The Commiserati

The Commiserati

I've wondered if my own father introducing me to drinking at ten was an influence in my finding suitable drinking companions in Ron and Harry. He was Irish, and from what I hear he got drunk on his ninth birthday at the behest of his father. We Lupins are a noble family, who espouse the virtues of good Irish Catholics: drinking, God-fearing and lots of bloody kids running about the house. So far, I've only espoused one of those qualities, and I think that being on this dirty orange island has killed off any prospect for love of woman or religion. Not that there isn't a God. I know there is one, and at the moment he's keeping tabs on me. I actually think the dirty old bastard has a pool running on me with Satan, and I think God is losing at a rapid pace.

My mother, on the other hand, is certainly not a mick. She is shamefully pure-blooded, regretfully WASPish, and bitingly sober. She's a tough old bird, my mum. Not like Dad. I thought he was though. When I was nineteen, he didn't come back one morning after mass. Like in a song I heard ages ago, 'he left his car by the river, and left his shoes beside'.

I often wondered what my tombstone would read. "Remus John Lupin, 1960-1997. Died in his sleep from cirrhosis of the liver. Had ten quid, two galleons, a goldfish and a veritable fucking plethora of regrets." He was thirty seven as well. He had twelve quid and a bottle of Kilkennys. I might not have inherited his riches, but I certainly inherited just about everything else.

But last night, of course, thoughts of my eventual and protracted demise were pushed aside by a young lass with a pinched face and too much thought in her messy-haired head. It would've turned out like usual with me trying to get her drunk and persuading her to sing along to the entire back catalogue of old Blue Eyes songs had she been less like I.

It started out the same as every night. Dung and I, on the back porch, mulling over our days. Of course, we always did the same things everyday (sleeping, reading, pontificating, getting arrested), but when you're very lonely, and very bored, it is enjoyable enough to shoot the breeze over a pint with someone who is quickly becoming a good friend. Dung and I have lots in common. Both dirty mudblood buggers, both got mums in Sheffield, both unemployed and drifting aimlessly about in life. I have the feeling that two blokes like us would be utterly useless in dire times, like saving the world from zombies, but I'm sure we'd both do a mighty fine job of running off and hiding somewhere. Somewhere preferably warm, with the Races guide handy and a barrel of Guinness.

The glass door behind us opened, and Hermione stepped out, cradling a glass of milk in one hand. Dung and I nodded to her, and she sat herself down in Tonks' usual chair. (First sign that last night was different to most other nights. Tonks is usually here, but she's avoiding me because I'm a stupid, patronising, self-pitying bint.)

Dung looked at Hermione, frowning. "Straighten yer shoulders, girlie; agh, poor bloody decorum of the youf these days, eh Remus?"

Hermione stifled a large smile, and I looked at her empathetically. "Simply disgraceful, Mundungus."

"Agh! I ought teach yeh a thing about deportation... depositions... deportment..."

"Mundungus, while I'm sure you were educated at a fitting-enough finishing school, you have less qualification and right to teach elocution than Michael Jackson does to babysit."

"Oy Remus, I think the wee lass is takin' a bit of the piss out of me! You want a drink, girlie?"

She screwed up her face at Dung. She's considerably more held back than her two companions, who jump readily at any prospect of something stronger than vanilla essence in milk. (Ronald Bilius Weasley, on that note, is an utter cadbury who requires either Harry or myself to sit with him in the bathroom after he throws up, crying, after a mere rum and coke.) He shrugged, and she continued sipping at her milk.

"Where are the others tonight?"

She stretched her legs out, pulling up The Empty Chair to stretch her legs out on. She was skinnier than my last recollection. I've seen her running on the rare mornings where I've arisen before noon, killing her lungs and back on a hundred and one pushups, shivering when the temperature so much as sinks below room.

"Weasleys went to a wedding at Kensington. Harry's gone out with Tonks for a bit, because she wanted to whinge about... er, well... see, it's an interesting story, right, because--"

"And I know how it goes."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"But--"

"Don't ask."

"All right."

