Auberon

 

 Auberon     When Remus Lupin was twenty-seven years old, he fell in love. The object of his affection had glossy nut-brown skin, glorious curves, and a voice that touched the scholarly werewolf’s heart in places that he had thought long numb.

     He first saw the cello in the window of a slightly-more-reputable-than-average pawn shop in London. At the time he was slouching back to his flat after a long day’s work at the bookshop, looking forward to a hot bath and a cup–no, make it a bucket of spicy tea. Hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn up around his ears in an effort to keep the thin and depressing rain from creeping down his collar, he crossed the street at a brisk jog, dodging cars with the ease of a longtime city-dweller. When he reached the safety of the pavement he paused in the shelter of a pawn-shop’s awning and was instantly smitten by the cello on the other side of the window.

     “You beautiful thing!” he breathed, stepping closer to the glass and staring at the instrument. It seemed to glow like a piece of amber held up to the sun in the dimness of the shop. He must have that cello. The fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to play it was irrelevant.

     For as long as Remus could remember, he had been subject to these attacks of raw need, for anything and everything from books (Great Expectations had been the first of many) to food (he would never know how he had managed to finish that entire wedding cake) and, on one memorable occasion, a person. The need would not fade if ignored–it only grew until he was unable to focus on anything else, until existing without what he needed was physically painful. The quickest cure was to give in, and the sooner the better. This could be a challenge, as his income was unpredictable at best and non-existent at worst. He had nearly killed himself working double shifts at a construction job in order to earn enough to buy his last need (an ankle-length black leather coat). Once the need was sated, it was often only a matter of days (unless said need was edible) before he lost interest and sold the former object of his obsession to the highest bidder. Sometimes, however, the need turned to genuine love. This was not the case with the leather coat, which had been converted back into bank notes earlier that very day (he had the money tucked safely in his billfold right now); whereas the ornamental brass fish he had acquired at a rummage sale nearly a decade ago still held a place of honor on his bookshelf. And as for the person...

     Remus shook his head abruptly to rid it of the rain and the memories, and went into the shop.

     The owner, a morose man with short white hair, glanced up from the magazine he was reading behind the counter and demanded, “Buying or selling?”

     “Looking,” responded Remus, and the man returned his attention to the magazine. This suited Remus perfectly. He hated shopkeepers who watched him the entire time. It made him want to steal something out of spite.

     He was standing by the cello, contemplating its gleaming wooden perfection and wondering if he dared enquire after the price, when a young lady came running into the shop, soaking wet and breathing hard.

     “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the owner, raising his eyebrows.

     “Yes–I’ve come with the money,” panted the girl, pulling a wad of bills out of her pocket and holding it out.

     “What, all three hundred pounds?”

     The girl looked stunned. “Three–three hundred pounds? But that’s twice what I sold it to you for!”

     “Rules, missie–you leave anything here for more than five days, and it’s mine to sell for whatsoever I please. I’d not complain if I were you. There’s no one else in England that’ll be selling such a fine instrument as that for anything under a thousand.”

     “But–but–it’s Friday,” stammered the young lady. “I-I came here on Monday. That’s only five days!”

     “Five days and six hours,” corrected the owner. “You came in here Monday at half ten in the morning, and now–” he made a show of looking at the clock on the wall “–now it’s Friday, and nearly five in the afternoon.”

     The girl laughed incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”

     “Do I look like I’m joking?”

     No one spoke for a moment. The only sound within the shop was the water dripping off the girl’s mack. Then she said, “Sod it!” and ran out. The shop owner grunted and opened his magazine again.

     Remus, who had sidled away from the cello as soon as he realized it was the item being fought over, gazed at the glorious instrument longingly. He was in the throes of a furious internal argument between his need and the ethical and financial aspects of the situation. On the one hand, he wanted that cello–wanted it more than any of those humdrum concerns that occupied most people’s thoughts, like food and shelter. On the other hand, that girl was clearly the most recent owner of his current need, and wanted it at least as much as he did. Add to that the fact that he did not have three hundred pounds, but exactly half of that, on his person at the moment...

     Ignoring and being ignored by the man behind the counter, he stepped out of the shop and into the rainy world, looking this way and that for any sign of the recently departed young lady. I must be getting old, he thought grimly. This is the first time a need of mine has ever given in to morals and practicality...ah! There!

