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Oblivious by Pallas

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37: In From The Cold

It was freezing.

Pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, Remus hunched down deeper into the protective but ineffectual warmth of his robes and cautiously quickened his pace. Care was required as icy patches glinted on the cobblestones ahead, frost lightened the eaves of Hogsmeade and occasional short but bitter flurries of snow dashed at his skin and spun, laughing, into the rays of light that slanted from the windows around. Glancing at the golden glows of distant fires and warm occupants, Remus couldn’t help but feel a slight gleam of jealousy for their snugness.

It was only the end of November, for pity’s sake. There was no way that it was allowed to be this cold without being officially winter.

Wistful images of the glowing fire in his chambers and the cheerful warmth of dinner in the Great Hall taunted him with tantalising glee.

What am I doing out here?

Keeping a promise.

Remus sighed. A drink with Tonks. Even given the way the idea had been thrust upon him, it really hadn’t seemed such a bad thing.

Until of course the universe had decided to make that particular Tuesday one of the coldest nights of the year.

He was still officially convalescent, at least if Poppy’s shrill protests when she’d caught him crossing the entrance hall to head outside were anything to go by. Perhaps he should have contacted Tonks and delayed the drink for another night.

An image of the rainbow-haired Auror stared sternly at him from the depths of his minds eye. Somehow he suspected Tonks would not have taken “maybe another time” for an answer. She seemed grimly determined to cheer him up.

However miserable it made him.

Remus sighed. That wasn’t fair, not really. It was a nice idea. He could hardly blame Tonks for the weather and his own still precarious health.

It had been Saturday, after almost exactly a week in bed, before Poppy Pomfrey had been satisfied enough with his progress to release him from the Hospital Wing back to his own chambers. Remus suspected that the Matron would have preferred to have kept him under her wing yet longer but for the arrival of Draco Malfoy on Friday afternoon, his hair layered with bright orange and burgundy streaks as it stuck sharply upright, his skin covered in purple boils and putrid green pustules and with daffodils sprouting rather repulsively from his nostrils. The Slytherin Prefect had moaned so loudly and constantly from his bed about bloody Gryffindors, what his mother would say when she heard and the continued ineffectiveness of Poppy’s mostly futile attempts to undo the hexes, that rest and sleep had soon become a mere forgotten dream. The evil tinged smiles of Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny when they had dropped by after dinner, purportedly to visit their professor had made Remus highly suspicious, especially when Ron and Harry started making loud comments about the strange afflictions that would “ or so they’d read “ befall certain persons who continually tattled on their teachers to the press. But given that he was technically still off duty on sick leave, Remus had chosen not to pursue the matter in a professional capacity and merely commented casually that he’d observed in the past that pink had always clashed nicely with Slytherin green when James and Sirius had conducted a similar line of experiments.

It was a relief therefore on Saturday to be freed from the grumblings of moaning Malfoys and allowed back into the privacy of his own rooms. But even then, his freedom was a mere conditional release; Poppy had firmly imposed the sanction that for at least three days, he should not attempt anything that even remotely resembled work. Remus had considered protest, but then he had been fixed with the sharp eyebrows and piercing stare that had brooked no disobedience from generations of sickly Hogwarts schoolchildren and had nodded his meek consent and retreated to bed.

His father had found the whole business highly amusing.

With his son on the mend and safely settled back into his chambers, Reynard had chosen to take his leave on Saturday evening; the shrill note that had arrived by owl from Mrs Wenn that morning, plaintively inquiring how soon he was planning to return to Winter Hollow had only caused him to delay his departure by half a day. But after a hearty Hogwarts supper, father and son had spent a moment carefully arranging for a time and place for the much-proposed Sunday dinner to occur. Recent events had taught both of the Lupin men the value of their family ties. Sunday dinners would most certainly be a more regular fixture in the future.

