A black fountain pen
The pub is neither the most spacious nor the cleanest place Remus has set foot into in his, considerably, short fifteen years of life - years that have felt unnecessarily stretched despite their comparatively brevity - but it has become a refuge for him. A safe space, of sorts. The place he could always return to when shit hit the fan and nothing made sense anymore.
Fifth year came and went in a blur of event-cascades, leaving behind tangled fragments of memories that he still struggles to take apart. Some of those memories are decipherable enough, easy to categorize, to judge, but others - the more conflicted ones - like the painful moment Sirius had kissed him and Mary right afterwards on his birthday just a few months ago, have become impossible to sort through lately, clinging stubbornly to the edges of his mind like unwanted ghosts – siluetts of smoke and dust that bury their claws into his very essence with every passing day that the matter stood unresolved between them.
Comforted by the scratchiness of the worn-out Muggle clothes hugging his wiry frame, Remus strides down the uneven path leading to the dingy pub ahead, feeling the cool evening air bite at his skin as he pulls his scarf tighter around his neck. He rips his attention from the spiralling thoughts with an iron grip and focuses on the comforting promise of a half-decent conversation in combination with a strong drink instead, letting the worry - the same worry that has plagued him since that earth shattering kiss on the Gryffindor stairway made him question everything he ever believed in- settle into a quieter corner of his spinning brain.
Stepping inside, he’s greeted by the familiar scent of spilled whiskey and stale beer, mixed with the faint, lingering trace of smoke - that again – reminds him so much of the nights, Sirius and him have slipped out of Hogwarts to the nearby village, to buy cigarettes – and the way they had laughed the entire way up to the castle on their return.
The pub’s dim lights flicker erratically – completely unaware of the tall boy’s inner turmoil - casting shadows that shift and dance across the walls, plastered with old band posters and half-faded graffiti, which Remus regards with a shallow glance in passing. The jukebox in the corner hums out an old song, barely audible beneath the low murmur of conversations and the occasional clinking of glasses. Remus slips past a group of patrons hunched over their drinks, his worn jumper snagging slightly against the edge of a sticky table in the process.
It’s really not much, this place, with its filthy floors and questionable clientele, the low quality of the served drinks and the nearly hostile demeanour of its owners, and yet – yet there is something so reassuring about its rough edges that remained unchanged over the last two years Remus has had the pleasure of frequenting it, as though time and the everchanging world can’t touch it.
Here, Remus can almost forget the way Sirius’s lips had felt on that cold evening in March - warm and soft against his own - or the burning questions that have followed ever since – The questions and their painfully simple answers, that is. Simple in a way that they still manage to make his heart ache and his brain spiral, split, flee into a world where they’ll eventually transform into a different shape, entailing another meaning entirely. It was habit by now, his constant derail, the coping – but tonight Sirius isn’t here with him, appearing unannounced from different angles and sending his mind adrift. No, tonight its just him, the pub and the possible solace of a conversation carrying the sincerity of his heartbreak without the person causing it being present.
It’s strange, he thinks, that he finds comfort in the anonymity of this space, where no one knows him as the prank-mastermind prefect with a horrible secret he can’t bear to tell. Here, he’s just another scrawny kid in shabby clothes, nursing a drink he’s probably too young to be ordering.
He makes his way to the bar, the floorboards creaking under his feet in agony, and leans against the counter, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingertips. “Whisky. Neat,” he tells the barman, his voice steady despite the fluttering of anxiety in his stomach that slowly begins to settle down. The barman, a grizzled man with tired eyes and a face etched with decades of service, nods and pours a measure of the amber liquid into a glass unquestioning. As the drink is slides across the counter, Remus catches the barman’s eye and offers a tight-lipped nod of thanks, feeling a flicker of recognition, an understanding born of routine established between them over the years.
Taking the glass in hand, he turns towards the back of the pub, where a small, secluded room awaits him - a haven where a group of fellow misfits gather to write and share poetry, and sometimes even their innermost thoughts. The whisky burns as it goes down his throat, a harsh companion of the reality he’s trying to escape, but he welcomes it with open arms - It dulls the edges of his mind, overshadows the running thoughts with a sweet reliability, even if it lasts only for a little while.
As he navigates through the pub, his thoughts drift back to the summer before his fourth year, the time when he first stumbled upon this hidden gem, this dingy refuge that had become a second home to him somewhere along the line. He remembers the long days stretching out before him, filled with endless boredom and stupid involvements in gang activities. That summer had been particularly suffocating, with the orphanage’s walls closing in around him, a constant reminder of his isolation – resulting in his desperate attempts to fill the silence with something to do.
