The Precipice
The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted through Remus’ bedroom door, which signaled the back of his mind that his alarm was due to ring in a few minutes. It was routine by now—Regulus made coffee ten minutes before Remus’ alarm, Remus would drag his ass out of bed and make them breakfast in exchange, and Regulus would do the dishes. It was one of the only constants in their lives, and something both of the slightly unhinged roommates needed against the chaos that was living in New York.
Remus blearily opened his eyes, squinting as his room came into focus. Sunlight poured through his little window, the exposed brick walls and old hardwood floors glowing in the yellow haze. Dust particles highlighted each beam that came in, and Remus watched them float about for a vague moment before resigning himself to consciousness.
Groaning, he pulled himself from the warmth of his bed, and trudged into the kitchen, his feet aching against the cold checkered tile. Like everything in New York, the kitchen was small—Remus had to duck under the archway slightly to get inside.
“Good morning, Remus.” Regulus greeted quietly from his spot by the window. His roommate sat at their little kitchenette table with mismatched chairs that they bought from a thrift store for ten bucks. It creaked and wobbled, but dutifully served it’s purpose. Regulus was doing the morning’s crossword as his sipped his coffee.
“‘Morning, Regulus.” Remus replied, stirring sugar into his own coffee and gulping down some with a sigh. “Anything for you today?”
“Aside from this abysmal crossword? I’m meant to attend a stizprobe tonight at nine. Won’t be back until an ungodly hour, I assume.”
Remus watched as Regulus rubbed his eyes, hooded with exhaustion just like his own. Unlike Remus, who rocked dark eye bags along with it, Regulus downright refused to be marred by them, and had gone to extreme lengths to prevent such a facial atrocity from getting on his skin.
“What about you?”
With a huff, Remus set his coffee down and pulled out a pan.
“I managed to pick up a few shifts at the Clay Cat House, but then it’s bartending til late.” He said, preparing some cheese and chives for eggs. He popped two bagels into the toaster oven and a few sausages onto the pan. Quick, greasy, tasty—the kind of food Remus grew up eating thanks to his midwestern mother’s excellent cooking. Although Regulus had a far more refined palate thanks to his rich French upbringing—Remus knew even he couldn’t say no to his cooking.
As the little kitchen filled with delicious smells, Regulus fiddled with the radio, and classical music was added to the air. Remus hummed in approval, something settling easily in his chest. These mornings meant a lot to the pair of them—an hour of peace before reality set in.
Remus passed Regulus a full plate, and the two ate together at the table in silence, bathed in sunny yellow light. As Regulus scribbled answers in his crossword, Remus looked out of the kitchen into their living room.
It was only a little larger than their rooms—two windows brought in evening sunlight for Regulus’ plants—of which the apartment had a million of, scattered around every possible surface. There was a frumpy dark green couch, a squashy brown armchair, and a thick rug that provided the upmost coziness. The little fireplace and mantle saved them hundreds on heating during the harsh New York winter, and on every shelf and table were a mixture of Remus’ sculptures and Regulus’s music sheets scattered about. Any other surface, including stacked on the floors, were books. Neither of them bothered with a television, although they did invest in a nice radio that came equipped with Bluetooth that served them better.
The place as small and crammed, but every part of it was theirs, and they wouldn’t have given it up for the world. Home was a very important concept for both of them—Regulus had a lack of one, and Remus’ was far too complicated to explain in short terms. Metaphorically and physically, the world was a bustling, chaotic place—but in their little flat, everything stood still and peaceful.
Regulus thanked him quietly for breakfast and began the dishes, rousing Remus from his thoughts. He had to get ready for work—the subway ride to Greenwich would take almost a half hour.
He threw on some of his pottery clothes and packed his bartending uniform for later, stuffing it into his backpack and jamming on his boots. Regulus called to him from the kitchen that it was windy out, so Remus tugged on a sweater and another jacket. Wind in the city was like standing behind airplane jets.
Calling out a goodbye, Remus rushed out the door in the hopes of getting to Greenwich early. Their apartment building was old but well kept—their landlady, Ms. Sprout, had a soft spot for plants, which grew like weeds in the communal garden and up the backside of the building. Sometimes, Regulus would stop by her door to talk about plant care on their way out to eat.
Often, however, stepping out of the building was where any idea of peace in New York ended. The foul stench of trash and exhaust welcomed Remus as it did every morning, and already he had to dodge two people speed walking past with their noses buried in their phones. Cars honked, people talked, and puddles looked suspicious. Although he vastly preferred the sanctity of his apartment, Remus couldn’t deny how much he loved the city. There was charm under all the smell and noise.
