and overflowing with the carefully organized collection it was quite pleasant.

In retrospect, it had been far too long since you last spent an age reading for pleasure but, like all good things, it came to an abrupt and unfortunate end.

Mad-Eye Moody's gruff tones could penetrate even the thickest of walls without difficulty and, in moments like these, you wished he could be quieted, if only for a moment. "Lupin! Kitchen!" echoed off of the walls and, if you weren't entirely mistaken, his shouts had caused a cascade of dust mites to fall from the stacks, clouding your lungs.

One of your favorite things about the kitchen was the way the sounds of the upper floors echoed off of the walls, blending into a sort of deafening roar when you listened hard enough.

The table was full of papers and maps, a sure sign that Moody would be back. Taking a deep breath, you fetched a mug from the cupboard and began making a pot of coffee.

You had no idea when or why you had taken to drinking coffee but it seemed somehow fitting. Everything about you was slightly pedestrian in the eyes of others, and it certainly wasn't the pretentious coffees with French names that you'd taken to. Much like everything else in your life, it was the bitter and acidic kind, without cream or sugar, which took your fancy. The grounds themselves looked a bit like they tasted, slightly sour. It even smelled rancid.

"For Merlin's sake, Moody, I'm on my way," Tonks shouted from the pantry. When she emerged, pushing past your chair at top speed, she smiled weakly past bloodshot eyes. "Moody's looking for you."

It was a moment caught in confusion before you realized where you were again. Tonks stopped at the cellar door and glanced impatiently at you, crinkling the bag of crisps in her hand.

"Come along then," she said, irritation ebbing on the edges of her voice.

"Right then." You had no idea what to say to her on most occasions. She was letting you go, for the most part, but every exchange was laced with an undertone that made you uncomfortable. You knew it was coming and not knowing seemed to make the waiting all the worse.

Moody had called you all together to hand out the duty roster for the evening mission. You had hoped that he might have noticed her bloodshot eyes and the saddened tone in her usually chipper voice but, it seemed that it had gone unnoticed, or at the very least, unrecognized as Tonks was paired up with Charlie Weasley for a tour just east of Surrey. Good, you thought. If there was one thing the Weasley's were known for, it was their sunny dispositions and overwhelming ability to spread cheer. Besides, tonight's missions were easy; simple surveillance - you were working with Hestia.

If asked to describe her in a word you might have chosen competent or effective, but good company wouldn't have found itself on the list.

Nighttime or not, there would be no risk taking. Apparition was noisy business and a crack like that would have been enough to drive anyone from their bed. Bother being sighted; it would be a risk for the Muggles in the village if there really were Death Eaters lurking near the outskirts. Yet again, you were walking silently down a pebble-strewn path. Conversation, as usual, was at a standstill. Somehow, you found it almost impossible to talk, gossip, gab or chat with your fellow Order members but it seemed to be what Hestia wanted (or at least what she'd expected) as she stared hard around you, clearly still on her guard.

The mind works in the strangest fashions. It can tie together a series of memories that are seemingly disparate but share some thread of commonality. It's a beautiful thing, really, the system of tidy organization that runs every movement your body makes. It had always astonished you, the way that a mechanism so clearly linear could insight a decision made entirely based on emotional reactions. Though, if you recalled correctly from a book you'd once read on the subject, emotions are even more linear than thoughts - nothing more or less than a series of chemical reactions set in place by an action or word.

At the moment, you were struggling to understand why daisies had lodged themselves firmly at the forefront of your mind.

"Lovely night, then," Hestia said finally when you'd reached the safe point, jarring you from your thoughts.

"Yes, quite. I'll give Moody a briefing in the morning." She nodded and, with a pop, the only words exchanged in the four hours you'd been on duty ended.

One of the more unfortunate limitations of the mind was its inability to pick up where it left off. Faintly, you were aware that you'd been contemplating something, something that seemed important, when you left the little village but now, sitting on the ancient armchair, head in your hands, you couldn't have remembered what it was for all of the galleons in the world.

Shaking your head, you willed yourself to stay awake. Hestia would be sending word that she'd arrived home safely any moment now and then there would be sleep. Vaguely, you registered several extra voices echoing from the lower floors. Somewhere in the recesses of you mind, you knew that there would be extra guests that night and, for whatever unknown reason, this meant something to you on an emotional level. After a few minutes thought, you discarded the information and fell into your creaky mattress and new-smelling sheets.

The window is open. You told yourself as your eyes drifted shut.

Over the course of many years, people had complained loudly and frequently about the "nasty" habit you had of falling asleep in your robes. Yesterday you might have endured their advice, even considered it. ("Your pores need oxygen! You'll completely destroy them! It disturbs your rem cycles!") Today, however, there would be no complaints. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were standing at the open door, squabbling over who would be the one to wake you up. Hushed words wafted over to your bed "..its too early..." and "..he's liable to hex you..." before you rolled over and saved them the trouble of yet another bickering match.