Flightless Bird

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The Howl & Thistle pub smelled like strong whiskey and the sharp September air. 

Remus’ boot ground down on a discarded walnut shell as he wiped away a smear of something dark and sticky staining the counter with a damp cloth. Faint music wheedled below the low hum of drunken voices, a song that his mum used to play in the living room when he was very small. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, shirt sticking to his back. Pushing his tongue into his cheek, Remus poured another pint and slid it across the bar to the next customer. 

God, he hated Wednesdays.

“You look miserable,” Marlene said as she shut the backroom door behind her. Her sharp mouth curved as Remus cast her a wounded stare. “I did say you could probably just go home.”

“Either I don’t pay my water bill or I pour beer for middle-aged men who hate their wives,” Remus murmured under his breath, leaning a hip back against the cabinet with an answering wry smile. “I’m still on the fence.”

Another four dirty glasses were shoved unceremoniously onto the counter, and Frank appeared from around them, his brow set in a mournful frown.

“I’m so tired,” He huffed, “I have never been so tired in my life. Never.”

Marlene patted him on the shoulder, and said, not unkindly, “You’ve only been here an hour, Frank.”

Frank scowled, “Gus Fletcher just called me a ginormous wanker.”

They both peered over his head at Gus Fletcher, the squat and balding owner of the Godric Hollow’s only antique shop, who was nursing an ale and still eyeing Frank with his familiar air of contempt.

“Want Remus to kick him out?”

Remus rolled his eyes, “How the hell am I the strongman of this group?”

“You’re tall,” Frank pointed out.

“Blatant discrimination,” Remus muttered.

Outside, the heavy downpour of rain had slowed into a drizzle. The beginning of autumn was in the air and the open doors welcomed a cold gust of wind, sweeping in a cluster of browning leaves. He could hear the rustle of the hazel trees that lined the street, and if he listened closely enough, the distant rush of the sea. He twisted his hands together, nervously twisting at the silver ring on his index finger, running a thumb over the moon-shaped pendant at its centre.

Remus glanced longingly towards his abandoned book, but opted instead for cleaning the new batch of dirty glasses. He was drying the last one when his skin prickled. His head snapped up. There was a man standing in front of him, on the other side of the bar. 

This was not unusual. But Remus could not help it. He was staring. 

In a thread-bare and too-tight t-shirt and torn jeans, this man was soaked through– and still dripping, all over the wooden floor. His chest rose and fell as if he were still catching his breath. His hair was black as ink, tousled and curling, curtaining his face as he waited there like some threatening creature, materialising from the dark. 

Remus’ gaze trailed down to the drenched shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, which was a faded yellow, and read ‘Weetabix’, alongside a small illustration of an anthropomorphised wheat biscuit.  

“Whiskey.”

Remus startled backwards when the man spoke, his spine knocking into the shelves of gin. 

“Huh?” He said, stupidly.

“I want a whiskey.” The man repeated in a low, nettled voice. A muscle in his jaw flickered as he flatly returned Remus’s gaze. His eyes were the strangest sort of grey. Remus wrinkled his nose.

“What kind?”

“Any. Don't care.”

Raising his eyebrows, Remus poured out a glass of Jack Daniels and slid it over. The man didn’t wait for him to ring it up before he slung a twenty down on the counter, picked up the glass, and downed the drink. Remus pinched the damp twenty pound note between two fingers, his brow furrowing. 

“Your change?” Remus called after him as the man walked back towards the door.

“Keep it.”

“Who was that?” Marlene asked from behind him.

Remus shrugged, “Don’t know.”

“I’ve never seen him around town before.”

“Just passing through,” Remus replied, his eyes trained on the man’s retreating figure as he shoved the note into the till. “Probably.”

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When autumn started, Remus was reminded of two things. The first, was just how much he had missed wearing his well-loved collection of knitted jumpers. The second, was just how stupid he felt to still be stuck, festering, in the town of Godric’s Hollow.

On a rare evening off from working in the Howl & Thistle, Marlene insisted on dragging him out from his bed for hot chocolate. He tugged on a scratchy scarf and met her out on the street, grinning as she shoved a steaming takeaway cup into his hand and immediately launched into a dramatic monologue about how irritating she was finding her younger sister. 