     The girl’s mad dash from the pawn shop had taken her no further than ten meters away, where she now stood huddled in the doorway of a florist’s, sobbing. Remus took a deep breath, turned up his collar, and walked towards her.

     “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “but might I have a word with you?” He made his voice as steady and educated as he possibly could, hoping it would override his flagrantly shabby trousers and patched tweed coat.

     “Bugger off,” croaked the girl. Her face, probably quite attractive under normal circumstances, was red and crumpled from crying.

     Remus plowed on. “Forgive me for intruding, miss, but I saw what happened in the shop back there, and I’d like to help.”

     “You saw that, did you?” said the girl, sniffing mightily and tucking her long dark hair back behind her ears.

     “I did, and I must say that the shopkeeper behaved abominably. It’s to be expected, however–I’ve had dealings with his sort before.”

     “Humph.” The girl was looking at him now, trying to size him up. “Well. Nothing I can do now, is there? I can’t believe it, though–I was so sure it was going to turn out all right–I don’t know what I’m going to do without Auberon, I really don’t!” Her eyes, already bloodshot, filled with tears again and she looked down at her feet.

     “Auberon–?”

     “My cello. I’ve had him–it–for, oh, ever since I started playing back in secondary school, but I–I needed the money quick, and I thought I’d be able to get him back in time, but then I saw him in the window today and I’m–I’m too late!” She covered her face with her hands, shaking with grief. Remus cleared his throat.

     “As it happens, I want that cello, too, but I don’t have the money. What I do have is one hundred and fifty pounds. I propose that I give it you, and that you go right back in there and rescue your cello from that greasy git.” He paused. The girl had taken her hands down and was staring at him in disbelief.

     “You’d lend me a hundred and fifty quid? Just like that? Are you mad?”

     “Only a little,” said Remus, smiling.

     “What?”

     “It’s just that sometimes I want things–want them for no reason at all, but I need to have them–does that ever happen to you?”

     “Yes, sometimes–mainly when I’m passing a hat shop.” She had really stopped crying now. “Are you saying that you want Auberon so badly that you’re willing to go halves on him with a total stranger?”

     “Basically.”

     “What’s the catch?”

     Remus ran a hand through his damp, greying hair. “It’s not exactly a catch, but–I’ve no idea how to care for a cello, how to play one, or anything–I just want to be able to touch it, and maybe to hear someone play it. So I was thinking that you could keep it, but sometimes I could meet you somewhere–perhaps in Kensington Gardens–and you could bring Auberon.”

     The girl squinted at him appraisingly. “You’d be willing to cough up that much money just to hear me play my cello?”

     “Well–yes.” Remus shrugged. “What can I say? It’s what I want to do. Anyway,” and here he gave her a quick grin, “I can’t very well let you two be separated, can I? Not when you’re on a first-name basis.”

     The girl laughed. “All right. Maybe I’m loony, but I’ll do it. Let’s go rescue Auberon!” She would have gone straight back to the shop that moment, but Remus held up a hand to restrain her.

     “I’d better not go with you,” he said. “I really wanted that lovely cello very much indeed, and seeing it go off with another person might not settle too well. Here. Take this.” He took the money out of his billfold and gave it to the astonished young lady. “When’s the soonest you can meet me?”

     “Um–tomorrow?” suggested the girl. “If you still want to do Kensington Gardens, I can be by the pond at noon.”

     “You’re on,” said Remus.

     They went their separate ways, each questioning their own sanity.

 

     Remus Lupin sat on a bench by the round pond, enjoying the summer sunshine and the smell of the grass. He wished he enjoyed them enough to forget about his empty stomach. He felt clear-headed, old, and singularly unable to believe that he had handed over the money that should have been rent and food for the next month to a strange female less than twenty-four hours ago. And for what? The desire for the smooth beauty of the cello named Auberon had waned in the night, and (as often happened after giving in to an attack of need) he had spent most of the day berating himself for his weak will. Why had he even bothered to show up? It was nearly quarter past twelve and the girl still wasn’t there. What made him think that he would ever encounter her again? She was probably miles away by now, maybe even in another country, with Auberon, laughing herself sick at the thought of the man who had given her a hundred and fifty pounds on nothing more than a whim...

