Seventeen: Aim

[tartancravat.livejournal.com]

Title: Aim
Rating: PG
Prompt: # 17 at barefootboys
Word Count: 1579
Summary: It’s Midsummer’s Eve, and Remus, connected to the seasons and the months as he is by the silver thread of the moon, knows it well.

August 17^th, 1982

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

          I would be much obliged if you would grant me the run of the Hogwarts library tonight. I have one or two things I need to research in furthering the search for Peter Pettigrew. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience, considering it is the summer holidays. Please reply by return of this owl.

Sincerely,
Remus Lupin

-

The walk up the road to Hogwarts is painfully familiar, after the passing of several years since the last time Remus was here. How many times did they run down here together, on the way to Hogsmeade, with plans in their heads and pranks up their sleeves? How many times did they pass up this road in the carriages pulled by invisible creatures on September 1^st? Padfoot, trotting at Remus’ heels, whines quietly and bumps his head against the back of Remus’ knees.

The front doors are shut, but Remus knows to let himself in. There’s a hush over the school that submerges them the moment they step inside. It comes of an entire summer without the chaos of hundreds of teenage wizards and witches, and it’s not something either of them remembers every experiencing in school. With the Marauders around, Hogwarts was never a quiet place. They walk slowly up the marble staircase, heading straight for the library. How many times did they come this way, off to study after dinner? How many times did they spend an afternoon in the library, researching the spells behind a prank? It’s strange to be back here once again.

-

“McGonagall is going to be sorry she taught us about solstice rituals.” Four boys race up the stairs to the library, eager to begin their plans. Well, two boys race. One hangs behind, half pretending he has nothing to do with it, and the other is frantically reading a passage out of a heavy blue charms textbook over and over again.

“You should really be studying for your O.W.L.s, and not planning something I refuse to know nothing about,” Remus says to James and Sirius, half-heartedly attempting to fulfill his duties as prefect.

“I never study, Moony, it’s against my religion, or something. Anyway, I know it all.”

“If you get D’s on all your O.W.L.s, don’t come crying to me.”

“How’re the tracking spells coming, Pete?” James asks, walking backward up the stairs and nearly crashing into a suit of armour. Sirius sniggers at him and receives a thwacking upside the head.

“Horrible,” Peter mutters, and nearly trips over the stair, so caught up is he with the book.

-

It’s dark, the torches along the walls which are always lit during school are cold. The people in the portraits along the wall, men in ruffs and tights and armour, women in vast awkward gowns, children, pigs, horses, all are quiet. Some look mildly surprised to see anyone but the usual—Filch, the house elves, Hagrid, Professor Dumbledore. Others are asleep or looking dulled by the lack of gossip, with no children to disturb them, and few teachers to greet them. Remus wonders where the ghosts are.

They come to the doors of the library, and he can’t help holding his breath. This was his library. He spent hours here, studying, reading, avoiding people, kissing Sirius in the corners between shelves.

It’s dark. Remus flicks his wand at the lamp on one of the study tables. “All clear,” he murmurs to Padfoot, looking around. Sirius passes him on the way into the shelves.

“What should we look for?” Sirius asks softly, unwilling to disturb the quiet dust.

“Try the section on location. I’m going to look under identification.”

-

They are spread across the table in the back corner, books and parchment and quills, pots of ink, gangly limbs. James and Sirius mutter suggestions to each other, making notes and calculations on long scrolls of parchment, skimming great dusty tomes for ideas.

It’s Midsummer’s Eve, and Remus, connected to the seasons and the months as he is by the silver thread of the moon, knows it well. He’s been watching the way the sun stretches, further into the night, leaving him more time to study before bed without having to light his wand. It’s one of those things he can feel in the pit of his stomach and the soles of his feet. But he’s always liked the equinoxes better, really. He likes balance, and the supposed passions of Midsummer are a little alien to him. He thinks that spending Midsummer’s Eve going over his Potions notes is a little inauspicious, but O.W.L.s start tomorrow, and he is determined not to fail. Remus sighs, and goes searching for the page on the Draught of Living Death.

