Midnight Conversation #1

Midnight Conversation #1

“Psst! Hey, Moony, are you awake?”

Remus did not look up at the sound of Sirius’ voice. “No,” he drawled, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “I usually sleep with the light on, and a book open in front of me.”

“Well, so does everyone who takes History of Magic with Binns. Come on, I want to talk to you. Before you’re whisked away tomorrow by those two strange people who claim to be in charge of your upbringing.”

The other corner of Remus’ mouth quirked upward. “You mean my parents?” He marked his page with his bookmark, and closing the book, set it down beside him on the bed. Then he looked up.

Remus Lupin was not used to being addressed by sock puppets, but five and a half years’ exposure to the likes of Sirius Black and James Potter had taught him to take a great deal in stride. He folded his arms across his chest and addressed the button eyes, which shone milky blue in the wandlight. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The puppet tilted its head slightly to one side. Floppy black ears brushed Remus’ duvet. “Footpad,” was the reply after a moment’s thoughtful silence.

“Footpad,” Remus repeated, eyeing the sock puppet, which did, he supposed, bear a vague resemblance to a certain dog he knew. “Is that like Padfoot backwards?”

“No,” came the voice of Sirius from behind the bed curtains, rippling with suppressed laughter, “Padfoot backwards is Toofdap.” The sock puppet cocked its head to the other side. “Sounds German, no? But my name is Footpad. As in thief.”

“And what are you out to steal?” Remus asked indulgently.

“Why, your heart of course, mein liebling,” the voice cackled. “And that exhausts my knowledge of German. Actually, since certain dog-shaped characters can’t fit into most suitcases, we were rather hoping Herr Moony would be so kind as to take us along with him to France instead. That way, no matter how many chocolate croissants and crepes and really good wine he consumes, he’ll remember there’s a very loyal, lonely dog-shaped character waiting for him in frosty old England.”

Remus laughed. In the next bed over, Peter Pettigrew snorted in his sleep.

“You made me a puppet, Sirius?”

“Please,” said the voice from behind the bed curtain, “I am Toofdap. I mean Footpad. Bollocks. Anyway, who is this Sirius?” With bright curiosity, “Ought I to be jealous?”

“Why, no,” said Remus blandly, and pushing the duvet aside, rose to his knees and crawled over to the sock puppet, which he fondled under what was probably meant to be its chin. He felt the bony wrist beneath the cloth, the pulse that beat faintly under his fingertips. “Ich liebe dich, mein herr,” he murmured. “And that exhausts my German.”

“You’re going to come back fluent in French.” Sirius sounded somewhat petulant. “Language and customs. You’re going to come back all cultured and refined.”

“In other words,” said Remus, “you don’t expect me to change a bit.”

Sirius snorted.

“I’m only going to be gone for the holiday,” said Remus, not sure why he felt the need to explain this again. “We’ll be back after New Years. It’s the first holiday I’ve been able to take with my parents since I was bitten. I have you to thank, I suppose. And Prongs and Wormtail,” he added.

“We’re no closer to curing you.”

“I know. But my transformations the past few months have been so much easier. My parents see that. Of course they don’t know the reason, but that hardly matters. What matters is they don’t think I’m going to just--drop dead randomly.” He rolled his eyes, then remembered Sirius couldn’t see.

“Think you’re delicate, do they? Yeah, I remember how they were that time I stayed at your place. They don’t know the truth about you. Hard as nails, you are.”

“Well,” said Remus softly, taking the sock puppet between his hands and holding it against his cheek, “you just have that effect on me.”

The hand inside the sock tensed, but Remus held on, stroking the other’s palm through the cloth, with his thumb.

Sirius made a small, strangled sound.

“Oh,” said Remus innocently, “did Footpad like that?”

“Eurghh,” agreed Sirius. Then, “Yes, Footpad liked that very much indeed. Likes that. Rather hopes you’ve a mind to continue. Fancies he’s in for a trip to France.”

“That could be arranged.” Remus continued to caress the sock-clad hand, to the other’s muttered approval. “I just wonder…is there any chance Footpad…before he became Footpad, in his other life…is there even the remotest chance he had a bath?”

The sudden silence told Remus all he needed to know. “Thanks,” he said, dryly, and lowered the puppet so that it rested against his chest, not his cheek. “I’ll remember to keep you separate from the rest of my clothes.”

“I was thinking,” said Sirius, “of that time none of us could make it for the full moon. July, was it? Remember I sent you that cloak Padfoot had rolled around on. You said that helped a little.”

Touched, both by the memory and by the fact that Sirius had been thinking of that, Remus kissed the puppet between its blue button eyes. Really, it didn’t smell that bad. Sirius had at least aired it out a bit. “But there won’t be a full moon while I’m in France,” Remus reminded. “And Footpad doesn’t smell like Paddy, he smells like you.”

“I know,” said Sirius, sounding somewhat ruffled. “I just thought… Anyway, you like him? You’ll take him?”

“I like him,” said Remus. “I’ll take him with me, and every time I see him I’ll remember--your big, smelly feet.”

“You know how to flatter. Never lose that skill. Just, Moony--”

“Yeah?”

“When you’re in France, and you find yourself missing me too much, if the smell of me gets you too excited and you fancy a wank--Merlin’s balls, don’t use poor Footpad!”

With a disdainful snort, Remus thrust the sock puppet away, but Sirius grabbed him and with a mighty yank, pulled him through the curtains and over the edge of the bed.

Remus had the sense not to cry out. He landed on top of Sirius and the two rolled together, laughing and spluttering, becoming a tangle of arms and legs.

“We’ll wake Wormy and Prongs,” Remus hissed. “For the love of--do not touch me there with that--”

“Don’t talk,” whispered Sirius and kissed him, on the mouth, to quiet him. Then he did touch him--there--but without the puppet.

“I’m going to miss you,” Remus, his lips an inch above Sirius’, groaned a few moments later.

“ ‘I’m only going to be gone for the holiday,’” Sirius repeated, mimicking Remus’ light Scottish accent.

Remus groaned again and slumped on top of him.

“Well,” Sirius said pleasantly, tousling his hair, “bet you’ll be looking forward to the start of next term. No French boys, now. You can have all the chocolate croissants you want, but absolutely no French boys. And if you do wind up abusing poor Footpad--”

“James, make them stop.” Peter’s voice sounded muffled, as though he’d pulled his duvet up over his head. “Please.”

“Merlin.” In the bed to their right, James swore roundly.

“You wanted to know what my special project was,” shot Sirius from beneath a startled, but bemused Remus. “No one asked you to listen. How long were you listening, anyway?”

“You were studying a Sewing Spell,” James muttered. “How was I supposed to leave that alone? From now on, I won’t question a single thing you do.”

“Don’t,” Sirius purred.

“I’ve heard enough,” whimpered Peter.

“Right,” said James. “Some of us want to sleep. Moony, take your bitch downstairs and--I don’t know. Succumb.” There was movement behind the curtains and then a muffled thump; Remus imagined James with his pillow slammed down over his ears.

Beneath Remus, Sirius said, “Did he just call me your--”

It was Remus’ turn to silence with a kiss. Then, “Yes, he did.” And, climbing to his feet and pulling Sirius up with him, “Show me what I’ll miss?”

8/13/03