All and Sundries

Leaves.

Leaves.

Oh, hell, no, he thought, curled in a ball of misery in a dark, remote corner of the forest.

He still had his image - changing, it seemed, in context of this mission, but an image to himself, nonetheless - to protect. After all, Remus Lupin wasn't one to show displays of self-pity in public.

That was why he'd hidden before allowing himself to wallow in a sea of disgusted despair.

Tea, a warm fire, a bathtub filled to the brim with steaming-hot water, soap, oh Merlin, soap - it had been barely days, but already, he missed the comforts of humanity.

No person (or creature, if one read the Werewolf Legislation Act of 1994 literally) should have to go without some things, though, no matter what the reason.

Toilet paper.

There was not a square to be found amongst the ferals.

Use leaves - it was the unspoken expectation, but given words or no, Remus sincerely doubted that Dumbledore had ever expected him to wipe his arse with sodding leaves. After all, Dumbledore himself had never been sent to live amongst a pack of posing, self-important, violent, unwashed would-be Alphas.

Does a werewolf shit in the woods? Well, he'd better, if he wants prime choice of...

...Leaves.

One luxury - one - barely a luxury, even. Sirius had had toilet paper in Azkaban, for Godric's sake. Granted, it was a brown-paper-wrapped parcel of those horrific tri-fold squares, the ones meant to dispense one at a time but always came out in a great clump, and it had been rationed, but still, it wasn't leaves.

His head rose from his knees. There was one person who might take pity on him, who might aid him in his hour of need,

Remus hooted softly, hoping his owl-calling skills hadn't become entirely rusty since he'd long ago completed NEWT-level Care of Magical Creatures.

Thankfully, within moments, a flat-faced barn owl soared from the darkness and perched on a low branch nearby.

Remus grabbed a large, dry leaf (the irony did not escape him) and plucked several unripe berries from the bush behind which he'd been hiding.

Puncturing one with a dirty, overgrown fingernail, he set to work.

Nymphadora Tonks had been stationed near the stile just outside of Hogsmeade, on alert for Death Eaters, Dementors, and giants.

Oh my, she added silently, remembering a Muggle film her father had taken her to see when she was a young girl.

A soft flapping of wings caught her attention. She'd been playing a rather stupid game with herself as Hogsmeade's post arrived through the evening, in hopes of alleviating her boredom - Who's the owl for? What's it about?

A letter declaring undying love between a pair torn apart by fate, she mused, regarding the approaching barn owl.

She was nothing short of flabbergasted when the owl swooped low and deposited a rather messy-looking leaf directly atop her mousy-brown head.

After several long moments of squinting by wandlight, she deciphered the message written in fading makeshift ink:

Hello - Apologies for so many things - Pls. send toilet paper - RJL

Undying love, my arse, Tonks thought, staring incredulously at her "letter".

He sent me a barely coherent note - on a leaf - written in gooseberry - to ask for...toilet paper?

She was torn between anger, amusement, and righteous indignation. The great prat takes off on a suicide mission without so much as a by-your-leave, and only writes to ask me for something with which to wipe his arse? And what the hell's Dumbledore gotten him into, that he doesn't even have sodding toilet paper?!?

No hostile forces invaded Hogsmeade on her watch, which was fortunate, but had made for a deathly dull shift. By the time she was relieved at midnight, she knew what she had to do.

The return owl arrived under cover of deepest darkness, which was a truly fortunate thing, given that it bore yet another mark that he'd become "soft" by living amongst wizards. Remus knew she'd planned the arrival that way, clever girl that she was.

Remus rushed to his little corner of the woods and unwrapped the package with unabashed relief.

He stared.

He examined what she'd sent.

Well, he reasoned, grimacing, Nothing says "You're a heartless bastard" quite like one-ply.

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