One hot afternoon, while exploring the nearby streets in search of something to occupy his restless mind with, Remus had taken a wrong turn. Initially he attempted to trail one of the members of John’s gang – the rivalling thieves at the orphanage – but the kid must have realised his trail and shook him off somewhere around the fifth or sixth turn towards the city centre. Remus found himself wandering through narrow alleys that twisted and turned like the slivers of deep rooted frustration in his head, the sun beating down mercilessly on his aching back. Desperate for shade and a moment to reconsider his life choices and maybe invent an explaination for the guys that were waiting for him at their designated spot under the birch tree at the edge of the orphanage’s premises, he stumbled upon a narrow doorway, the sound of laughter and music filtering out to greet him.
He didn’t know what had possessed him to enter exactly this specific establishment despite all the other options lining the street, but he had already been on the move by then. Pushing the heavy door open, he had been immediately enveloped in a world that seemed alive with the pulse of of stories to be discovered. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spilled drinks and smoke, a comforting haze that welcomed him like an old friend, or a wanderer lost on his journey home. Inside, the dim light had flickered, illuminating the faces of patrons lost in their conversations. Some were animatedly laughing, while others leaned back in their chairs, lost in thought, their gazes distant as they nursed their heavy drinks. The ambiance had been so surprisingly familiar, the thick air inexplicably comforting as it settled in his lungs. And for the first time in a long time Remus hadn’t felt the immediate urge rise up in him to leave.
As he moved further into the pub with tentative steps and wide wondering eyes, taking in the scenery in front of him, his attention had been completely captured by a small object resting on the stained bar counter – a black fountain pen, so out of place in his dingy pub, entirely too precious to be left behind, even by the hands of a drunkard that had lost every last of his senses on the bottom of an empty glass of hard liquor.
Drawn in by the unfathomable thoughtlessness resulting in the abandonment of this, at least to him, priceless instrument he had taken a step forward unconsciously, in a rush to pick it up. It sat perfectly in his palm, connected with the bend of his hand in all the right places, nearly humming with the same kind of magical energy that Remus only ever encountered in Diagonalley when he had picked up his wand for the very first time. At a loss for words he stood there, for a moment too captured by the whole ordeal, appearing so unexpectantly out of place inside the walls of this unassuming muggle pub. For a split second it had made him forget everything; why he had picked it up, why he was wandering through London in the first place, and when reality came back to him eventually he had swivelled his head around with a flush on his face. No one in the exposed area of the pub had looked remotely like the kind of person who could own a device like this and that limited his options considerably on his quest to return it. The bar man must have recognised the look on his face and had angled his head, gesturing the direction towards the end of the bar counter where a halfway hidden door suggested the existence of another room.
His eyes were immediately drawn to a worn wooden table in the corner, where a group of people sat together, their expressions twisted up to a mix of camaraderie and intensity as they all held their own different versions of stacks of paper in their hands. They seemed both inviting and enigmatic, their quiet conversation punctuated by the occasional, unexpected burst of laughter, like fireworks in a dark sky. It was this peculiar blend of solemnity and levity that intrigued him, pulled him like an attached string further into the room. They were a collection of splintered images on the coins of the same currency – tortured poets, each wrapped in their own musings, isolated yet tethered together by an unspoken understanding – so obviously hidden in their little corners, clinging to a variety of writing utensils even when they were caught in conversation- leaving a hand somewhere near the papers or pens as if they would lose a part of themselves if they somehow let go them for too long.
With a sense of curiosity, he had approached the table, taking note of their oddness – they were an assemble of eight totally individual frames, with only a few of them standing out in the picturesque landscape of this candle lit poetic haven -A girl with frizzy hair, wild and unkempt, sat doodling in the margins of an old book, her eyes flicking up occasionally as if she were surprised to see anyone at all. A tall boy in a tattered jacket, his fingers stained with ink, scribbled furiously, the notebook in front of him bursting with illegible scrawls. Next to him, a brooding young man, with dark circles under his eyes, stared into his half-empty glass as though it held the answers to life’s biggest questions. They were a peculiar assembly, each one of them undeniably authentic, yet they exuded an air of self-isolation that resonated deeply with the gnawing feeling of loneliness in Remus’ own chest.
Feeling a flicker of hesitation, of shame at the countless memories he had, concerning people seeing his scars before they ever laid eyes on him as a person, he almost turned back, but something about their quiet intensity called to him. Gathering his courage, he stepped closer, shifting on his feet. “Excuse me?” he asked, his nervous voice barely rising above the low hum of conversation and muffled clattering form beyond the door to the main room of the pub.
