Confidential Mind
It was safe to say that Remus had been through hell before. He could probably claim he shook hands with Satan. He’d seen the white light, had tried walking to it multiple times, but always got pulled back into hell. He knew pain more intimately than a lover, he knew what it was like to be broken.
Hell was once his home.
So the predicament he found himself in now was certainly one of the rooms in hell’s house. After Sirius showed up at Sanguini’s, Remus suddenly started seeing him everywhere, even when he wasn’t.
He went to the MoMA for inspiration, and had to flee from the 1980s gallery when he saw someone with long, black hair and a leather jacket, talking animatedly to an older couple. Remus wasn’t sure if it was really him, but certainly wasn’t going to take any chances, especially without his bartending disguise.
While making breakfast one morning, Remus realized his favorite mug was the exact same shade of Sirius’ eyes, and stared at it blankly for so long that Regulus kicked him in the shin as the eggs burned.
At the studio, trying to make progress with his sketches, he ended up drawing long hair that spilled over a figure’s shoulder, mindlessly redrew jawlines and cheekbones until he snapped out of it and banged his head on the table.
One terrifying morning on Remus’ way to the Clay Cat, he could’ve sworn he saw Sirius walking through the village towards the end of the Artisan district. But before he could confirm his worst fears, Marlene decided to jump onto him for a piggyback ride, nearly sending both of them tumbling onto the ground. By the time he managed to detach himself from her strong grip, the figure was gone.
This hell Remus found himself in wasn’t pain, it was suffering. He was terrified every day walking in Sanguini’s, thinking Sirius would be sitting at the bar top again, staring at him with those stupid eyes and smiling with his stupid mouth.
Lily, who he hadn’t seen much of since switching to afternoon shifts, sometimes relieved him from his rounds. He knew she could tell he was agitated about something with how quickly he bolted out of the bar. He felt bad, not wanting her to think he was avoiding her, but he didn’t want to get cornered by Sirius again.
It was just safer that way. After a barely five minute conversation with him and Remus was seeing him in his coffee mug. If he kept seeing more of him, he’d never leave his head, or he’d find out who Remus was, or both would happen and he’d have to move cities.
Remus just wanted to leave everything in the past. It didn’t need to get dredged up. True colors had been shown and Remus learned he was better off alone—emotionally, anyway. His friends in New York were very dear ones, but he never made the mistake of opening up to them.
If you lean your heart on people, they’ll always step back and let it fall. Especially when it’s a heart as scarred and damaged as his.
He learned a long time ago not to show his cards. At one point, it probably saved his life. If he had before the Incident, what happened after would’ve destroyed him. Remus might have sought the white light himself.
He wondered some days if it had all be worth it—the recovery, the extensive physical therapy, the mental repercussions. Some days, he bitterly wished he hadn’t survived.
Today was one of those days. Remus just woke up wrong—everything felt dull and flat. It had been almost a month since McGonagall gave him the exhibition offer, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it.
Numbness, void, suspension, and hollow kept rattling around in his brain with no clear purpose. He must have killed a least a dozen trees with the amount of sketches he trashed and several unfinished pieces dried out on his desk because he forgot to cover them. Remus just threw them into the reclaim bins.
He blamed this block on Sirius Black, who came cruising back into his world without a single care for what it would do to him. He’d always been like that, wrapped up in his own world. He was rattling the bars of the cage Remus welded around himself, making him paranoid in places he thought were safe.
His alarm rudely woke him from sleep—the only thing that gave him a break from the fresh hell he found himself in—and refused to use his favorite mug. Somehow, the coffee tasted worse in the shitty dime store one he chose.
Regulus had clearly detected his foul mood. There was no music today, and he didn’t even complain that the pancakes were overcooked. Remus could feel his calculating gaze when he wasn’t looking, but at least he didn’t try to prod him.
One of the full timers at the Clay Cat came back from maternity leave a week ago, which meant Marlene, Dorcas, and Remus were all getting less shifts. The one thing that brought some modicum of joy in his life was lingering away too.
Slughorn had demanded he work a double shift with both Prewett twins out sick. New York in autumn was bitterly cold, and the flu was going around. Remus woke up with a sore throat and knew he would be another victim soon. Both predicaments meant he couldn’t get to his studio any time soon, which would only put him further behind.
He wanted to kick something, or get into a fight. He wanted to take a wad of clay and beat it to a pulp. He wanted to scream, maybe throw himself out the window.
He just wanted to get rid of the sticky, heavy darkness that was seeping out of his scars. They always ached when he was getting sick. Some of the more serious ones—the three long lashes on his back, the five scattered on his chest and torso, and the one running crookedly across his face—all throbbed and stung when his immune system was weakened. The doctors told him a part of it was psychological—Remus felt physically weak, which was similar to how he felt during the attack. In turn, he was more hyperaware of the scars and how they felt.