“I mean, she just comes into my room– unannounced– and steals my stuff. She’s a thief, but I swear to God she just gets away with everything, it’s insane! It’s like I don’t even live in a democracy. I told mum I was going to get a lock put on my door, but she said it wasn’t safe, which doesn’t even, like, make sense–”

Remus tipped his head up to look up at the pale sky, skimming his boots through a scattering of red and orange leaves across the pavement. The street was closing up for the evening, but each red-bricked and white-washed shop and cafe glowed with yellow light from inside, like tiny buildings trapped inside a snow-globe.

“All I’m saying is I can’t wait until I move out,” Marlene finished through a yawn, “This last summer has been hard enough, I just need to make it another four months.”

“Did you decide on a date then?” Remus asked.

She nodded solemnly, “I’ll set off for Italy in January, and make my way to France by February.”

He smiled, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. It scalds his tongue. “Is Italy even warm in January?”

“No,” Marlene shrugged, “But it’s pretty fucking far away from my sister, so I don’t care. You’re lucky that you’re an only child, you know.”

Remus bit back a laugh, “You’re lucky that you’re getting out of Godric’s Hollow.”

They continued up their usual path, around the back of the bakers, and up the steepest hill in town. By the time they reached the top, they were, as usual, red-cheeked and panting, tearing off their scarves and gloves. For a moment Remus and Marlene stood there overlooking the glittering spread of the village below. 

“Look,” Marlene flung out an arm, pointing at something in the distance. 

Remus scanned the horizon, until it settled on the rows of fields past the village, the strips of rolling yellows and fading greens, webbed by the intermittent patches of dark forest. Nestled in between it all, sat a house. Three stories tall, wider than any other building in Godric’s Hollow, awash with warm grey brick, ornate chimneys, and bay windows.

“What?” He said, “It’s just the big house.”

They called it the big house even though it had a name - Grimmauld Manor. No one in the village called it that, mostly because it was such an ugly name for such a beautiful building. It was a historic part of Godric’s Hollow, despite the fact that no one actually lived there. Remus had never seen the inside, although he had caught glimpses of elegant velvet sofas and towering fireplaces through the dusty glass of the conservatory. 

“No, look,” Marlene repeated, “There’s lights. In the windows of the left-wing.”

Remus squinted at the golden glow of the windows, “Oh. You’re right. It’s probably just Winnie.”

“You think? You should ask her if anyone has moved in.”

The only occasional occupant of the Manor was a family friend and wonderful woman called Winnifred, who looked after the grounds. She had hired Remus a few times now to tidy up the gardens, which were vast and steadily overgrowing.

“They haven’t,” Remus shook his head, “We would know.”

“Alright, alright,” said Marlene, rolling her eyes and hooking her arm back through his. They began to walk again down the lane, Marlene stopping now and then to pluck a ripe blackberry from the tangled bushes. 

“Have you heard how Lily is doing?” Marlene asked, muffled by a mouth full of blackberries, “How’s ye old Oxford?”

Remus tucked his hands into his pockets, “She sounds okay. Term hasn’t started yet. She’ll be a lot more stressed once the essays start piling up.” 

“Ew,” Marlene wrinkled her nose, “Essays.”

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The rain was a constant for the next two days. Remus was used to being exhausted, but this was an all time low. As he lay there in the dark, curled on his side beneath the crushing warmth of his blankets, he closed his eyes and listened to the downpour echoing off the roof of his cramped flat. The backs of his eyes burned white for a second– a flash of lightning.

In the late afternoon of the second day, he tugged on his favourite striped green jumper, scrabbled for his keys from his cluttered side table, and stepped outside. The Howl & Thistle was on the same street as his flat, so it took him under a minute to make the crossing. When he arrived, only slightly damp, Marlene was already inside, wiping down the tables.

“It’s going to be a slow one today,” She said by way of greeting, “I can just feel it.”

She was right. A few customers came traipsing in, mostly to order a coffee, but by the time it reached six, the pub was empty. Marlene had stepped outside for a smoke break, and Remus was leaning against the back cabinets, blowing on a hot spoonful of tomato soup. He looked up at the soft thud of the door. 

The man was back. This time, he wore a thin, loose sweatshirt and jeans, but his face, the golden skin, the dark flush of his high-set cheeks– it was hard to forget. 