After his father had departed to extricate poor Mrs Wenn from whatever Lanark and menagerie shaped woes might have assailed her in his absence, Remus had settled quietly into a restful Sunday and Monday. On orders from Poppy, most of the weekend had indeed been spent resting in bed. Most of the time he had simply read, although in a tiny rebellion, he’d risked a bit of marking smuggled in to him by his willing accomplice Minerva McGonagall. He couldn’t escape the vague sense of irony that his exciting, daring act of resistance to over-fussy Matrons everywhere consisted of sneakily doing the dullest part of his own job. He somehow suspected Minerva was quietly making fun of him.

He’d needed the distraction though. Anything to hold back the dizzy whirl of his thoughts.

For any moment of rest, of lost concentration over his period of convalescence had brought with it a flood of worrisome thinking. Although the petition had raised his spirits considerably, he was still concerned about the reaction of his pupils to seeing their werewolf teacher again now they fully understood the truth of what he was. In spite of Dumbledore’s reassurances, he continued to dread the possibility of a public outcry regarding the Daily Prophet article and the way he was likely to be treated outside of Hogwarts because of it. He felt the slowness of his recovery and feared that he would never return to the state of mild ill health that had become the best he could expect. He worried about his father and the brave face behind which he hid both his bitterness and his guilt towards his condemned nephew. And he thought about the letter.

It had come on Friday night, hand delivered by Kingsley Shacklebolt. One envelope, containing two invitations from the Ministry.

Remus had yet to open it.

A decision on the matter of an audience with Kane was no closer that it had been before. Remus simply didn’t want to think about it. He’d put the envelope away for the time being and forced his thoughts elsewhere.

Tuesday had dawned with bitter coldness, the clear skies and persistent frost of morning giving way to scudding, board-rag clouds bloated with snow that swept out of the mountains with the coming of darkness. Feeling distinctly improved and with private hopes that perhaps by Wednesday morning he would be fit to resume classes, Remus had decided that he would indeed keep his Three Broomsticks appointment in spite of the chilling weather. Being caught and thoroughly chastised by Poppy had been rather embarrassing, especially in light of the passing waves of snickering schoolchildren, highly amused it seemed at the sight of one of their teachers on the receiving end, but nonetheless Remus had determinedly sallied forth through the snow flurries and the ice along the road to Hogsmeade, wrapped up in heavy layers, and feeling more and more fragile with every cautious step and icy lungful of air.

He was not, perhaps, as improved as he’d thought.

Hogsmeade was healing rather better. The damaged streets reported by Tonks and his father had been seamlessly repaired, the houses fixed, the visible scars of the Death Eater attack carefully and almost completely wiped away to leave the village much unchanged from previous memory. But as Remus knew too well, it was the scars unseen that left the deepest marks. The signs of the fight might have been erased, but its effects would continue to linger.

A warm glow and bubble of noise beckoned from beneath a creaking sign a few yards ahead. At last. The Three Broomsticks.

Carefully sidestepping a patch of ice that glinted by the gleaming light that emanated from his destination, Remus hurriedly pushed back the door and almost tumbled backwards as he was assailed by the fireball blast of heat and light and sound that washed across his half-frozen form from within. Catching his breath sharply, he loosened his scarf and, pulling off his gloves, moved hurriedly and with some relief inside.

Glorious warmth enfolded him from every direction, roaring fires that flared suddenly emerald, chattering figures with warm butterbeer and Madam Rosmerta bustling as always behind the bar. The pub was quieter than one had come to expect of the Three Broomsticks, but given both the cold weather and the state of mourning under which the village still quite reasonably lingered, this was perhaps not too great a surprise.

Much to his relief, almost nobody took much note of his entrance. Shrouded in blissful anonymity, Remus unwound his scarf almost completely, leaving only a fold in place to conceal the scars on his neck and made his way on cold and shaky legs in the direction of the bar and the glorious relief of a seat. He had barely hauled himself onto a stool, allowing his cold-stung cheeks to drop into the soothing cloak of his palms as he rested his elbows on the counter, when he was startled from his moment of rest by a loud hail and a friendly slap against his shoulder.

“Wotcher Remus!”