Regulus murmured a quiet goodbye as he left for the conservatory, disappearing before Remus could even think to grunt a response. He glared at his coffee, willing it to make him happy, or at least give him the energy to move.
His phone pinged with an email, and Remus glanced at it.
Minerva McGonagall, the contact read. His stomach dropped.
Mr. Lupin,
If you are available, I’d like for you to see me in my office at 10 AM.
McGonagall
——
“Mr. Lupin, come in.”
Remus warily sat down in the offered chair. He wasn’t as nervous as he had been the last time. McGonagall was a hard woman to read, but she seemed more relaxed than before. She gestured to the tin of cookies again, and he took one wordlessly.
“How is the project going?”
Remus winced. He knew she would ask, he just wished he had a better answer.
“I’ve, er, I’m still brainstorming.” He mumbled, not meeting her sharp gaze.
“Brainstorming.” McGonagall repeated after a moment.
“Yeah.”
“I see.” She let Remus squirm in the silence for a while as the clock on her desk ticked away, suddenly obnoxiously loud.
“The custodian, Mr. Filch, remarked on several overflowing cans filled with sketches and the shattered remains of some projects in the reclaim bins of your studio?”
“Yeah. Brainstorming.”
“Well, you see, I have a few of them here.” To his horror, McGonagall set a stack of sketches he’d thrown away, the wrinkles smoothed out. “Quite a few of these have promise. This one in particular—“ she tapped a sketch he’d done half asleep one night. “could be interesting.”
“They’re not good enough,” Remus blurted out. McGonagall’s eyebrows rose. “They’re not…they’re just not enough.”
“Enough for what, Mr. Lupin?” Her voice was level, but there was a challenge in it that made his chest go tight.
“I don’t know,” he floundered, trying to understand his own words.
“I believe you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Remus,” McGonagall leaned forward and peered at him over her glasses. “Why are they not enough?”
“Because…because…” Remus waved his hands around, struggling.
Because I’m not enough.
The words came to him like a punch to the gut, a bitter pill.
“Because I’m never going to be someone great,” he said at last, squeezing his eyes shut. It was easier to confess when he didn’t have to see the recipient of his words. “because I’ve been here for three years and haven’t anything to show for it. Galleries won’t take me, no one will network with me, they all say my work is overdone. I won’t ever be known like you, ma’am. I can’t start movements or exhibitions or communities like you. I’m sorry you took a risk on me and I blew it. But you didn’t see greatness in me. I don’t have it. It’s not in my cards.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Remus wanted to sink into the ground. He felt cracked open and raw, vulnerable in ways that made him want to impale himself on the closest pointy thing he could find. So much for not leaning his heart on anyone.
McGonagall was quiet, and Remus just stared at the shiny hardwood below him. Shame at his failure flooded him in a prickly hot wave, making him sweat under his thick jumper. His hands shook in his lap, the cookie crumbling under a too-tight grip.
The sound of moving made Remus look up. McGonagall was picking up the cardboard box that he’d spotted during his first visit. She set it on the table, and opened the lid.
“Do you know what these are?”
Remus peeked over the rim of the box, and his eyes widened. Trophies. Glimmering, polished awards thrown in without any care. There were international recognition plaques and first place trophies, all from critically acclaimed museums and societies. It was Minerva McGonagall’s life’s work—scratching each other up in a dollar store box.
He looked at the woman standing before him, jaw hanging. “Why?”
“Why are we artists, Remus?” She countered.
He stared at her. No one had ever asked him that before. He looked down at the trophies, scratched and dusty and—
meaningless.
They were just trophies. Glass and stone and metal. Materials used to make masterpieces. Used by hardworking artists with survival jobs, who stayed up late to work their crafts because of—
“Love,” he croaked. The darkness in him was lifting, the heaviness lightening. “because we can’t express ourselves in any other way. Because we see something of the world worth loving. Worth giving to people who can’t see it.”
“Yes. Love. The beautiful thing about humanity is we see the same things differently.” McGonagall said. Her voice, usually hard and curt, was soft and gentle in a way Remus had never heard.
“Art bridges the divide and allows us to show each other how we see the world. Artists see these parts of the world, and through the love of our craft we offer our perspective. Art is never for money or fame. I don’t know when we forgot that.
“It isn’t about accolades,” she told him. “or the recognition, or how famous you become.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and seemed to stare directly into his soul.
“I see it in you, Remus. You see a side of the world that no one ever will, and I don’t think you realize. Greatness is the product of love.”