     I should go, he thought. This is a waste of time. I should leave...I will leave...I’m leaving... But the sun was so warm, and the bench was so comfortable, that he stayed right where he was, growing more and more drowsy until–

     “Hey there! Sorry I’m late, I lost track of time.”

     Remus sat up with a jerk. The girl from the pawn shop slid what looked a bit like an enormous black guitar case off her back and onto the grass, then sat down on the bench and gave Remus a wry smile. “Here we are then, all three of us. Did you think I’d stood you up?”

     “The thought had crossed my mind,” admitted Remus.

     “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said the girl. “Auberon and I owe you a lot. I hope,” she added, leaning forward and undoing the clasps on the case, “that you realize I am going to pay you back in full?”

     “Oh? Why?”

     “Because I’m not a total asshole. I can get it to you within the next couple of months. Is that all right?”

     “Extremely all right,” said Remus. The day had taken a definite turn for the better. “You’re very kind.”

     “No, you’re very kind–and stupid. I’m just a decent person.” She sat up again with a swish of dark hair, pulling Auberon out of the case as she did so. “Now I will play for you. I warn you, I’m no Yo-Yo Ma–”

     “Who?”

     She stared at him. “You really don’t know anything about cellos, do you?”

     Remus was going to say that he knew very little about Muggle music in general, but caught himself in time and settled for saying, “Not really, no.”

     “Well, then. I’m going to play the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, and I hope you enjoy it. You may want to get off the bench, though–I get rather enthusiastic sometimes and I don’t want to hit you with my elbow.”

     Remus complied and lounged on the lawn while a girl (whose name he didn’t know) drew song from the strings of a cello (whose name he did). He closed his eyes and lost himself in the deep, resonating voice of Auberon, rejoicing in the swift, swooping rise and fall of the notes. The music seemed to enter his body at the base of his spine and move outward from there, traveling through bones and blood until it lodged in his soul, warming and soothing...

     The piece ended. Remus opened his eyes. The girl was looking down at him with an odd expression on her face.

     “What’s your name?” she asked.

     He told her.

     “I’m Anna,” she replied. “Anna Saunders. Are you sure you don’t know anything about cellos?”

     “Quite sure.”

     “Huh. Looking at you reminds me of a quote an old music teacher told me: ‘Is it not strange that sheep’s guts’–that’s was the strings used to be made of– ‘should hale souls out of men’s bodies?’ I’ve never seen anyone actually have their soul haled out of their body, but you were pretty close just there.”

     Remus smiled. “I know what I like, even if I don’t know why I like it,” he said, by way of an explanation. “Can I have some more, please?”

     “Oh yes. You’re going to get a regular concert.”

     Anna Saunders played for the better part of an hour. By the time she was finished, a small but admiring crowd had gathered in a semicircle off to one side, and Remus had been reduced to a blissful heap on the grass.

     “You all right there, Remus?” said Anna, as she restored Auberon lovingly to his case.

     “Mm,” said Remus.

     “You look like I do after getting a really good backrub.”

     “That’s a good metaphor. I feel like I just got the most beautiful, melting internal massage in the world...”

     “You’re the best bloody audience I’ve ever had. Can I buy you a drink or something?”

     “I’m all right, thanks,” said Remus, ignoring the pang in his belly at the mention of edibles.

     “Suit yourself. Now I’m going to make a noise like a hoop and roll away–got to get to work so I can pay you back.” She winked as she got to her feet and picked up the cello case. “Do you want to do this again sometime?”

     “Yes,” said Remus instantly.

     “Righto. Here’s my number–” she scribbled something on a scrap of paper as she spoke “–you can just give me a ring whenever you’re ready. If a man answers the phone, it’s just my boyfriend Reggie–I told him about you, so you don’t have to pretend I’m your tutor or anything. Cheers!” After handing him the scrap of paper, she strolled off. Remus stuck her number in his pocket and then put his hands behind his head, staring up at the sky.

 

     For the next few months, Remus Lupin’s life was made considerably less painful by the presence of Anna, Auberon and (eventually) Reggie. He had never had Muggle friends before. It was refreshing not to have to talk about the magical world, and to know that even if they did notice that he looked ill once a month, they would never even consider the possibility of his being a werewolf. Of course, it also meant that he had to do a lot of lying about himself, but he had gotten a lot of practice at this throughout his life and was good at it by now . To Anna and Reggie–a pleasant, rail-thin American who was working at the British Museum for some obscure academic reason–Remus was a nice, down-on-his-luck, bookish bloke who had developed a sudden passion for cello music. During a stretch of really rotten weather he stopped meeting Anna in parks and began coming to the flat she shared with her boyfriend. He felt awkward about this at first, but as she showed no signs of trying to coax him into the bedroom, and as Reggie befriended him without so much as a suspicious look, the awkwardness passed.

