What Killed The Cat?

What killed the cat

Remus Lupin opened his eyes reluctantly to the near-blinding light filtering through his curtains. He gave a low groan and peeled himself from the rough tangle of sheets while vowing never to touch alcohol again. But he knew that he didn’t mean it because he gave the same halfhearted promise every Saturday. He hobbled to the bathroom where he splashed vast amounts of cold water onto his face to aid its trickling back along with the rest of his senses. It was a fairly set routine: hazardous to his health, careless and very un-Remus-like; yes, but still, it was a fairly set routine.

Every Friday he would waste away the day in menial tasks until he had worked up to a time late enough to get pissed (had he been Sirius anytime would be a good time to get drunk but Remus, although aware of his failing self-control, liked to exercise a little more willpower than his friend at the very least.) Then he would head to the local, say hello to the regulars, and choose a sufficiently potent beverage (as a rule of thumb, if he remembered his name after a glass it was NOT strong enough.) He then spent the remainder of his time in the pub, rocking back and forth on his stool in a blissful state of ignorance.

The time it took for Remus to reminisce about that particular night he ha shaven, showered, brushed his teeth and changed his clothes. Some of Richard Ambling’s story still lingering in his mind from the recital at the bar. Remus had little to no idea how he managed to get home after these quaint evenings. Perhaps fate liked him with a combination of odd flukes. Now that he came to think about it, it would not surprise him if one of Dumbledore’s helpers had been sent to look after him, guiding him home drunk every Friday for a few sickle’s worth.

Now that he no longer smelt of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey or had bloodshot eyes, he felt about ready to continue his avid search for a job. The past year he had spent cutting slowly into his savings, wishing he had some means by which to undo the revelation of his being a werewolf.

The town of Sullden was reasonably tolerant and the inhabitants acted with indifference towards him but he knew, whenever he looked in to their eyes or walked a little too close, that they acted out of both fear and pity. Worse still, though loath to admit it to himself, it hurt him. After all the years of having to deal with it, it still hurt him.

He made himself some toast and sat buttering it absent-mindedly while listening to a muggle radio, the previous house owners had left it behind and out of curiosity he had kept the thing. Then he heard a sudden loud bark from outside, a sudden familiar loud bark.

It couldn’t be, was it really? He hurried to the door and opened it. In the doorway sat a large black dog. Remus gave a soft chuckle as he stepped to the side, allowing the dog to pass through. When the "click" of the closing door sounded Sirius resumed human form.

"Why Moony, I hope you’re not accustomed to taking in strays."

* * * * *

They must have sat there in two huge armchairs for hours, talking about the "old days: like withered men. Communication with and without words. "Remember that time…" and then they would both burst into fits of laughter, Remus' more of a subdued chuckle while Sirius roared in his own interpretation of the action. The memories replayed in their mind as if the past 14-odd years had never happened.

A hush fell over their lively conversation as they both stumbled onto identical memories, ones that didn't involve dungbombs and dying teacher's hair purple.

And now that the mood had sobered.

"I'm guessing Dumbledore didn't send you here to reminisce," Remus said quietly.

"No, no he didn't." Sirius looked up from his lap and tried to find the words, willing himself to speak. He had hoped procrastinating with a couple "tales of old" would make this easier, it hadn't. Slowly he recited the events that had occurred at Hogwarts that year, trying to use words that did not hint at how inadequate he felt as Harry's godfather, Remus listened attentively nodding now and again until Sirius finished with the instructions Dumbledore had issued.

He should have known that Remus would pick up on his own insecurities despite his attempts to disguise them. 'Lousy bugger always did know how to read people' he though bitterly. Except he was not really bitter, and in a way he was happy to have Remus reassuring him about the lack of control he held over the entire situation. He glanced up at the clock and realised how tired he was. He had spent the entire week tracking people down and retelling the horrific story over-and-over, taking heed not to dispel details or alter it. He had had to endure their company in turn: Arabella's stale cake, Chang's bloody-awful poetry, Croaker's vampire theories and, managing to lit a gash in the armour he had built himself, Mundungus' excited ranting about a new development in the origin of Dementors. A slight shudder ran up his spine at the thought.

Remus seemed to pick up on his fatigue and showed him to his room. While walking upstairs behind Remus he had mumbled, "You've already got 5 heightened senses because of the lycanthropy, it's not fair that you can read minds as well." Knowing Remus would hear it easily. Remus cracked a grin.

And then Sirius was alone in a dark room with only his thoughts and a freshly made bed for company.

* * * * *

Silence. It was thick but not suffocating. Sirius sat reading in the corner while Remus watched an army of ants make their way across the table. Remus could not help but think a slight reversal in roles had taken place, his chin resting on his hand, elbow on table. Usually he would be the one to immerse himself in books while Sirius ran around hyperactively, almost setting things on fire. But he was brooding and brooding was something he did well.

More ants, following each other in a neat little line.

To be fair though, Sirius was not actually reading. He made a pretty good job of pretending, turning the pages every now and then but he forgot to move his eyes and so his gaze bore into the centre of the page - strong enough to burn a hole though it.

There was a faint tapping on glass and his head snapped up, his hand moving on instinct towards the pocket where he kept his wand, but then he saw the owl that hovered by the unopened window. As he got up and walked to it he glanced at Sirius - he too had focussed his attention on the owl and Remus noted the hand lingering over his pocket. 'Must've got himself a wand,' he thought as he untied the parchment from the brown owl's leg and rolled it out. It bore the official Hogwarts seal and Remus began to read the letter under Sirius' steady gaze.

'Dear Remus,

I trust that by now Sirius has fully explained recent events and is (under my instructions) residing at your house. I fear that at the moment are options are limited to waiting for some of Voldemort's first moves, gathering allies and making careful plans as we do. However, it is neither of these things that I have in mind for you in wake of recent events. I need you to find and carry out a way of clearing Sirius' name. I fear that in his current position he cannot be of full assistance to us. I know that what I ask of you is a lot and that it will not be easy to achieve but I am sure that neither of these facts will prevent you from reaching your goal.

Yours, Albus Dumbledore'

Remus reread the letter several times before sitting back down on the wooden chair. Sirius' eyebrows were raised inquisitively and every second Remus did not explain was a second they continued ascension, until they were in danger of disappearing above his hairline.

"Letter from Dumbledore, wants me to try and clear your name,"

"Oh." A strange expression flitted across Sirius' face; "Good luck." He grinned, Remus grinned back and they were there for a few moments like statues, bonny and blithe.

Remus sat thinking and nothing else. Then he took from the top drawer of his desk a sheet of parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink. The faint scratching of quill-on-parchment could be heard all night.