Tonks grinned as she leapt with enviable and most unexpected agility onto the neighbouring stool, brushing ashy remnants of her floo journey from her robes and her forest-green spiky hair. He grin wavered as she caught a glimpse of the cold-forced flush of her companion’s cheeks and the hint of frost that lingered in his hair.

“Blimey,” she said, her eyes raking over the depths of clothes in which Remus had shrouded himself before darting towards the window. “Is it cold out?”

Remus chose not to dignify the question with a response. He simply glared.

Tonks remained thoroughly unfazed. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” she declared with alarming cheer. “Hey Rosmerta! A couple of butterbeers over here when you’ve got a moment!” She beamed at him heartily. “Never mind, Remus! We’ll soon get you warmed up.”

Remus tried to smile but it was a poor attempt. As the warmth of the room seeped into his bones and stole away the numbness of the cold, he found himself alarmingly shaky. His limbs felt heavy and tired, shaking and shivering with weariness instead of cold, tight tension sent whispers of pain across his forehead and the bridge of his nose, and a pervasive exhaustion had settled over his chest, his lungs sore and tender, his heart a stony weight. The fresh scar tissue across his stomach and leg seemed to tug tenderly whenever he shifted in his seat.

Definitely not as improved as he’d thought. Bed rest was a deceptive beast.

Damn Poppy for being right.

A foaming butterbeer plonked down on the counter in front of him. A heart-shaped face peered close, as concerned eyes raked over his now ice-pale pallor and trembling fingers.

“Remus, are you all right?” Tonks asked, her tone abruptly softening into concern as she rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No offence, but you look awful.”

“I’m fine, really.” The declaration would probably have carried more weight if Remus could have found the requisite energy to raise his head from his hands. “I just need to catch my breath.”

“I think it’s winning the race.” The hand tightened sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, mate, I should have thought! Making you walk all that way when you’re still recovering.” She sighed. “It’s so easy to forget that you can’t floo in or out of Hogwarts or apparate from the grounds.”

Remus shook his head slightly, his face still buried. He still felt too tired to lift it. “I wouldn’t have apparated anyway,” he admitted hoarsely, his voice slightly muffled. “I’m in no mood for a splinch. Few enough parts of my body are working properly at the moment without leaving half of them behind.”

Abruptly he felt his left hand being peeled away, its fingers wrapped securely around the warm handle of the butterbeer mug. A bar of Honeydukes chocolate thunked down on the counter next to it.

“Drink up,” Tonks ordered with mock briskness. “Butterbeer cures most things and chocolate will see to the rest. And don’t worry about walking back “ when you’re ready to go, I’ll floo back to my place, grab my broom and give you a lift back by air. Okay?”

Too tired to argue, Remus wearily nodded. With a sigh, he lifted the foaming and admittedly tempting tankard and raised it to his lips.

There was no denying that he did feel better for it. The cosy warmth of the drink seeped down into his tired body, flushing a hint of colour back into his cheeks and furnishing him with the energy to at least sit upright once more. Draining the last dregs of the tankard, he shot his Auror companion a more genuine smile.

“Thanks,” he said sincerely. “I do feel better for that.”

She smiled back. “See? Told you so.” Hailing Rosmerta once more, she indicated for a refill before turning back to her companion with over exaggerated Poppy-like sternness. “Now eat your chocolate,” she ordered, tapping the counter top firmly. “Dr Tonks knows what’s best.”

Remus grinned with false meekness as he accepted his second butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks landlady and lifted the Honeydukes best obediently. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rosmerta lingered a moment, smiling at the pair of them. “It’s nice to see you again, Remus,” she said with genuine sincerity. “From what I’ve been told, we have you to thank for Professor Dumbledore’s prompt arrival after the Death Eaters attacked.”

Remus gave an awkward smile. “It was more luck than judgement really,” he confessed. “But yes, I did raise the alarm. I just wish I could have done more.”

Rosmerta’s smile wavered slightly. “I don’t think it would have made any difference,” she said softly. “But from what I’ve heard, you more than did your bit up at the castle, looking after the children. Werewolf feuds indeed!” She snorted. “Honestly, that Rita Skeeter. Hagrid’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that her report is an inaccurate pile of dragon dung and anyone who knows you says the same. Ridiculous!”