     A routine developed. Once a week, usually on Saturday, Remus would come to the flat. Anna would play for him for half an hour or so, and then would hand Auberon over to him so that she could teach him the basics of being a cellist. Remus was not an overly adept student, but he was glad of any chance to touch the beautiful instrument. Reggie, loping in and out with stacks of books and two pairs of glasses shoved up on his forehead, laughed when he heard them talking about the cello as though it were a person.

     This idyllic period ended in early September, when Remus lost both his jobs–for once, due to circumstances unrelated to his “inner beast.” The bookstore went out of business and the construction project was completed, leaving him with no money whatsoever other than what Anna (who was slowly but surely repaying him for his role in the retrieval of Auberon) gave him. He went to the flat on a rainy day not unlike the one on which they had first met and asked her if she could see her way to giving him the final fifty pounds all in one go.

     “Sure, if you need it,” said Anna. “What’s up? You look a bit down in the mouth.”

     “I’m leaving London,” he told her. “I’m now unemployed, and I don’t have the energy to go get a new gig at the moment, and my landlord is kicking me out, so I’m going away.” Not to mention that the moon will be full in three days, and I can’t risk not having a place to lock myself up in, he added mentally.

     “Where to?”

     “My family’s got a little place out in the country...fifty quid would set me up for a long time out there.”

      “Blimey, Remus, I’m sorry,” said Anna, rummaging through her purse, a kitchen drawer, and Reggie’s desk. “You should’ve said something sooner, I wouldn’t have taken so long–here!” She folded the stack of notes in half and gave it to Remus, who had seated himself at the kitchen table.

     “Thanks, Anna,” he said. “You and Reg–I’m going to miss you. You’ve been good friends.”

    “Don’t get all sentimental with me, or I’ll get soppy.” Anna crossed her arms. “I need a drink. You want something?”

     Remus, carefully pocketing the money that would be his living for–well–quite some time, was about to refuse, but thought better (or worse) of it. “Yes, actually. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

     “Good man.” She plunked a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers on the table. “This’ll fortify us both. How soon are you going? Reg will be cheesed off if he doesn’t get to say goodbye.”

     “I’m leaving tonight,” said Remus. “Tell him thanks for everything, right?”

     “I will,” said Anna, pouring. “Here’s to you, Remus–for making me feel like a concert cellist!”

     “And here’s to you–for making me like people again.”

     This initiated an extensive toasting session, during the course of which they finished the entire bottle of Scotch. Remus leaned back in his chair, feeling melancholy. “I should go,” he said.

     Anna burped delicately. “Whoops. Pardon me. Don’t leave yet,” she said. “Let’s talk for a bit–maybe Reggie will come back in time for a fare-thee-well.”

     “Can I hold Auberon?”

     “Go ahead. He’s in the den.”

     When Remus came back, tenderly carrying the cello, Anna was getting some wine out of a cupboard. “Still thirsty,” she explained, extracting the cork with some difficulty and then taking a swig right from the bottle.

     “Are you trying to get pissed?” inquired Remus, sitting down and arranging the cello properly so that the C peg was level with his left ear.

     “Uh-huh. Wanna join?”

     “Maybe,” said Remus. “Gimme a minute to say goodbye to Auberon.”

     “The way you go on about that cello, I think you’re in love with it.”

     “I am. Hopelessly. From first sight. Why do you think I was willing to fork over that much cash?”

     “Mm...that’s right, I remember,” said Anna, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You said, you said that it happens to you a lot, and I said me too, but in hat shops. I was kind of joking.”

     “I wasn’t.” Remus rested his hands against Auberon’s mirror-smooth wood, willing his nerves to remember the feel of it. “It happens to me quite a lot. Sometimes I go for months or years without getting a need, but when I do it’s all the stronger...”

     “What was it last time, a nice slim clarinet?”