She picked her milk up again, slowly sipping at it and savouring whatever flavours one might derive from plain, skim milk.

"You read anything good lately, Hermione?"

"Not really. There's not a lot to read here."

"You can borrow some of my books if you'd like. They're all a bit dry, but there are a couple you'd like."

"Really?"

"Certainly. Just ask before you borrow them, and don't do what Mundungus does and return them stuck together with beer."

"Wasn't my fault, Moony! T'was the ground, there was an earthquake which spilled it!"

"Sure it was, Dung."

She was smiling at us, tucking her legs in and crossing her arms over them. She grabbed a frizzy strand of fringe, and started smoothing it over her fingers.

"So, 'Ermione, what is it you kids do in your 'olidays, anyway? Fookin' 'ell, back in my day we'd be all off catchin' moonbugs and the sort."

"Not much. I've been trying to catch up on my books for next year, get a head start."

She looked really tired last night. Even her hair was flat. She was only about sixteen, but she seemed almost as bloody old as I was. I looked at my beer (only the first for the night - for once, Dung had eclipsed me and was onto his fifth), and poured it into a potplant beside me.

"Hermione, have you given any thought as to what you plan to do when you leave school?"

"Not really. I want to talk to Professor McGonagall anyway later on about my choices, for now I just haven't had a spare second to think."

"You could take a year off, you know. Go overseas, or write a book, or learn an instrument and convince yourself you'll be the next Lou Reed."

"No, I think I want to get straight into further learning."

Beside me, Dung lit up a cigarette. He looked at me, quizzically, and I nodded back, taking the pack from him and pulling one out for myself.

"I didn't know you smoked, Professor."

"Not really. When it strikes my fancy, really, which isn't too often."

She nodded, and I think I noted a hint of disappointment.

"You know, when you were teaching at our school, you were entirely different. Like, it's nothing bad or anything, but... I dunno."

"Yes. Well, back then, I had a job. I thought the worst of my life was way behind me. I was doing what I loved, and I had Harry. And now," I said, scratching a match against the woodgrain of my seat, "I've won the fucking lottery of life."

"So you're not happy?"

"Oh, well, that's not entirely true. I've got my health; more or less, anyway. I don't have to pay rent, and there's always a source of entertainment in the house."

"An' yeh got me, right, Jobless?"

"Right, Shameless."

"But?"

"When you have the choice of letting your mind run away with thoughts of eventuality and the knowledge that you're perpetuating your own cycle of alcohol abuse and misery onto kids that aren't even your own, or stopping the thoughts with an onslaught of piss, there's not too much to consider, apart from where the nearest window or toilet is."

She nodded, and picked at her toenails. "But you were a prefect. And you were dead brainy. And you've read so much, and--"

"So what, Hermione? It equates to shit all when you get out in the real world, where your chance of gainful employment is determined not on merit but on whether you're ten generations wizard or not. And then you're left with a nervous breakdown and not all that many friends."

She gaped at me, looking remarkably like Archimedes, my long-suffering fresh-water companion.

"All right. Fair enough. Sobering realism aside, what is it that you wanted when you were at school?"

I took a long drag of my fag and exhaled, a fuzzy ring of smoke expanding and absorbing into the atmos. "I wanted to have a family. Nothing too big, or grand. Just two kids, a boy and a girl. No strain on our swiftly dwindling natural resources, but enough for sustainable and healthy economic growth."

"What would you name your boy?"

I thought a moment. "John." That was dad's middle name. I wanted to use 'Daniel', after him when I was a kid, but I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't want to curse a second Danny Lupin upon the world.

"And for a girl?"

"Anne."

Mundungus laughed at me. "Moony, you got the most fookin' boring taste in names, yeh know that?"

"I know."

"What would you want them to be like?" Hermione said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward in her seat.

"I don't really care, much. Not too stupid, not too smart. Just average, normal. As long as they're nice, happy kids."

She nodded. Dung laughed at me. "You got real fookin' high aspirations, Remus."

"I think that's a nice thing to want." Hermione said quietly.

"Thanks, Hermione. What about you?"