“Peter, why don’t you study something else for a while,” Remus suggests.

“Flitwick said tracking spells were sure to be a big part of the Charms Owl. I can’t fail that one, it’s Mum’s favourite subject.” He places his wand flat on his palm and mutters a spell. The wand spins wildly for a moment, and then settles pointing over his left shoulder. “Oh, damn. I was aiming for James.”

-

“I think at such long distance, we’re going to need something of Peter’s to focus on. Clothes, or one of his belongings that he handled a lot.” Sirius can see Remus slipping into that place in his head where there is nothing but words, words and pictures and ideas.

“You’d make a good teacher, Remus,” Sirius says, and it’s not teasing like it was in school, when McGonagall suggested he become a professor in their career meeting, and he never heard the end of it. He’d always been good at explaining things, spells and theory and history, and now he has more patience than he used to. Remus has spent a lot of time waiting for things.

He only stares for a minute, and then continues with his train of thought. “I have his old camera, I suppose that would work.”

“How’d you get the camera?” Sirius asks, startled. It had been their camera, the Marauder camera, and Wormtail had been the photographer. He was always taking pictures of the four of them, almost until the very end.

“After—you know, when we thought he was dead. His mother gave me a box of photos of the four of us, and the camera was in there. I never looked at any of it, but it’s still there, in the back of my closet.” Remus dives behind a stack of books, reaching for a tiny blue leather-covered one. He doesn’t look at Sirius.

-

“So, a bonfire then. Middle of the Great Hall, right? And we switch everyone’s drinks for mead—perfectly traditional, perfectly alcoholic. Only, if we could make it taste like what it was before, then nobody would know it was anything different, and they’d be drunk and not know why.” James outlines the plan to Sirius, his hands moving in the air as he speaks. James has always thought best out loud.

“Might be difficult, we won’t know what it was they were drinking before,” Sirius says a little sceptically. Remus is sceptical at Sirius’ uncertainty. This magic is simple compared to other things they’ve done.

“Oh bother,” Peter says as his spell goes wrong again. “Bother and damn.”

“You should be able to get this, it’s like the Map, only without paper,” Remus says helpfully over his Arithmancy textbook. “You’ve got to really concentrate—not on your wand, but on what you’re trying to find. Try it again.”

Peter places his wand back on his palm and mutters the charm again. It spins, stops sharply, and then spins back the other way, landing directly on James. Peter gets up and moves back and forth experimentally, but the wand continues pointing at James.

“I’ve got it!” Peter shouts joyfully. Several harried-looking seventh-years glare at him from across the aisle.

-

Remus is tired, and a little dismayed to realise that his ability to spend endless hours staring at tiny print seems to have faded somewhat. It’s been a long time since he’s studied like this. He sighs again, and Sirius glances up. “Maybe we should take a break,” Sirius suggests. “I bet the house elves would make us sandwiches.”

Remus shakes his head. “No, not yet.” Sirius smiles. It’s so familiar, Moony amid a pile of books. It’s like a photograph you’ve looked at so many times you could recreate it in your mind’s eye. Sirius has done just that, during those nights in Azkaban when he couldn’t picture the overly pale eyebrows, somewhat large nose, faint scars and freckles. Couldn’t picture them, except in the place they were most often seen.

He watches Remus, and knows he’s changed, sees the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faintly grey tinge to the hair at the edges of his forehead. Things have changed, yes, but there are so many things that will always be the same. The quirk of lips reserved for moments of pure concentration, the way Sirius knows Remus will look up when he’s figured it out like he’s waking from a deep sleep.

“Oh,” Remus breathes. “I’ve got it.” He’s growing more and more excited, shoves the book across the table and points out a passage.

“Fore the Fynding of Certayne Persons,” Sirius reads, and knows. That’s it. They will find Peter Pettigrew.

-

“I’ve got it,” Peter says again, triumphant. “I’ve got it.”

Day Eighteen