Putting on his headphones, Remus drowned out the noise as he strode to the nearest subway entrance. So began another day waiting for his life to start.
——
The Clay Cat House was one of Remus’ favorite places in Manhattan. It was a pottery studio that started as a settlement house, and much of the original architecture was still around. Remus was on part-time staff, and helped with the pottery lessons and firing process. He shared a small, private studio space with two of the other part timers—Marlene and Dorcas, who were dating. There, they could use the studio’s clay and tools for their own work.
When Remus arrived, he had a bit of time to check on his projects before setting up for the first session.
“Morning, Molly.” Remus greeted as he walked in. Molly Weasley, a kind, round-faced woman with curly red hair, waved to him as he headed for the stairs. She was only a year or two older than him, and already had three sons that sometimes played around the studio.
“Oh, Remus!” Molly called him back. “McGonagall wanted to speak to you after your first session! She’ll be in around eleven!”
“Thanks, Molly.” Remus tried to muster a lighthearted smile. He hoped nothing was wrong—McGonagall rarely called to meet with anyone. She was the head of the Artisan Cat Houses, all of which taught different types of art, and an extremely busy woman. She had never been unkind to Remus, or any of his coworkers, whenever he did see her, but she was hardly ever around. What did she want with him?
“Hey, Lupin’s here!” Marlene hollered when Remus entered their workshop. She reached up and ruffled his curls as she always did.
“Morning, Marlene.” He smiled, setting down his bag and shucking off his jacket. “I take it Dorcas is around here somewhere?”
“In the back!” Dorcas’ voice came from the kiln room. “Taking out pieces for the second session!”
“Need help?”
“Don’t, I’ve already asked.” Marlene said, rolling her eyes in amusement. “Dorcas don’t need no man—or woman, for that matter. It’s a pride thing, I think.”
Remus chuckled, shaking his head.
“How do you cope?”
“Oh, you know,” Marlene waggled her eyebrows and grinned. “She don’t need no man, but she definitely wants a woman.”
“I heard that, McKinnon!” Dorcas hollered.
“Guess I ain’t getting lucky tonight.” Marlene sighed dramatically. “Oh, how can my girlfriend deprive me so.”
“Quite easily, it seems.” Remus replied dryly. Marlene popped her head up from where she’d started slumping in her woes, and pointed at him in challenge.
“Just you wait, Lupin. One day, you’re gonna find yourself saddled with a dramatic bitch like me, and you’ll be so beside yourself in love you won’t even notice until someone points it out.”
Remus snorted in disbelief, peeling at the plastic protecting his piece to inspect it.
“Sure, McKinnon.”
“That’d better no be self deprecation I hear, Remus.” Dorcas appeared from the kiln room, tossing a pair of oven mitts on the table. “Do I need to remind you how many people from sessions have asked me for your number?”
“Spare me,” Remus’ cheeks flushed.
“Twenty six.” Dorcas said anyway.
“Twenty six!” Marlene crowed, cackling. “Lupin, you could pull anyone.”
“Thank you.” Remus said pointedly. “I’m going to start setting up now.” He covered his piece again and left as the girls loudly placed bets on how many of the twenty six would show up early under the guise of seeing if Remus needed help setting up.
He knew Marlene and Dorcas meant well, and only wanted to see him happy, but Remus couldn’t help but feel heavy as he started setting up. His dating life was…dry, for the lack of a better word. Maybe nonexistent. He used to be quite the flirt back in high school, but that was before his senior year—before everything happened.
Now, Remus kept to himself, stopped making the first move. He knew there were people who wouldn’t care—Marlene, Dorcas, Regulus were all great examples—but they were his friends. There was a difference—being friends with someone like him and dating someone like him.
But being attracted to someone is part of the deal in dating. And Remus could guarantee none of the twenty six Dorcas claimed were attracted to him beyond curiosity. He was not going to entertain any passing stranger with that story. He hadn’t even told Regulus the full extent, and he considered him his closest friend.
Because Remus Lupin was covered head to toe in scars—and no one would want anything to do with someone like him.
——
Remus, Marlene, and Dorcas switched roles each session—one leader, one assistant, and one working the back. The first round was Remus’ lead—usually retired couples looking for something fun to do on a Friday morning, and a couple nannies with kids.