"Nah, I don't think I'll ever have kids. I mean, not that I wouldn't like them, but I don't think anyone--"

For the past few weeks, I'd noticed a bit of quietness in the house from Hermione's and Ron's end. They were always cordial to each other, but it was cold. Rather like how Tonks and I were interacting now.

"Let me turn it back on you, Hermione. Are you happy?"

She brushed her hair back from her face. Her painfully bony face, shrinking with the loss of puppy fat and flesh. "Yeah, I think I'm okay."

"Is it about Ron?"

She shook her head, and looked at the ground silently.

"Would you like me to mind my business?"

She nodded.

"Of course. But... I think I have to impart a bit of wisdom first. Don't knock it back, because you're busy, or you don't think you're worth it, or you doubt his intentions, or even if your friend likes him, if he likes you. That's something that's been pretty painfully obvious the past few days, I think."

"Yeah, listen to Moony, he's lost a couple of birds that way. Yeh don't want to go down his path."

"Thanks."

I nodded, and stubbed out the cigarette which had smouldered to ashes, forgotten by me.

"Professor Lupin, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Hermione."

"Well, we were sifting through the boxes up in the attic, all of Sirius' old stuff that his mum never chucked. And we found some of the albums from when you and he and Harry's parents were at school and stuff, and we found an old prefect's photo, with you and his mum. And... well, see, in the picture, you're looking at her a lot, and she's looking at you a lot, and... look, please don't mention to Harry that I told you much of this, I mean, he wouldn't say much himself, but he went a bit weird when he saw it."

I bit my upper lip, and leant my head back on the wall behind my chair. "As I said before. Don't knock it back, Hermione."

"Did she--"

"No. I did. I couldn't. Not to James, not to her."

"Did you... you know, did you like her?"

"You can think about it all you like, think about what would be different if something had happened. We wouldn't be talking here tonight, would we?"

"Spose not."

Mundungus pulled out another cigarette and lit it with my wand, despite the fact that he had two burning already. "Oy Remus, yer a son of Erin, aren't yeh?"

"Yes, I believe I am acquainted with the Emerald Isle, Mundungus. What is your point?"

"Yeh read 'The Dead' yet?"

He had to be joking. Of course I'd read 'The Dead', though not for a good twenty years or so. During childhood, I'd imagined Bloom to be a better father than my real one.

"Yes, yes I have."

"Have yeh read it, 'Ermione?"

She shook her head. "Well, 'cause the two of yeh're waxing lyrical on what could've been, yeh ought read this one. I borrowed Moony's old copy of it a bit ago, I'll hunt through meh piles of shit and get it to you. I think yeh'd like it."

"Oh yes? What's it about?"

He took a drag of fag, numero trois, and looked back at her. "Well, it's kinda set at this boring as batshit dinner party, where this bird remembers a feller she used to go with."

I listened in silence, folding my arms carefully as to not hurt my broken hand.

"Well, yeah, and then anyway her 'usband wonders what's on 'er mind, and she tells him, right, that there was this lad who used to follow her 'bout, and how he truly loved her 'cause he stood outside for her all night and froze to fuckin' death."

I could see the point he was making, though I thought she might've missed it. "That's really sad! But... Mundungus, what on earth does that have to do with anything?"

"Agh, I dunno. You know, the choices yeh make, what could've been 'ad the fellow not died, or 'ad she said something to him and taken him in."

She exhaled slowly, as did I.

"See, love the people yeh got, 'Ermione. Don't leave 'em standin' out in the cold for yeh."

We sat there together, and he took another drag. We must've been really quiet for a fair amount of time, because after a bit he scraped his chair, went inside, and left me outside with her.

"You right, Hermione?" She nodded unblinkingly. "Was that a bit depressing for you Hermione?"

"But what if he doesn't really want me, or if he's just doing it to be nice and all?"

I picked up the rest of Dung's can, and drained the beer from it. "You can't ever know someone's intention. You never really find out what people see in you, even if they tell it to you in plain English. All I can say is that you should at least take it at face value. Might be the best we can get."

"The best we can get," she echoed quietly.