Remus set down his soup and watched the man lean up against the bar. The jumper lifted, exposing the smooth, bronze plane of his waist and hip bone, the dip of his belly button, the sharp outline of his ribs, the scattered ghost of purple bruises-- or marks made by someone’s mouth. It felt private. Remus turned away, blindly reached for a drying glass, and began to polish it.

“Vodka?” Fingers drummed against the bar, tapping a hollow sound. The man looked at him expectantly, raising a dark eyebrow. Remus couldn’t put his finger on what it was, the hot, kicking punch in his stomach as he met the unimpressed glint of his gaze.

“ID?” Remus asked. The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Remus thought he must have been crying, because his grey eyes were tinged red, his full mouth a swollen pink. Or it could be from the freezing blow of the wind outside. There was no way to know. 

“I came in two days ago,” his voice was raspy, annoyed. His long fingers stretched and curled at his side, reminding Remus of a cat in the sun. “You served me.”

“I remember.”

“You didn’t ID me then.”

“I remember.”

A beat of silence. Music filtered out into the space left between them, a song that Remus tried to recognise, if only to think of something else. The man stared at him, his upper lip twitching. 

“Haven’t got ID on me.” said the man eventually.

Remus smiled and picked up his soup again. “Then I can’t sell it to you.”

Something incomprehensible passes over the man’s face, something Remus could not try to describe– a terrible sharpening. He turned on his heel and stalked towards the door. Remus watched his figure disappear into the rain.

“Who was that?” Marlene asked as she returned, bringing with her the thick smell of cigarette smoke– Remus closed his eyes and breathed in. “Customer giving you trouble?”

Remus hesitated, “Nah. Had no ID.”

The next evening, Remus was fighting sleep, eyes slipping closed every few seconds despite how the pub was humming around him like a live wire - a typical Friday night in Godric’s Hollow, packed with the locals who had nothing better to do. He didn’t look up from shaking the silver cocktail shaker until a card was slammed down on the counter in front of him. Remus started, blinking down at it. 

It was a drivers’ license; a picture of someone clean shaven and with flushed cheeks, curling hair pushed back from his forehead. The man with the grey eyes grinned-- actually grinned, wickedly, darkly, showing white teeth-- and it was enough to wake Remus up. Remus' frown deepened as he peered down at the ID.

Sirius. Sirius Black. A name. Remus tried it out on his tongue– “Sirius.”

The grin flickered, and died. Remus tapped the photo with a finger. “You sure this is you?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” grated out Sirius, a lock of dark hair falling into his face. Remus wondered if he wasn’t already a bit tipsy. 

Remus shrugged, “Looks nothing like you.”

Sirius licked his bottom lip, frowned, his knuckles bleeding white as his fist tightened. “Are you going to give it up?"

"It’s just my job.”

As Sirius leaned a few inches closer over the bar, Remus caught the faint scent of aftershave and something that Remus thought may be the same cheap brand of apple and cinnamon tea shoved at the back of his kitchen cupboard. He flushed and edged backwards as Sirius’s gaze seared into him like a red hot poker.

“It’s your job to be an ass?”

“Yes.” Remus replied, sweetly, “We have positions open if you’re interested.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched and he planted his palms against the edge of the counter, “All I want is a drink.”

Remus opened his mouth and then closed it. Why was he arguing? 

"What do you want?"

"Vodka. Grey Goose."

He reached for a half empty bottle, clear liquid sloshing as he poured a few inches into a glass. He pushed it across the counter and Sirius caught it. He tipped his head back and down the drink in one smooth swallow. When Sirius didn’t immediately leave after paying, Remus turned to serve another customer. His stomach lurched, as if he were falling, as if he had missed a step on the stairs– the tips of his toes and fingers burning, burning, burning.  

When he looked again, Sirius was gone. 

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He had been staring at the dim outline of the clock next to his bed for so long that it was imprinted into his eyelids. Remus rolled onto his back, scrubbing his arm over his face. Light filtered in through his thin curtains as he swung his legs over the side of bed. Head throbbing, he slouched into his tiny kitchen and prised open his fridge. 

“ No,” He groaned, picking up the empty milk carton and desperately shaking it. 

Five minutes later, after yanking on loose jeans and a dangerously oversized sweater, Remus was out his door and heading to the nearest cafe for the biggest coffee he could afford to buy. At this time, the only place open would be Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, a pink and frilly monstrosity filled with too many cat figurines, but at least they served a strong espresso. 