There was a lump stuck in Remus’ throat. McGonagall put the box away and pushed the pile of trashed sketches to him.
“Go through them again. Find a part of the world you want to tell. Don’t go looking for fame, Mr. Lupin. You will not find it.”
——
Remus may or may not have cried after his talk with McGonagall. The woman had the strangest way of pulling emotions out of him, and he spent a good ten minutes sobbing in his studio.
While a majority of it was McGonagall’s unraveling of expectations he’d put on himself, he was also just so goddamn tired. Everything snowballed on him, and the powerful words he’d just heard broke the dam.
When he got to Sanguini’s for the double shift, he felt significantly better. He fully intended on taking McGonagall’s words to heart and focus on doing something he wanted to do, not what he thought others expected of him.
By the time Lily joined him for the second half of his double, Remus was in the rhythm of work and better spirits.
“Haven’t seen you in a spell, darling.” She greeted with a quick hug. “Picked up Fabian's shift?”
“Not of my own volition.” Remus replied.
“Slughorn?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s been trying to hire more bartenders. The four of us just isn’t enough. But people keep getting weirded out by the style.”
“I wonder why,” he mused, both of them watching a man walk in wearing an honest-to-god high collared cloak like it was Halloween. Lily giggled.
“How’s fashion school?” He asked, tossing a bottle smoothly into the air as he entertained a guest at the bar top.
“It’s going well. Professor Tonks said she could get me a secretary job at Veela Fashion. It’s a start, and she said I could easily climb the ladder from there.”
“That’s wonderful, Lily. Congratulations.”
“It doesn’t pay enough that I can afford quitting Sanguini’s though,” Lily winked at him. “can’t get rid of me just yet, Lupin.”
“As if I’d ever even dream of it.” He replied. “Who would be my gallant savior?”
“Certainly not the Prewetts.”
Remus snorted. “Gideon would dance on my grave. Fabian would probably piss on it.”
“Oh please. They like you well enough to just flip off your tombstone.”
“They put itching powder in my uniform on my second day.” Remus reminded her. Lily winced.
“Yeah, that one was kind of cruel. But you got them back! They respect you.”
He smiled at the memory. No one could really prove Remus had done anything, but someone swiped their pants and masks to rub hot pepper oil all over them.
Watching the Prewett twins hobble for the following week had been immensely satisfying.
The dinner rush hit as usual, and Sanguini’s got crowded and louder. Remus and Lily were kept busy, mixing drinks and clearing the bar top of glasses and plates, working together with the ease they’d always had.
About an hour into rush, Remus was surprised to see Regulus walk in with three others he didn’t recognize. Judging by his friend’s slightly wrinkled nose, Sanguini’s was not to his standards.
The two boys with him snagged seats at the bar, gesturing to Regulus and the girl with them. The boys shared identical grins of trouble, and glints that immediately made Remus suspicious.
Regulus, upon joining the bar, looked at him and blinked.
“Remus?”
“Hey, Reg.” He greeted, amused. The others looked between them.
“You know this tall glass of water?” One asked, tracing his teeth with his tongue as he stared lecherously at him.
“Why are you dressed like a Victorian slut?” Regulus demanded, ignoring his friend’s question.
“This is my bartending job.”
Regulus’ judgmental gaze swept the bar, nose wrinkling again.
“I hate it.”
“Then why are you here?” Remus asked, amused. Regulus smacked the two boys’ shoulders.
“Blame these idiots. They said they knew a spot, and I was stupid enough to think they had taste.”
“Hey, I wanted to go to TheShrieking Shack, but your delicate ears don’t like noise.” One argued. “At least this place is quieter!”
“Not by much.” Regulus grumbled.
“Well, we all can’t be like you and dine at the fucking Ritz every night—“
“I’m Pandora,” the girl interrupted, thoroughly unfazed by the rising argument. “The one arguing with Regulus is Barty. And the one failing to flirt with you is Evan. I apologize on his behalf.”
Remus immediately liked her.
“When did you run into the misfortune of meeting these three?” He asked.
“Evan, at birth. We’re twins.” Pandora rolled her eyes, flipping her white dreads from her shoulder. “We met Barty when we were in elementary school and he stuck on us like a leech. He's a drummer in the show Regulus is playing in, and introduced him to us.”
“—I will castrate you and use your prick as a gag.” Regulus was hissing to Barty, who only grinned at him.
“Kinky.”
Pandora smiled almost proudly. “I think he fits in well.”
“Like a glove.” Remus agreed. He didn’t usually see this side of Regulus. But Barty and Evan, it seemed, brought out in a very efficient manner. “Why are you threatening to make him choke on his own dick, Reg?”