Marlene, who had a soft spot for kids despite the tough exterior, brought them clay to play with and set them up on some worktables. Remus taught the older couples how to work the wheels, and taught them how to turn mugs and plates. Mostly, this involved centering clay for the few who weren’t strong enough, and walking around to correct their mistakes.
Dorcas played Buddy Holly and Billy Joel on the speakers, worked the puggers and recycle, and joked around with the older folk. They all knew the routines, and the atmosphere was light and full of laughter.
Remus loved being here, in the space he felt most confident in. He loved teaching his craft—when one of the kids wandered over, curious in what he was doing, he showed her how to get her hands wet, and gently drag it over the centered clay as it spun. She shrieked in delight and clapped her slip-covered hands, splattering watery clay everywhere. Remus only laughed as a nanny rushed over to apologize. He didn’t mind—getting dusty was part of the fun. He told the young girl she’d done an excellent job, and she giggled before scampering off.
When the first session finished, several of the older folk had some successful mugs, and Ms. Figg had two very nice plates she insisted were going to be for her cats. Remus helped Dorcas store the wet work while Marlene helped the nannies wrangle the kids out the door.
“Guys, do you mind cleaning up for me? Molly said McGonagall wanted to see me.” Remus asked after wiping down his wheel.
“Ooh,” Marlene teased lightly. “What’s the boss want with you?”
“I don’t know.” Remus sighed. “I hope it’s nothing bad.”
“I’m sure it isn’t, Remus.” Dorcas said gently, patting his arm as she took over. “McGonagall might be strict, but she’s nice. She’s got that hard shell from all her years dealing with the press. Celebrity status, and all. It all melts when no one’s around.”
“Haven’t been caught smoking between sessions, have you?” Marlene grinned. McGonagall was a tyrant with it came to smoking on Clay Cat property. Two part timers had been fired when caught.
“No, of course not.” He scoffed.
“Go on, we’ve got it.” Dorcas swiped the sponge from him and shooed him away. Remus smiled in thanks and hurried upstairs, heart hammering in his chest. He hadn’t done anything wrong that he could think of, or was he? He and Regulus sometimes had a cigarette at home if their days had been particularly stressful, but surely McGonagall didn’t care what he did with outside the job?
The elegant steel stairs spiraled up to the main landing, which was the gallery level for exhibitions, and McGonagall’s office. Remus fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, wondering in a panic if he should’ve tried dusting himself off—too late, however, as the door swept open.
Ms. McGonagall was a tall, thin woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper wit. Her hair was pulled into a sleek, perfect bun, and she wore classy, elegant clothing that were probably more expensive than Remus’ rent.
“Ms. McGonagall,” he said, trying to look calm. “Molly said you wanted to see me?”
“Indeed. Come in, Mr. Lupin.” She stepped aside, and Remus slipped into her office.
It was tidy and orderly, a reflection of the woman who owned it. Old looking books and sketchpads filled most of the space, and an antique desk stood between the chair Remus occupied, and the one McGonagall was settling into. There were a few sculptures on the shelves and, Remus noticed with affection, several crayon drawings framed on a wall that appeared to be from some of the children that were brought to the Clay Cat. What surprised him the most, however, was a cardboard box that sat in a dark corner that looked oddly unkempt compared to the rest of the room.
“So, Mr. Lupin,” McGonagall began curtly, snapping Remus’ attention away from the box. “How was the sessions this morning?”
“Good,” Remus replied. His mouth felt dry. “The regulars. Ms. Figg made plates for her cats. Dorcas took out last week’s batch this morning. The folks today should be glazing and firing next week.”
“Excellent, as usual.” McGonagall hummed. She didn’t seem to actually care about how the session went this morning. She was peering at Remus over her square spectacles with an intense look that seemed to go right through him. It made him want to twitch.
“Tell me, Mr. Lupin,” she said after a long pause. There was a hard note in her voice that instantly set dread in his stomach. He had done something wrong. Remus didn’t know for the life of him what he did, but he was going to get fired. He was going to lose the one part of his life that he loved more than anything, more than quiet mornings with Regulus. He would have to say goodbye to Marlene and Dorcas, he’d had to make bartending a permanent job, his dreams of being a full time artist crushed under the sharply manicured nails of this intimidating woman that Remus respected too much to argue with—
“—would you like a biscuit?”
The tornado of thoughts that churned both stomach and brain froze, and Remus stared at her. McGonagall was gesturing to a tin on her desk, one eyebrow raised in expectation. Was a food offering her way of breaking the news gently?