Remus smiled wanly. “I appreciate the sentiment, Rosmerta,” he said with a sigh. “But it’s the people who don’t know me I worry about…”

“Oh Remus, for goodness sake!” Tonks intervened abruptly. “Why do you always assume people are going to turn on you because of what you are?” She grinned wickedly. “Did it not occur to you that maybe they just don’t like you?”

Remus furnished his companion with a long, slow look. “Thanks,” he remarked dryly. “Watch my self esteem shoot through the roof.”

“All part of the service.” Tonks sat back with an expression of deliberate smugness.

“Service? What service?” Remus rested his elbow on the bar as he cupped his chin with one hand and took another swig of butterbeer.

Tonks grabbed her own tankard and matched him. “Why the patented Tonks The Human Pepper-Up Service of course. Guaranteed to improve the mood of even the most committed stoic misery of a professor.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “I want my money back.”

“No refunds.” Tonks swiped a square of chocolate with a cheeky grin. “It’s in the contract.”

“I demand a copy of this contract.” Remus downed the bottom of his second tankard with a gulp. “I want to see the fine print before I get in too deep.”

“It’s a verbal contract.”

“Then get me a pensieve.”

Tonks eyed him for a moment, clearly weighing her options. “Would you accept a written apology?” she inquired hopefully.

“Nope.” Remus fought desperately not to grin as he stared at her with casual indifference. “I want a full refund. In chocolate.”

Tonks gestured indignantly at the open wrapper on the counter. “I already gave you chocolate!”

Remus lifted a broken chunk, examining it with apparent thoughtfulness. “This is medicinal. Refund chocolate is for pleasure.”

“Tell you what,” There was a sudden gleam in Tonks’ eyes that was alarmingly Sirius-like. “I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.”

Remus blinked. Of all possible responses, he had not expected that one.

“Sorry?”

Tonks was grinning manically. “Arm-wrestle!” She plonked her elbow down on the counter and wriggled her fingers madly. “The winner gets chocolate!”

Remus sat up carefully. “Just how much did you have to drink before you came?”

Tonks deigned him with a superior stare. “I will have you know that I am high on nothing but life. Now are you in or not?”

Remus eyed the frantic fingers uncertainly. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Tonks waggled her eyebrows. “Scared, are you?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Not exactly. But it’s hardly a fair competition, Tonks.”

The Auror grinned. “I know, you poor thing. I’ll give you a 5 degree start.”

“In my weakened state?” It was Remus’ turn to grin. “It should be 15 at least. For an Auror to pick on an invalid like me; you should be ashamed of yourself. Ministry brutality at its worst.”

“Spoilsport.” Tonks let her hand drop as a genuine chuckle crossed her lips. “I would have won.”

Remus laughed outright. “I have no doubt.”

The gleam revived. “How about something smaller scale?” She extended her right hand, thumb raised. “Thumb war?”

“Oh good grief.” Remus shook his head with a smile. “How old are we?”

“Hopefully not old enough to know better.” She laughed and poked him sharply in the arm. “Come on! Where’s the harm?”

Alarmingly, Remus could not think of a reasonable argument. With an exaggerated sigh, he extended his hand and allowed Tonks to grasp his fingers in the traditional thumb war posture.

With an expression of deliberate over-concentration, Tonks hunched forward and braced herself. Remus on the other hand, remained upright on his stool, desperately trying not to laugh as his companion performed a series of exaggerated thumb exercises.

“Ready?” she asked, apparently when he had decided her thumb was suitably flexed. Remus nodded his consent. “Then three, two, one… GO!”

It should have been no contest. Remus of course had larger hands, a longer thumb and a far superior reach. There was however a factor he had not accounted for.

Tonks’ thumb was changing lengths.

A protest seemed in order. “You’re morphing! That’s unfair!”

Tonks was grimacing with mock concentration as the thumb wrestle intensified. “You…” she panted. “Have a natural advantage! I’m evening the odds!”