The boy with the stained fingers glanced up to him after a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding slightly in acknowledgement, trailing his gaze over Remus’ shaved head and dirty, too loosely fitting clothes as if he was sizing him up - without the usual disturbance of eye contact by following the jarring of scars with his eyes though. Remus had nodded back then, relieved and positioned himself a bit less feral - which was his natural defence-mechanism to face possible comments or taunts - to pull the attention of the boy away from his ratty state and toward the object in his right hand.
He immediately felt the weight of all of their gazes upon him. It was both thrilling and terrifying and nearly confirmed the suspicion he had about the magical qualities of the pen between his fingers.
“Do you write?” the frizzy-haired girl asked then, her tone flat, yet there was a hint of genuine curiosity in her eyes as she let her gaze wander from the pen back to Remus’ eyes. The question was out of place and yet so on point that Remus felt himself squirm at the idea of it – It was not that he did write back then, he had to at school. But otherwise, back in the muggle world where he couldn’t use the magic of Sirius’ spell he was entirely useless at the attempt of it. Wanting it though – that as a different topic. He wanted it as much as his lungs wanted air to breathe. So he had nodded. Had taken the question from a different angle and communicated what mattered. That was what writing was about, right? At least to him it was – or would be, if he ever mastered to give it a try.
She nodded then, accepting his response without probing further, her attention shifting back to her doodles, totally unaware of the turmoil of conflicted emotions she had set free inside Remus’ chest with her question. The tall boy, who had silently followed their conversation, continued scribbling, and Remus couldn’t help but wonder what secrets lay hidden within the pages of his notebook. The others, sitting further back at the table returned to their conversations and writing as well, leaving behind Remus standing alone in front of their table like an idiot.
Their silence was unsettling as well as comforting, and yet he had a pen to return and not a single person bothered to look at him anymore – a situation he needed to change, if he wanted to make it back to the guys in time.
“Sorry, er – I found this pen at the counter. I just wanted to return it or summik.” Questioning he had raised his eyebrows at the assembled crowd. For a long moment nothing happened until the back row returned to their writing and only the boy with the stained fingers leaned back in a manner of lazy acknowledgement.
Once again, brown eyes that had an underlying sadness etched into them, travelled his frame up and down, settling heavily on his eyes. Assessing he stared at Remus, who felt an uncomfortable sensation rising in his stomach – It had felt as if the boy looked straight into his soul then, evaluated something complex and interpretable until he turned at once, lifting his hand in the process and gestured towards the seat at the front of the table right next to the girl with frizzy hair and blue eyes. Only when Remus moved towards the seat slowly and uncomfortably, he realised that she had been watching their interaction the entire time.
“Sit, write something and we’ll see – maybe you’re worthy of keeping it.” The boy said absentmindedly skimming to a blank page in his notebook, his attention completely averted from Remus again.
And Remus had two choices then: leaving the pen on the table and walking out, or facing one of his greatest fears in a room full of strangers without the essential equipment of something to write on in his possession.
And if he was honest to himself, he had to admit that he would have never stayed and tried to lift the pen, if the utter indifference of the others hadn’t been so palpable in the air of the room. It stung him, hit him like a bitter challenge for their recognition – not for his talent, which at that point had been nearly nonexistent, but the simple fact, that he was one of them – at least to some extent. They acted blind, indifferent, and he wanted them to see – see him for what he was beneath the shabby clothes and his scars. He wanted it more than he cared about the shame pulsating in his bloodstream.
And in the span of a split second he had made his decision with a step forward, clutching the pen in his right hand with determination. The guys had to wait – forever for all that he cared, as he pulled the splintered chair back and sat himself down at the burned wood table.
A sheet of stained paper was slid over the surface into his reach and as he grabbed it with unnecessary force the scale tipped in his head. The gang became instant history, however much money their antics had brought him – his supply of fags he would have to steal on his own from this day on.
He didnt feel the sets of eyes on him, as he uncapped the pen in a near unholy trance and set the pointy tip down onto the paper.
He held the pen accountable for his work that day – It was only much later, when he had the spells in front of him in the quiet evening hours in his favourite corner of the Hogwarts library, that he discovered that the pen did not actually have any magical properties.
A short poem. Thats what had earned him his place at their table, folded into a tiny square that he had slipped into his pockets immediately after finishing it, uncaring if the ink had already dried or not. Nobody ever saw it. And nobody needed to – they kept scribbling in the busy silence that followed afterwards. But Remus could feel the shift of the atmosphere, could feel the change in the thick air around him after he pulled out a fag and sat down at a higher table in the back of the room where they kept an ashtray. The older men there shifted to make him space, left their lighter out for him to use - and of course it wasn’t a welcome with open arms, rather a companionable tolerance of his presence – but born and raised in the filthiest part of London, with nothing to his name but a five-class categorisation in a dangerous-creature book of horror, Remus felt truly and utterly seen for the first time in his life. It wasn’t that his friends didn’t know him, wasn’t as if he didn't love them all dearly and would have done anything to keep close to them– but this was an entirely different form of belonging, that no high-born would ever aspire to grasp in its entirety, the kind of recognition only the ones born into a world of poverty and misfortune, of which they had to claw their way out since the day they came into this world, would ever truly understand.