He was turning the corner, still struggling to keep his eyes open against the bright morning sun, when he nearly walked head first into another person. 

“Dad,” Remus said, the word forming strangely in his mouth. He cleared his throat, his gaze raking over his dishevelled appearance; his tattered winter’s coat, his uncut hair, the two plastic shopping bags that he was carrying. 

“Remus,” Lyall replied, his voice hoarse, his bloodshot eyes blinking slowly, “Hello.”

“Hi,” muttered Remus, and he lowered his head to swerve around him and down the street.

“Hold on,” Stepping into his path, Lyall held up his plastic bags as if he were forming some sort of barricade, “Hold on a minute, Remus. I haven’t seen you in a month. Aren’t you going to ask how I am?”

“How are you?”

“I’m doing just great. Just bought a new toothbrush.”

“Okay. Fantastic.”

His dad squinted at him as Remus shifted his weight from foot to foot, “What have you been up to then?”

Shrinking away from him, Remus folded his arms across his chest,  “You stink of beer, dad.”

“Alright, don’t throw a fit,” Lyall pushed a wavering smile onto his mouth, “I had a couple with lunch, that’s all.”

Remus shook his head, “It’s 8 in the morning.” 

“Oh, well,” His dad sniffed, scratching at the back of his neck, “It’s five o’clock somewhere–”

“Yeah. Right,” Clearing his throat, Remus glanced up the street, “I have to go.”

“You look tired, son,” Lyall said, suddenly, before he could leave, and Remus blinked at him, “Have you been having trouble sleeping again?”

“Dad, I'm fine,” murmured Remus, “Just a bad night, that's all.” 

Lyall frowned at him for a few more seconds, and then sighed, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Remus took another step back, offering a tight-lipped smile, “I need a coffee. I'll see you around, dad. Okay?” 

His dad mumbled in agreement and went on shuffling down the street. Drawing in a deep, clear breath, Remus shoved his hands into pockets, and steered himself towards Madam Puddifoots. 

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It had been a long day, with not very much sunlight and a lot of torrential rain, when Remus sat down on his bed in the evening and called his best friend. 

The phone rang a few times before Lily Evans picked up, and when she did she was out of breath.

“Hi! Hi,” She panted down the line, the slam of closing doors in the distant background, “I was in the college bar.”

“Ah,” He said, “I can phone another time! Go back to socialising.”

“No!” She protested, “Why would I do that? I want to talk to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you numpty. Come on. Talk to me.”

“Okay, okay. What do you want me to say? Life isn’t interesting here without you” Remus told her, “I miss you. A bit.”

“Dweeb.”

“Only a bit.”

“Don't get too excited,” She said, “But I think I'll be coming for a week soon.”

“Really?” He sat up, definitely getting too excited, “When?”

“Around Halloween. It's my dad's birthday on the 28th.”

“Halloween?” He groaned, flopping backwards again, “That's like a month away.”

“You're so ungrateful,” Lily teased, “It can't be that bad without me.”

He hesitated, picking at a loose thread on his blanket. 

“Remus,” She sighed, and he couldn't help but smile, picturing her face scowling at him, “What is it?”

“Saw-my-dad-yesterday,” he mumbled. 

“What?”

“I saw my dad. Yesterday morning. I bumped into him.”

“Oh,” she was quiet for a few moments, then asked, “Was he okay?”

“He was drunk,” Remus said bitterly, “I don't know what I was expecting.”

“I'm sorry,” Lily replied, her voice soft, “Did you speak to him?”

“A little. Not much. Sometimes I just– can't bear to speak to him, you know. And then I feel like a dickhead because he's– he’s my dad. Do I sound like a dickhead?”

“Hey, my own sister despises me,” said Lily, through a somewhat painful laugh, “I’m not winning any prizes for my warm familial feelings.”

Remus turned over, resting against his pillows, “Have you spoken to Petunia at all since you left?”

“I've tried. She won't talk to me. You know what she's like.”

“Frigid and bitter?”

He could hear Lily’s smile in her reply, “Well. Yes.”

Sensing that there was something else coming, Remus was silent, listening to the steady beat of her breathing, before Lily eventually spoke again.

“I think you have a right to respond to your dad however you want to.” She said.

“Maybe I'm worried that I owe him,” Remus said, “He did raise me. Barely.”

“You don't owe him anything for keeping you alive. That's not how it works.”

