Sirius
Remus double-checked the address, unsure if he should go right up to the door and knock, that felt rude even if his new host was expecting his arrival. Perhaps he would call Professor Dumbledore and ask him to relay the message. He chewed on his lip, righted his grip on the handle of his suitcase, and looked up at the ominous three stories towering over him.
All the windows had the curtains drawn tight, and the steps leading up to the front door were separated from the sidewalk by a small and ornate iron gate, giving more the illusion of security as he could have easily stepped over it. That just felt intrusive. He wondered if anyone was even home, but the motorcycle parked behind him suggested otherwise unless his host owned a car. No, hardly anyone in this part of Paris owned a car.
Remus fidgeted, his old-world politeness wouldn’t allow making such a first impression as barging in and demanding he was seen to his room, even if he had the first three months' rent in a crisp envelope sitting in his jacket pocket.
He’d simply turned around and headed to the café he’d seen around the corner; he’d still have a view of the house if he sat outside. Maybe he’d see his host return home, or come outside to water a plant, or take out the trash, anything. Any sign of life from inside the townhouse at all. Yes, that was his plan.
Before he turned, his eyes were drawn to one of the second-story windows, where he could have sworn, he’d seen a small shadow peek back at him.
_____
The finish line was closing in on Remus, rather than him running towards it. Early next year he’d need to have something to show for himself when a panel of scholars would review his work and decide if he was fit to join the ranks of those tweed suit wearing, pipe-smoking English professors at his historic university.
It was that, or the Wales Gazette back home. Which at that point, between editing the sports section and sorting through interviews for the obituaries (Grandma truly was a friend to all), Remus would simply decide to walk into the sea. A message in the bottle he’d down for a note.
Problem? He couldn’t find inspiration if he’d had a map. The midnight light shows of the Eifel Tower bored him, the Louvre too crowded to get a good think in, and the Seine smelled sharply of groundwater and gasoline. He’d thought Paris was the place to be for the tortured essayist and obscure journalist. This drab existence was not what he had dreamed of as a boy. He started to wonder where the smoky jazz lounges were, and when he’d learn the pleasures of a typewriter on a balcony, preferably with a cigarette hanging off his lip.
Yes, he needed a cigarette.
He launched himself out of the seat of his desk and burst out of the doors of his cramped Teachers Assistant office, something like a broom closet turned workspace. Never mind the stack of essays needing grading left behind.
Once in the courtyard, he rummaged through his pockets for a lighter, finding nothing but little pills of lint. Then, a familiar rip and fizzle.
Professor Dumbledore held up a lit match, giving Remus a kind look with his eyes.
“Cheers,” Remus mumbled out of one side of his mouth as he leaned in, and Dumbledore gave a shake of his head that could have been read as a faint streak of disappointment.
They stood in silence while Remus had his first few drags, his shoulders loosening with each plume of smoke that left his mouth.
“The dissertation?” Dumbledore smiled; hands clasped behind his back.
“Don’t start, old man.” Remus grumbled. Smoke left his nose.
“Ah, going well I see.”
“There’s nothing to write about.”
The professor’s eyebrows flew up and away from his half-moon spectacles, “In all of Paris? Nothing to write about?” his lips stayed slightly parted as he looked away from Remus, with almost a chuckle on his breath. “First time I’ve heard that in all my years.” A wonderous look in his eyes.
Remus felt himself growing more agitated, “I can’t find one thing worth researching. Nothing original, that is.” Dumbledore offered one of those silences, the ones that make you tack the truth on at the end just to fill it. “Haven’t the time either. Always holed up working for you and the school to make ends meet.” Remus shrugged, getting dangerously close to the end of his cigarette, and dangerously close to asking the professor to help light another.
“Lovely excuses, Mr. Lupin,” Dumbledore said without looking at him, squinting his eyes instead as a cloud drifted away and let the sun shine brightly onto the limestone courtyard, trickling with a stream of students.
“Livings not cheap, you know.”
“Is that the problem?”
Remus could lie. He could pin all his problems on the cost of rent in the city. At first, he considered living in a tiny chambre de bonne a rite of passage for any lonely poet. Then going to market became stealing food from the student dining hall, and that’s when the going got tough.