     “No, it was a coat. And before that, I didn’t want to eat anything but grapes for nearly a week. Got the shits something awful,” he added, grinning.

     Anna snorted with laughter. “You’re a freaky piece of cheese, Remus! What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever gotten a craving for?”

     “It’s all been weird. Pregnant women got nothing on me.”

     “You must be a wee bit sloshed, my dear–your grammar’s gone all to pieces.”

     “No, I’m not in the land of the drunk yet, but I can see it without a telescope, if you know what I mean.”

     “Nice way of putting it.”

     “I read it in a book somewhere.”

     “So–what’s the most enjoyable thing you’ve ever craved?” pursued Anna, hoisting herself up to sit on the countertop.

     “Oh, that’s easy,” began Remus, and then stopped, feeling the blood rush to his face.

     “Oooh! You’re blushing! I’ve never seen you blush like that! Must be good,” rejoiced Anna from her elevated seat. “Tell! Tell all! Who did you swyve?”

     “Swyve?”

     “One of Reggie’s new favorite words. From Chaucer, which should clue you in to what it means, right? Now spill it. What happened?”

     “Pass the wine first,” said Remus.

     “With a good will. Here y’go.”

     Remus leaned back in his chair, holding the cello by the neck with one hand and the fast-emptying bottle with the other. The wine wasn’t particularly good, but it made him feel less miserable–or rather, it made misery a half-enjoyable experience, ennobled its melodrama. Anna was watching him and humming to herself. He recognized the tune as something by that Muggle with the wolfish name–Wolfgang. Amadeus. Whatever. He sneezed.

     “Bless you,” said Anna. “Remus, I’m dying of curiosity. You must tell me–what, or who, could possibly make you turn that fetching shade of magenta?”

     Remus closed his eyes. Memories were rising through his drink-softened mind, memories he’d successfully ignored for years, ever since the day when everyone he loved was destroyed...

     “Well?” said Anna. “What happened?”

     “I...I needed one of my best friends.”

     “Seduced her shamelessly, no doubt.”

     “Him. I seduced him shamelessly.”

     “Ah.” A pause. “How did it turn out?”

     “Perfectly, for a while–he was most willing to be seduced.”

     “But...?”

     “But he turned out to be...someone else. Not who I thought he was. He–well–he–I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

     Anna regarded him with mildly inebriated concern. “I’ve had a thought,” she said. “Can’t have you buggering off into the wild blue yonder without a farewell song from me and Auberon, can we?”

      The promise of music distracted Remus from the images multiplying in his head, and he smiled. “No, we can’t. But are you sure you’re, ah, in any condition to play?”

     “I’m not promising a fawless–a flawsa–a flawless performance, but I’ll manage,” sniffed Anna, sliding off the counter. “Hand the cello over and no one will get hurt. Probably.”

     While she sawed her way through something by Bach, stopping to curse when she forgot a bit, Remus let himself droop gently forward and come to rest with his head on the kitchen table. The friendly company, the Scotch and wine, and the music all combined to break down the remaining barriers between his (mostly) conscious self and the memory of the need he hadn’t been able to tell Anna about. Drifting in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, he relaxed into the past...

 

     Heat. Heat. Too hot to breathe. Too hot to move. Too hot to talk. Too hot to do anything but sit in the cool of the dungeons, or outside in whatever patch of shade could be found.

     End of sixth year. Exams over. Too hot to care.

     The Marauders, sprawled against a huge oak tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, out of sight of the school.

     James, his untidy black hair refusing to wilt even in the oven-like temperatures of the worst heat wave in decades.

      Peter, sucking on an ice cube he’d enchanted to keep from melting.

     Sirius, stripped to the waist, pants rolled up past his knees, face lifted to the sun, willing it to return his winter-paled skin to his preferred bronze.

     And Remus. Staring up at the leaves of the tree, moving faintly in a breeze too high for him to feel. Sweat running down his neck, his chest, pooling in the creases of his stomach. Lets his head drop sideways onto his shoulder. Looks at his friends. Their smells are strong today. Familiar. Comforting.

     A small groan from Sirius, rolling over to give the sun a chance at his back. A network of fine red lines crisscrosses across it–imprints from the grass. They will fade quickly.

     Remus thinks of his own back, similarly crosshatched, but more permanently. Glad that the lean, tapering back on the ground beside him will soon go back to its usual unmarred state. Hopes that it will never be otherwise.