He struggled for words for a moment, and then landed on, “I know. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“I guess you could have an… honest conversation with him.”

“Why? Because our last honest conversation went so well? As I recall it ended with him smashing up the china cupboard and me moving out.” Remus closed his eyes, trying not to think about the sound of breaking plates, the angry fumbling of his hands as he packed a bag. 

Lily asked, “And you haven't brought up rehab again since?”

“No,” Remus said, “I mean. I've only seen him like four times in the last six months.”

“You know what I’m going to say, Re,” Lily told him, her words crackling down the phone, “It’s up to you. Just– please think about yourself for once. Respect your own boundaries.”

“Ugh,” He curled his knees up into himself, frowning at the chipped white wall of his bedroom wall, “I do think about myself. Far too much for my liking.”

Lily snorted, “Yeah. Right.”

“Don’t you have an essay to do or something?”

“Ouch,” She laughed, loud, “Low blow!”

“That’s what you get for leaving me here in the most tedious town on the planet.”

“I’ll be back soon,” said Lily, “I promise.”

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Another quiet afternoon working in the Howl & Thistle. Remus was leaning over a limited edition of Jane Eyre , five chapters deep, when a glimmer of movement caught his eye. It was the momentary glimpse of a face; Sirius Black, standing there, alone outside in the amber glow of the setting sun. Remus pushed his tongue into his cheek, and sighed.

He carefully placed Jane Eyre down but Sirius still didn't come in. Just as he was about to return to his chapter, the bell over the door rang and Sirius was stepping inside. Despite the bite of the autumn air, he was wearing a pair of denim shorts that clung to his long, toned legs, and on his feet, a pair of bright yellow boots– and he was treading in mud. Remus’ neck prickled and he focused back onto his book, although out of the corner of his eye he could still see the mud trailing in after him. 

“Man,” Remus murmurs under his breath, “Would it have killed you to wipe your feet before you came in?”

Sirius didn’t say anything. His eyes were like two shining silver moons, staring out at nothing.  His skin was pink and blotted, his nails bitten down, and when he speaks, his voice is low and barely there.

“How much for a bottle of Jameson?”

“A glass?”

“I said a bottle.”

“You want to buy a whole bottle?” Remus repeated. He thought Sirius must have the strongest liver in the world. 

“Yes.”

“Um. It's sixty-five pounds.”

“Alright. Fine,” Sirius plucked a wad of cash from a pocket in his overshirt and slammed it down on the counter, over the top of his book. 

Remus gritted his teeth and nudged the book to the side. He crammed the notes into the register and turned to pluck the bottle of Jameson from the shelves. 

“Are you going to drink this entire bottle yourself?” Remus asked, bluntly. He did not yet relinquish the Jameson, clutching its neck in his fist. 

Rubbing his knuckles against his cheekbone, Sirius scowled. His voice broke on the single word he muttered, “What?”

“You’ll end up in the hospital if you finish this whole thing. And the nearest hospital is an hour’s drive away, so–”

“Don’t you have a policy not to interrogate people about their purchases?”

“I’m only asking.”

“And my answer,” Sirius replied, quietly, “is that it’s none of your fucking business.”

“Alright.” Remus narrowed his eyes. His chest blazed, swelling inside of him like a rising wave. He had never been good with his anger. He set the bottle down upon the counter, muttering under his breath “Your funeral.”

To his surprise, Sirius did not reach to take it. He stood there, and stared at Remus, ”What is your problem?”

“It’s nothing,” Remus cleared his throat and indicated with his head, “You’re– trekking mud all over my floor, you know.”

Sirius glanced down at the floor, then back up at him, and asked, “Do you own this pub?” 

Remus was silent, betraying the answer. Sirius searched his face with a hunger like a starved animal, sharp and furious and so, so hungry, and Remus could not decide whether he wanted to lean into it or shrink away.

“So it’s not your floor,” Sirius said, softly, although his tone was dangerous, a warning. He snatched up the bottle of Jameson, and raised it in the air, as if he were giving a toast. He did not smile once, as he turned, and walked out.

That same day, in the evening, Marlene turned up to her shift in a horrible mood. 

“You’ll never guess what the fuck my parents are forcing me to do,” She bursted out with as she slammed the door to the The Howl & Thistle open, her face crumpled into a dark scowl. Remus leaned his elbows up against the bar, stifling a yawn. 