“It gets longer when you attack!”

“I thought you didn’t care anyway!”

“And then you shrink it back when I get close! That’s cheating!”

Tonks grinned as their joined hands twisted with the intensity of battle. “You can’t cheat if there’s no rules, Lupin!”

No rules? Well fine, if that was the way she wanted to play it… He could do no rules.

With an expression of uncharacteristic wickedness, Remus lunged forward with his free hand and tickled her under the armpit.

The effect was suitably dramatic.

Shocked, off balance and with her concentration broken, Nymphadora Tonks squealed, rocked and then tumbled sharply backwards off her stool.

Belatedly, Remus tried to catch her, but it was far too late. Plunging over in a wild flail of limbs, Tonks crashed into the drinker behind her and flung both herself and her unfortunate neighbour to the ground.

Sudden guilt washed over Remus in a rush, sweeping away the warm glow of silliness that had engulfed him. He leapt to his feet at once, grasping the hand of a slightly dazed looking Tonks as he helped her gently upright and set her down on her hurriedly righted stool, his lips half-open with words of apology. Her glare however sharply cut him off.

“You apologise to me, Lupin, and I’ll thump you. I mean it!” She grinned slightly. “I will not have you being sorry for showing daring and innovation in thumb warfare.”

Remus raised his hands with a small smile. “All right, no apology. But I do forfeit the fight. The chocolate is yours.”

Tonks appeared on the verge of protest but Remus had already turned to aid the unfortunate drinker caught up in their display of mutual daftness. The man however had already come to his feet, grabbing at the drink he had fortunately left safe on the bar as he turned.

He was a badly shaven man, scruffy and wild haired, with beady eyes that squinted uncertainly as they fixed upon Remus’ deferent approach. The glass of firewhiskey was grasped in one hand, and the noxious odour that surrounded him implied that it was unlikely to have been his first.

He blinked, one eye twitching slightly as he wove a little on the spot. His eyes narrowed.

“’Ere! You’re ‘im, ain’cha?” The boorish voice echoed loudly across the rafters of the Three Broomsticks. “Ain’cho ‘im?”

Oh no. Ignoring the chill of apprehension that fluttered though his stomach, Remus nonetheless maintained a polite demeanour as the newcomer swayed drunkenly on the spot. Beside him, Tonks had tensed.

“Sir, are you feeling all right?” he inquired carefully, with a slight frown. “Perhaps if you sat down…”

“I don’t wanna sit down!” The man’s voice loudened by several degrees “ all around the Three Broomsticks, heads began to turn. “Makes me an easy target, don’t it? Cos’ I know who you are, see! I read the papers! You’re ‘im! You’re that loony werewolf teacher from up at the school!”

A deathly silence fell across the Three Broomsticks.

Rosmerta’s expression was steely and cold. “That’s enough, Fergus,” she ordered, her voice low but filled with the kind of authority that only a landlady on the verge of a chuck out could muster. But Fergus, it seemed, was well beyond stopping. He rocked in a small circle, waving his finger as he sought to focus himself before launching abruptly back into his diatribe.

“I know your game!” he roared, hurling flecks of spittle across a wide radius. “You’re on the wossit…on the prowl, ain’cha? Checking out who looks good chomping when the next mull foon comes round!” He stabbed the air with an emphatic finger. “Now they locked up your blood food…bud fuel…blood wossit fella, you gotta look elsewhere for your fix! Well, not round ‘ere, says I! Not while Fergus McGinty still stands an’….”

The finger wobbled. The eyes crossed and slowly glazed over. Straight-backed as a plank of wood and emphatic as though pole-axed, Fergus McGinty teetered and toppled backwards on his heels to lie giggling and soaked in firewhiskey as he stared at the ceiling, Remus apparently forgotten. A moment later, he began to snore.

The silence deepened. The stares increased.

And then, with her eyebrows raised, Madam Rosmerta leaned forward and peered down at her erstwhile customer over the counter.

“When he wakes up,” she said matter-of-factly. “He’ll be barred.”