     James. - Come on, you lot. I’m going to get heatstroke if I don’t get wet soon. Let’s go swimming. -

     Peter. - I would if I could move. -

     Remus. - I’m asleep, can’t you tell? -

     Sirius. - You go on, James. We’re busy. -

     James. - Busy, my arse. -

     Sirius. - Go jump in the lake. -

     James. - Don’t mind if I do. See you later, lusks! -

     Peter. - Wait, wait for me, James! I’ll come with you. -

     Grunting, moving, getting up, walking away...silence again. Birds and bugs too hot to make a sound. Then sleepy, muffled Sirius-voice.

     - Remus, what’s a lusk? -

     - A lazy, no-good person. -

     - Oh. Right. -

     Sirius, baking in the brutal sun.

     Remus, watching Sirius bake. The grass-lines are fading. A bead of sweat is rolling down the middle of the bare back, leaving a glistening track behind it.

     The need comes without warning. Caught off guard, the brown-haired boy holds his breath, fighting it, shocked at the strength of it. Words circle his brain. Lick is one. Taste is another. Salt. Skin. Sirius. He blinks slowly. Brown eyes shaded by brown lashes look golden. He sighs. Leans over the other boy. Lowers his head, close to the hot skin. The black-haired boy shifts slightly.

     - Is that a breeze? -

     - No. It’s me, breathing. -

     - Breathe harder. Feels good. Evaporation is a wonderful thing. -

     He breathes. Breathes in the smell of the other’s body. Breathes out cool comfort. Sirius laughs, slow and contented.

     - Mm. Nice, Moony. -

     Nice Moony.

     Remus stoops and drags his tongue swiftly and precisely up Sirius’s spine, catching the bead of sweat and retracing its journey to the nape of the neck. Salt. Skin. Sirius.

     Sirius, sitting up with the speed of a whip crack.

     - What the hell was that, Moony? -

     Remus, licking his lips. Looking at the black-haired boy with calm tawny eyes.

     Sirius, unsure. Should he laugh? Be angry?

     - You taste good, Padfoot. -

     - I do? -

     - Salty. -

     Sirius, rubbing the back of his neck, still damp from the contact. - Felt...weird. Like you’re a cat and I’m your kitten. But your tongue isn’t as rough as a cat’s. -

     He’s babbling. Unnerved.

     - Want to try it, Padfoot? -

     - Try what? -

     The brown-haired boy turns his head. Sweat trailing down the side of his neck. Touches it. Holds his hand out to the black-haired boy, fingers wet and shining.

    - Try it. -

     Sirius, trying it.

     - You’re right. Salty. The body craves salt in heat like this, you know. -

     Sirius, licking his lips.

     Remus, getting up.

     - Where are you going, Moony?-

     Remus, going behind the tree.

     Sirius, following him.

     Skin. Salt. Sirius. Slick. Smooth. Skin. Scars. Sirius. Sirius. Sirius.

     

     Remus sat up. Reggie had just come in and was bending over Anna, who had apparently fallen asleep while playing. He turned and grinned at Remus, one pair of glasses over his eyes and the other pair pushed up on his head.

     “Look at you two. Pathetic. It’s not even ten o’clock and you’ve drunk yourselves into oblivion. What’s the occasion?”

     “I–er–I’m going away,” said Remus. “I came to say goodbye.”

     Reggie, who had been trying unsuccessfully to pry Anna’s fingers off the cello and bow, paused and looked at the disheveled werewolf. “Leaving? Why?”

     “Job stuff. Look, I didn’t mean to pass out on your table. I’ve got to get going.” He stood up–carefully–and held out a hand to the American. “Thanks for everything, Reg.”

     “No problem,” said Reggie, shaking the proffered hand firmly. “Will we see you again?”

     “I hope so,” said Remus.

     Anna had woken up enough by this point to request a goodbye hug. Remus gave it to her, planted a light but adoring kiss on Auberon, and somehow made it out of the flat, weaving a little.

     On the pavement outside, he leaned against a pillar box and took a few deep breaths of cool autumn air. His head was spinning. The sound of the cello mixed with the faces of his friends, old and new. He licked his lips and tasted salt...tears, this time. Not sweat.

     Remus Lupin wiped his eyes. Then he left.