“Um,” He frowned, “Be… nice to your sister?”

“Hah-hah,” She replied, flatly, “No. We’re going to a fucking open day. This week.”

Remus pushed a stiff smile onto his mouth, straightening, “Oh. Right. Still haven’t accepted your travel plans then, have they?”

“No! They think that I’ll see fucking– Coventry University and I’ll magically change my mind.”

“You could just go,” Remus said, shrugging, “Just to appease them. And then still go travelling anyway.”

Marlene spun around to hiss at him, “It’s the principal of it, Moo!” 

Groaning, Remus put his hands up in the air in defeat, “Please, don’t call me that.”

She perched her hands on her hips, “It's cute.”

“I am three years older than you,” He said, brandishing an accusatory finger at her, “Moo is the kind of stupid nickname you give to a toddler. I am an elder.”

“You’re only twenty-one, idiot,” She muttered, but at least she was smiling again.

Despite the principal of it all, Marlene was gone for four days. He stood outside the pub to grin and wave as her parent’s car drove past, with her sitting in the back seat, glaring begrudgingly out at him. 

He was dreading his shifts without her, although it wasn’t all bad. Most nights Frank actually showed up to his shifts, and even though he was exhausted, Remus still secretly liked standing there behind the bar and watching the people come and go; the friends catching up, the old grumpy men and the cackling groups pre-drinking for a big night out in the nearest town. 

The worst thing about it all is the materialisation of Sirius Black two times over the weekend. They did not speak to each other, and Remus refused to look at him or whatever strange combination of clothes he was wearing, because it only made him more frustrated.

On the Monday of Marlene’s triumphant return, Remus was in the tiny break room, with her on speaker phone.

"What time are you due back?" He was asking, stirring at the last dregs of his tasteless coffee with a spoon. 

"Like half ten." Marlene's voice crackled, permeated by a long yawn, “My dad is playing this shitty old man music– it is shitty, dad, come on–” 

"Right–" Remus said. Distantly, he caught the chime of the pub's bell. "Ah. Customer. Have to go."

"Charm their socks off, Lupin!" she chimed from the phone.

Remus snorted and hung up, slipping his phone into his waistband. He nudged open the break-room door with his foot, only to find Sirius standing there.

"What can I get you?" Remus asked, after a few long moments of Sirius not speaking. 

"What kind of name is Lupin?” Sirius asked.

Remus recoiled, “Excuse me?”

“Is that really your name?”

“It’s my last name.”

“Oh.”

He sighed, "Are you going to buy something or not?" 

A muscle ticked in Sirius’ jaw,  "I don't know.” 

Remus frowned, "Then leave."

Sirius stepped nearer to him, craning his head, "You can't talk to me like that."

"Yes, I can."

"I'm the customer." 

"You're only the customer if you buy something." Remus told him. 

Their faces were inches apart now, closer than they had ever been before, and Remus found he was doing the one thing he had really tried his hardest to avoid these past few weeks. 

Looking at him. 

Truly, deeply, taking him in, the shocking, abrupt beauty of his face, like a punch to the fucking stomach– his wild ink-spill hair, the way it curled at his nape and his forehead, the sharp, striking angles of his jaw and his nose, the light smattering of freckles and the faint holes in his left eyebrow, his ears and at his full bottom lip, the relics of past piercings.

Expressionless, Sirius’s gaze glided over him, from head to toe, “I could get you fired.” 

There was no threat in his voice, but Remus stilled and sucked in a single breath, “Try it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

Sirius looked at him from under long eyelashes. “Wow. You’re an idiot.”

His mouth was dry. He couldn't feel his tongue. He blinked, shaking his head, shaking himself out of it. 

“Thanks,” he said, “If you're not going to get a drink, I'll have to ask you to step away from the bar so that other customers can order.”

Brow creasing, Sirius leaned against the counter, and told him, “There's no one else in here.”

“Fine. Then can you step away from the bar so that I can do something other than stand here and argue with you?”

“You don't like me,” murmured Sirius, who was now studying him as if were some sort of curious specimen in an exhibition or display. 

"Believe me, I don’t feel any particular way about you."

“It sure seems like it.”

"Why are you still here?" Remus asked, sharply. 

At first, Remus was sure that Sirius was going to yell at him, to swear at him, or storm over and punch him, by the look on his face. But he doesn't. He just leaves.