“Nothing.” Regulus snapped at the same time Barty complained,
“Why does he get to call you Reg? You kicked me in the balls when I tried to call you Reggie—“
“And I’ll do it again right here if you don’t shut up, Crouch.” Regulus grabbed the dangling earring in Barty’s ear and gave it a harsh yank.
“Ow! Motherfucker!”
“Hey, lunatics!” Lily was suddenly at Remus’ side. “If you don’t start acting like adults and order a goddamn drink, I’m gonna kicked you out. Except you,” she nodded to Pandora. “you’re fine.”
“Lovely.” Pandora replied easily.
“You think you can wrangle all three of us?” Barty asked her, grinning wickedly.
“Don’t include me in this.” Regulus sniffed, moving to sit with Pandora.
“I bet you could.” Evan drawled, batting his eyelashes at Remus.
“Stop flirting with my roommate, Rosier!”
“He’s your roommate too?” Evan demanded, whipping around to stare at Regulus. “Oh, we have to see your place now. C’mon, Regulus—“
“Neither of you are stepping foot in our apartment.” Regulus decreed, glaring at Barty and Evan. “We value peace and quiet, concepts neither of you idiots can grasp.”
“I’ll have a rum and Coke.” Pandora told Lily as if her friends weren’t even there.
“Regulus only drinks merlots from Italy.” Remus was already opening a bottle of the best they had. Slughorn would have a fit about it, it was meant for guests he wanted to impress, but he would have to deal with it. Regulus could complain for hours when he had a glass of bad wine.
When the wrinkle in his nose lessened slightly after a sip, Remus could safely assume he’d been spared the lecture.
Barty and Evan ordered a round of shots, which wasn’t all that surprising, and actually quieted down after the first round. Regulus and Pandora began a deep discussion that Remus didn’t bother trying to hear over all the noise, and simply went about his job.
Regulus’ friends were exactly the kind Remus knew he’d make. Like Marlene, Lily, and Dorcas, they were louder and more expressive. Sure, they were also scarier and violent, but so was Regulus, so it made sense why they all got along so well. Regulus was intense on a good day—these three just matched him.
Pandora seemed the least violent of the group—that is, until Evan tried stealing one of her fries and she stabbed him with the burger skewer without blinking an eye.
Remus liked her even more.
Regulus and his friends stuck around as other guests came and went. Dinner rush passed, and nightlife began. The kitchen staff clocked out, leaving Lily and Remus to the bar for the rest of the night.
Around ten, Barty and Evan were drunk and thumb wrestling. Somehow, they managed to tape toothpicks to their thumbs and were aggressively stabbing each other in competition. Pandora whipped out a packet of tarot cards and was talking about Regulus’ star signs as he tried to pay attention.
“Lily!” Mary McDonald was back, beaming from across the bar top. Lily immediately stopped whatever she was doing and beelined for her.
“Hey, Mary.” She smiled. “How are you?”
Remus wasn’t paying attention. If Mary was here, did that mean Sirius was too? He craned his neck over the crowd, praying he didn’t see that stupid leather jacket—
But it appeared Mary was alone. He breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. Almost at once, he caught Regulus’ eye. His friend was staring at him with narrowed eyes, clearly wondering what the hell his problem was. Remus shook his head—he was just being stupid.
Mary and Lily chatted away while Remus worked around her, happy to let her flirt as long as she wanted.
“I never got your name?”
He didn’t realize she was addressing him until Lily spoke up.
“This is Remus, my best friend.” Lily said proudly, dragging him by the arm to show him off. “He’s a darling.”
“Good to meet you, Remus.” Mary smiled. “Are you in fashion with Lily too?”
“No, we just work together.” Remus replied. “Lily’s the artist.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Lily reprimanded before turning back to Mary. “He’s a—“
“Motherfucker!”
Everyone at the bar top looked around to see Barty gripping his hand and cursing up a storm. Evan’s toothpick had lodged itself under his fingernail.
“For fuck’s sake,” Regulus hissed at the pair of them, snatching some napkins to stem the surprising amount of blood coming from Barty’s thumb. Pandora reached over and smacked Evan upside the head, but he was just laughing.
“Are you alright?” Lily asked, already reaching for the first aid kit under the bar. Barty yanked out the toothpick and shoved his thumb into his mouth.
“I’m good.” He spoke between his thumb, grabbing another toothpick and raising it at Evan with a slightly unhinged grin on his face. “Hold still, you little shit.”
“That would be our cue.” Pandora announced. Gracefully, she walked over to the two boys, grabbed them by the ears, and yanked them off their stools.
Regulus buried his head in his hands. Remus leaned over to him.
“You have excellent taste in friends, Malfoy.”
Gray-blue eyes glared at him between ringed fingers.
“Fuck off, Lupin.”