Midnight Conversation #6, #7, and #8

November, 1979

Peter was shaken awake. He’d been dreaming again about the Shrieking Shack and the night Sirius Black had nearly murdered Severus Snape, James Potter, and Remus Lupin. He hated the dream, was growing heartily tired of its constant recurrence, so he was glad to have it interrupted, although he was less than pleased to be awoken at midnight, especially when he’d only just gotten home and to bed two hours ago.

“What?” he grumbled.

“Something’s tapping on the window,” stretched out at his side, her face half-buried in her pillow, Sandra said sleepily. “I think it’s an owl.”

“You could’ve gotten it,” Peter said, but he was already throwing back the duvet and swinging to his feet. “It’s cold,” he said, as he shuffled to the window, outside of which an owl was indeed flapping frantically. “Did you turn down the heat?”

“I was hot,” Sandra said.

Peter unlatched the window and lifted it, wincing as the chill November air gusted in. Tired as he was, he recognised Remus’ barn owl, Athene. He unfastened the note from her leg, then winced again as, with a loud hoot, she flew not to the window but to Peter’s dresser, where she perched and looked down at him balefully. “Fine,” he said, as he shut the window. “Only I’m not writing him back until tomorrow so you can go to sleep there or you can go to the pantry. I think there’re crisps in a bowl on top of the fridge if you’re hungry.”

He could have left reading Remus’ note until the morning, but by the time he’d thought of that he was already seated at his desk, unfolding the parchment and peering at it blearily.

“Come back to bed,” Sandra entreated.

“I will.”

Remus had written:

Thanks for covering for me, today. Of course I wasn’t anywhere near the Ministry, but I wouldn’t have liked being caught where I was, either. Even our lovely Padfoot might not have understood. I hope no one was rough with you. I owe you a lot.

It was about time one of them thanked him. After all, he’d had to lie on the spot and make it convincing. Too rough indeed. Well, Umbridge and her squad of inquisitors hadn’t employed Cruciatus, but neither had they employed the Comfy Chair. As for Sirius… Wasn’t it about time someone leashed and collared him? Or muzzled him at the very least? He’d nearly buggered it all up, bellowing that Remus would never skive off work and there had to be a problem with the Floo Network…

Well, Remus had thanked him, which was more than he knew to expect from the others. It would be Remus who remembered he’d helped, and he supposed he ought to appreciate that much. James and Sirius had probably forgotten him the moment he’d left. Peter refolded the note and pushing back his chair, rose stiffly to his feet.

The room had grown colder in the past few minutes, or maybe it only felt that way because he was very, very tired.

“What is it?” Sandra asked from the bed. “Come back, already. My feet are cold. And turn off that light.”

“Just a minute.” He’d been about to drop Remus’ note in the dustbin, but for some reason he stopped and stared down the length of his arm at the little piece of folded paper. He stared at it for a few moments and then, not sure why, he drew back his arm. He glanced over his shoulder, but Athene’s lamp-like eyes were closed. He glanced at the bed. Sandra was sitting up, one plump cheek cupped in her hand, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders in appealing disarray. “Just a minute,” he promised her again and walked quickly to the door, where his coat hung. He slipped Remus’ note into one pocket. Then he extinguished the light and climbed back into bed.

He and Sandra fumbled together. First he thought it was because he was cold. Then he found he needed her body for more than its warmth. It was gratifying to hear her gasp and moan as he thrust inside her, more so when in the end she whimpered his name.

He did not love Sandra Macnair, and he was aware of the fact that she did not love him. But he liked her, and he supposed she liked him. When he was with her, at any rate, he didn’t feel like the odd man out, the extra person. The useless one. He could never be James to her Lily or (frightening thought) Sirius to her Remus (or Remus to her Sirius, or however his shirt-lifting compatriots chose to arrange themselves). She knew about his nightmares, but not their content. She knew some of his secrets, but only the ones he’d let slip to intrigue her. There was nothing particularly interesting about her, but she was nice enough and undiscriminating enough, and when she cried out beneath him it was like a song.

12/27/03