Dumbledore was looking at him, he could feel it, but he was staring at his shoes, the cigarette between his index and middle dying a slow death on the filter. Then, Dumbledore straightened and cleared his throat.
“How about I give you some time off-”
“I need the money,” Remus interjected, but Dumbledore went on, tone firmer, making Remus sound like a whining boy.
“And maybe then you can have time to find this elusive inspiration?” He punctuated it with a hum and an encouraging nod. “I can even arrange more affordable accommodation for you. Is that not all your problems solved?”
Remus’ ears perked. “Where?”
“Oh, an old student of mine is looking to take a lodger just South of the river.”
“I don’t do roommates.”
Dumbledore fully chuckled then, “You’ll find him most suitable, quite charming in fact.”
“How much, then? I’d still need to work, won’t I?”
The older man brought a hand up from behind his back and petted his beard in momentary thought. His downcast eyes and grey eyebrows wrinkled before he spoke, gentler.
“How about, I give you the first three months of rent. If you don’t find what you’re looking for, which I’m confident you will, your office will be waiting for you. Surely, with plenty of essays to keep you busy.”
Remus looked at him stunned. Dumbledore was his favorite professor he’d ever worked for, even though he’d never say it out loud because he knew there was always some wise and witty remark awaiting him. He thought one day he’d thank him for everything he’d done for him, but this was too much.
“Professor, I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.” Remus was already shaking his head. Nerves and premature guilt making his feet fidget and dance in place.
The professor's pale eyes locked with his, and he leaned in a little, “I’m offering, son.”
Son.
The word reverberated, a strange deep echo in his head.
“I-” Remus reeled; mouth dry suddenly. “I suppose I’ll give it a go.”
“Brilliant.” Dumbledore gave a perk of his shoulders, “Sirius is a fine host, really, you’ll find it most inspiring-” He rambled on, but Remus was listening.
“But, please, I’ll pay for myself after the first month, it’s too much.”
“Nonsense!” He seemed slightly offended, then his features fixed in a smug look. He regarded Remus with his eyes, then sighed, looking back out into the courtyard as if in some distant memory. “Trust me, he won’t ask much. The boy owes me a favor anyway.”
_____
Remus rushed to collect his things when he saw a light turn on from within the house, having finished his coffee long before sunset fell around him. The sky was still purple and dusty in the west when he found himself approaching the little gate, his need to find a bed and a bathroom inside overriding his need to be polite. There was no welcome mat, he worried about tracking in the outside, as he stomped hastily to rid the bottoms of his shoes of wet gutter leaves, the door swung open.
He could not say it in fewer words, the experience of laying eyes on him for the first time.
His breath caught in his throat as he looked up at him. White and smooth skin violently splattered with mouches like aristocracy once obsessed over painting on themselves, the most thrilling one straddling the border of his left cupid's bow and the pale pink pout of his lips. He was young, with the suggestion of manhood in his strong shoulders and toned limbs, Remus feasted on his arms, the fuzz of his underarms visible through the oversized holes of a loose tank top.
Strong calves sheathed in black denim, flexed as he stood on tiptoe to lean into the slit of the door. His intensely expressive face blinked at him, confused before realization dawned on him.
A dazzling smile stretched across his face, revealing a row of straight white teeth–the way it pulled on that freckle on his lip. His gunmetal grey eyes lit up. The brightest lights in Paris.
“Remus, right?” The boy opened the door wide and tucked a strand that fell out of his loose ponytail behind his ear, a bewitchingly effeminate mannerism.
Remus sputtered out of his stupor, suddenly feeling how wide his eyes had become. He blinked rapidly and tightened his grip on his bags.
“Yes, that-” The boy cocked one hip, leaning it on the door frame, distracting him immensely. “That’s me.”
They stood there for a moment, Remus looking up at him from a lower step while Sirius took up the open doorway with the most amused look on his face, tongue running over his teeth before his eyebrows shot up once.
“Come in, then.” He turned and disappeared into the home, leaving Remus to tussle with his bags and wrestle with his mind.
Who and what was he ?