He glances around the familiar room now, taking in the peculiar collection of odd characters – old and young, new comers and established members, who have come together in this dingy pub that he called his home in the privacy of his own unvoiced thoughts – every single one of them he considers part of his family in spirit – wether they leave early or come back every single day, hungry or tired to write – it is what connects them after all; the intense burning of the destructive habit to let themselves get lost in their literature and experience everything happening to them way too deeply to come out of it alive at the end.
With the last sliver of anxiety disappearing behind he folds of his mind, drowned out by the undeniable familiarity and belonging that this place holds over him since the first day he set a foot into it, Remus releases a deep sigh and lifts the whisky-glass to his lips again, taking a tiny sip to get himself settled. With long strides he rounds the table already accommodating a cluster of familiar faces sunken into the depths of their work, until he reaches the furthest table situated against the dark, slightly burnt wall at the end of the room. He pulls back his favourite chair and places his half empty glass on the table. With a fag between his lips and a lighter in hand Remus settles into the hard material of the green leather chair and pulls his foot on top of his knee, balancing his ankle to build a surface for him to place his stack of folded paper onto.
The strings of words come easy to him as he scribbles the flow of ideas into the tight margins of the paper, leaving enough room for the actual poem to unfold in the middle of the sheet. Between completed sentences he lets his gaze wander, relying on the gloomy scenery of busyly scribbling attendants and the candle lit wood tables stacked with abandoned glasses of strong liquor, to inspire his next turn of thoughts. He lets the memories replay in review – turns their interpretation over and over before setting his pen down again to write out a possible paragraph. When he reaches the complex etanglement of his emotions concearning Sirius’ actions in perspective on the kiss and the shortly following betrayal, he lifts the whisky up to his lips again, knocking back a burning gulp of the brown liquid that heats up his insides with immediate effect. It’s painful to consider – the whole topic. Too entangled with his own wishes and hopes - conflicted in the sense that he has to consider the other man’s intentions as well as his own. And then there is the topic of the prank: The prank that was no prank at all. If anything it had been the deepest form of betrayal Remus could have possibly imagined being done to him. It hurt him on every level of human comprehension possible, lightened up the furthest corners of his hidden pessimism. It made him question everything, to say it quite frank. Not only Sirius’ friendship to him, but also James’ and Peter’s. Of course the guys had been nothing but supportive towards him, had confirmed every thought he had shared with them on the topic, but in the end it had only taken James a total of three weeks to crumble under the pressure. Peter had been more resilient – and he didn't hold it against them, wouldn't even dream of it to voice his judgement. But it was obvious to him that he is considered one of the rather disposable people in their little group - Mr. Forgettable as he liked to call himself sometimes when the lights burned low and the others went to bed already - Sirius and James whispering behind the curtains of their beds while Peter was fast asleep.
He appreciated the friendship he shared with the others, called himself lucky to even got considered by them in their first year, but still it gnawed on him – the idea of his involuntary isolation. Of course none of them were obliged to have something to do with him, or even call him their friend. But in the aftermath of the whole ordeal he didn't feel seen. Doesn't really, to this day. He doesn't hold a grudge against Sirius - the other boy had apologised more than was comfortable for both of them – but still Remus can’t find it in himself to trust him again – and their friends by extension, because they had leaped at their reunion too fast, had pressured him to make up with Sirius in a way that made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
His friends know him. Of that Remus is more than sure. But they don't see him, not fully, not completely. They all have their own things going on – living like normal people do in their own world with their own emotions, needs and morals – but in the end Remus finds himself still standing left behind in front of the conflict to forgive them.
To summarise it: He doesn't know what to do.
In search for the answers to his enormous questions he lets his gaze wander again, focuses on the light scowl of Maria’s face as she pushes her already frizzled hair further up her forehead, intently scribbling away on her designated spot at the corner of the larger table in the middle of the room. His eyes wander further, still on a mission to supply him with the burst of an idea, as the door to the front room suddenly opens. And its not that much of an unexpected occurrence, rather one of the more regular ones - the frequent ones that fade over time into the background of indistinct noises – Remus’ eyes almost want to wander on, staying true to their original quest, as the blond mob of neatly cut hair and a peculiarly light green set of eyes, of the new-comer capture his attention entirely. Because of all people he would have expected to stumble into the back room of this specific establishment, Evan bloody Rosier has been the one he least expected.