“Really, Mr. Lupin, if taking a biscuit from me scares you, I fear you will be terrified by my reason for asking you here today.” McGonagall said exasperatedly. Remus blinked. This was sounding like less and less of a sacking by the second.
He took a cookie. McGonagall waited until he took a bite, perhaps for proof that Remus was still functioning, before continuing.
“I am aware you have been our longest running part timer by a substantial amount.” She said. Remus tried to focus on what she was saying, and not on the almond cookie that was too dry for his already parched mouth.
“And in the time, you’ve proven yourself to be a hardworking artist with a genuine love for our craft, as well as genuine talent.” McGonagall peered at him again, and Remus tried not to blink. “While I wish there was money in the budget to make you a full time employee—“
His heart sank.
“—there simply is not. However, I don’t believe your dedication should go unrewarded.”
McGonagall slid piece of paper over to him. “This is a private artist call for an exhibition at The Modern Museum of Art. I’ve seen your work—I think this is a fitting opportunity for your style. I am personal friends with the curator, and am almost guarantee your acceptance if—“ she narrowed her eyes, and she straightened up even taller than before. “—you work hard to create a piece that rises to this museum’s standards. Your head busts and smaller pieces won’t be enough. They’ll be expecting something much larger.”
Remus was sure his heart had stopped working as he stared at the official looking paper in front of him. This couldn’t be real. He had to be dreaming. Here it was, the key to his future. The paper almost seemed to glow with opportunity. This was where his life started, where people took him seriously—where his art was seen before his face.
The words were a jumbled mix of possibility, and he couldn’t read a single one of them. His mind was already racing with ideas, something that would blow the curator away—when McGonagall’s last words hit him.
“…How much larger?” He asked faintly.
“I would aim for something larger than life, Mr. Lupin. Nothing timid. This is the MoMA, after all.”
“Larger than life…” Remus said weakly. “Out of clay? I-I don’t have the money to spend on that much material, or the space—“
“Use one of the empty studios, and our clay.” McGonagall said lightly, waving her hand. “We reuse our clay. There is a studio at the top of this building, and there’s a dumbwaiter connecting it to the supply downstairs. There’s no requirement that it has to be ceramic, Remus. You’re more than welcome to use any of the scrap materials at the other Artisan Houses.”
Remus gaped. A free studio and free materials. This was unthinkable. McGonagall had just said there wasn’t money to make him a full time staffer, but there was enough to give him unlimited access to the other Houses and their stock?
“Ma’am, I can’t accept this when you’ve just said your budget was tight—“
“Do you know how I got started in this business, Mr. Lupin?” McGonagall leaned forward and examined him regally. “Someone took a chance with me. He chose to throw in his lot because he saw something great. I’m taking a chance with you, Mr. Lupin.”
Very suddenly, Remus’ throat tightened. There was something soft in her gaze that stood out against the rigidity. He knew what she was trying to say. The Minerva McGonagall saw something in him. Something worth her lot. Something great.
Remus swallowed harshly, and tried to blink the sudden wetness from his eyes.
Belief. No one had had that in him for a very long time.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He said thickly. “I won’t let you down.”
McGonagall nodded, satisfied.
“That will do, Mr. Lupin. Mind the deadline.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He was breathless with shock when he finally descended back to the pottery studio. Marlene was leading the second session, which meant Remus was running back. Which was good—it gave him time to fully freak out without dealing with guests.
He nearly collapsed into his chair in the little workshop, spaced out and staring for a least a minute. Life felt surreal. He’d spent so long waiting for his future to start that to be at the threshold of it felt like a dream. Vaguely, Remus wondered if the smell of coffee were to waft in, he’d find himself waking up in bed.
The earthly smell of clay, the warmth of the kilns, even the hard seat of the chair that always made his ass hurt—everything felt heightened to eleven. This was his big break. He just had to make a larger than life sculpture, had to pour his heart and soul into it—
Remus had to shake himself from his daze, reminding himself he hadn’t accomplished anything yet. He had to make the piece—something larger and greater than anything he’d attempted before. He looked at the paper again—the deadline was in six months. It felt like no time at all. When would he have time? He could pick up less shifts at the Clay Cat, but he needed to pay the bills. Most of his income came from bartending. He could pick up late night shifts at the club—
He couldn’t figure this out right now. He needed to get the next batch in the kiln and watch the puggers. Remus folded up the paper and stuffed it in his bag, determined not to think about it for the rest of his shift.
Which, of course, he failed at miserably.