A House, NOT a Home
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Remus, or "Robyn", adapted to his new routine more smoothly than expected. If you had asked him to predict the summer's outcome, he would never have envisioned the anomaly and unexpected security that was Aberforth. The man wore an aura of abrasiveness, often keeping an emotional distance from everyone, which the werewolf found oddly comforting.
This reserved nature drew him to stay with Aberforth at the Hog's Head Inn, as opposed to the lively Three Broomsticks run by the well-meaning Linda and her friendly niece, Rosa. Yet, as the first week at the inn passed, Remus began peeling back Aberforth's layers, discovering beneath the gruff exterior his new landlord wasn't nearly as callous as he feigned.
Aberforth communicated his concern peculiarly, reminiscent of how Remus' friends nagged him. Dismissive remarks like, "Dumbass, quit cleaning and go to sleep. If the floor isn't spotless enough by now, it won't ever be," often echoed, mingling with further commands such as, "If you try to do one more thing I don't specifically ask you to, I will revoke your chore privileges; Helga help me, I will," followed by an incredulous, "I can't believe I just said that. Merlin, I can't believe I had to say that. Aren't you like… ten or something? Stop acting way older than you are. It's weird." Statements like, "Are you stupid? Does it look like I want you to struggle with the dishes? Besides, you'd probably break them. Stop pouting and sit down," became a familiar refrain of masked concern, evidently weilded to make Remus take better care of his hands rather than from any legitimate anger.
The thirteen-year-old had never shared a home with a male adult who didn't expect him to pull his weight in every possible way—it marked an entirely foreign experience for him. And even when Remus spotted Aberforth drinking, it never reached a point where it impacted the man's behaviour. However, after two days, the concerningly meticulous man commented about needing to quit drinking anyway, no doubt intuiting 'Robyn's' discomfort.
Remus often felt he wasn't earning his keep with the little Aberforth assigned him to do, a reality connected to the condition of his "fucked up" hands. His fingers, still splintered, and his palms heavily bandaged up to his wrists, were checked by Aberforth nightly. The werewolf gave up trying to skip the healing session when, on the third day, Aberforth pointedly stated that chasing 'Robyn' down proved a bigger burden than mending him. So Remus reluctantly surrendered and fell into the routine.
The man would gently unwrap the bandages, grumbling nonstop about how 'Robyn' needed to be more careful, or he'd confine him to bedrest, both pretending Aberforth weilded that kind of authority. Then, the elderly wizard would cast healing spells, persistent in remedying the severe damage with magic daily, even though the results proved pitiful. But still, Aberforth made the time every night without fail. The attention felt bizarre, and dare the werewolf admit it, nice. Remus privately likened Abeforth to a lovingly grumpy grandpa, a relationship he had never experienced, with his parent's parents dying before he came into the picture.
Even with Aberforth's care, the werewolf's hands ached, and pain radiated from them nearly constantly. Yet, with his mere presence causing enough trouble, he never summoned the courage to ask for a pain relief potion, nor did he have to. Despite his seething discomfort in requesting help, bottles of potions mysteriously appeared on his bedside table, a silent kindness they both were content to never address.
Aberforth, with his unfiltered speech and sailor-like cursing, adorned their interactions with a blend of gruffness and subtle affection. His insults and exasperated tone mirrored Patricia's, perhaps why Remus easily accepted it. The pub owner was, without question, the kindest adult he had lived with since his mum passed away. Unlike anyone else, Aberforth didn't interrogate Remus nor ignore the boy he had 'hired', which he would have every right to do.
A dangerous flicker of contentment danced in Remus' heart whenever he let his guard down, particularly when he found himself curled up in the impressive study, surrounded by books and the comforting scent of old parchment. 'Robyn,' once more seeking respite in the intoxicating room, meant ignoring the feeling, which proved impossible, and explained why he wasn't chomping at the bit to try to help out more.
He flipped a page before noticing he hadn't comprehended a single word. Instead, his mind plagued him with berating remarks. He knew he had no right to feel...at home...it felt dangerous, it was betraying his dad, and there existed a million other reasons why getting comfortable was a bad idea! However, the peculiar and pesky feeling intensified as he remembered Aberforth's surprising generosity in allowing him access to the man's treasure trove of literature. The blunt bar owner had quipped, "I caught you practically drooling when I entered the room. Don't look so gobsmacked that I granted you access. We can't have you drooling all over my floor, now can we?" Remus privately cherished belonging to a 'we' for the first time in ages.
Without a doubt, Aberforth was a complex character—a peculiar mix of brusqueness and unexpected warmth. Perhaps the man's contradicting nature could explain why Remus liked him so much and felt pulled closer. It was as if they were orbiting one another, acting like they'd known each other for years rather than a few weeks. Part of Remus' attachment perhaps stemmed from Aberforth saving his life, a gruesome fact the werewolf preferred to keep buried in his brain's dark crevices. More than that, he found solace in Aberforth's even and predictable mood—'begrudgingly present and interested.' The only time the man truly lost his temper occurred after Remus innocently inquired about the little girl depicted in a sizable portrait hanging in the study.
"Do not ask again, or I'll start pressing why a little runt is running around unsupervised," Aberforth had snapped, his tone dark and the threat unmistakable, conveying the off-limits topic. Remus speculated that the girl—who seemed infinitely precious and important to Aberforth—might have been his daughter, either estranged from him or tragically lost. However, after 'Robyn' tiptoed around the man for the day, guilty and on edge, at that point unsure if more outbursts would follow, Aberforth finally broke the tension. The man's light reprimand, "Quit being stranger than usual; I can only take so much weirdness out of you, kid," was delivered in what 'Robyn' would soon discover to be the man's typical brisk, almost fond tone. Remus basked in relief at the bar owner's preference to move on rather than dwell, which meant they never again discussed the discomfort that had temporarily hovered between them. He was also immensely thankful not to have been barred from what had become his sanctuary.
Perhaps to deter the boy from focusing on being a burden and how little he could help Aberforth, 'Robyn' had been told he could practice magic within the inn. The town's proximity to Hogwarts meant the ministry only implemented the Trace—the magical surveillance monitoring underage wizards—in Hogsmeade's areas that children did not visit during the school year. According to Aberforth, the ministry had never anticipated that many witches and wizards, let alone children, would live in Hogsmeade's shopping district.
Remus absorbed the nuances of the Trace under Aberforth's impassioned rants, which revealed the depths of his disdain for government interference and the bitter fight needed to convince the ministry to back off so officials didn't show up anytime a school kid fired a spell during their monthly visits. Even with the man's insistence using magic would be fine, an undercurrent of apprehension wound its way through Remus. His trust in others had always started in the negatives, but considering his life banked on his ability to heal himself properly during the next full moon, he took the risk. So far, no one from the ministry had shown up due to Aberforth or Linda's narking on him or the Trace, for which Remus remained deeply grateful.
The werewolf looked up as footsteps paused at the study, Aberforth shaking his head at him with typical disgruntlement. "Ugh, kid, do you ever sleep? No, don't answer that. I don't want to know. You better not have cleaned anything while I was sleeping; you know the rules."
It was a strange rule from a peculiar man, but Remus adapted. He was used to constantly changing to blend into his environments. Life had forced him to be flexible, and he had little choice in the matter.
"I've been behaving myself," he replied honestly, devoted to mastering the intricacies of healing spells. Today already marked the halfway point to the next full moon. Last year, while his friends studiously tracked the lunar calendar, Peter joked about Remus effortlessly having the next two years mapped out. Peter was mistaken. Remus could predict the full moon for at least a decade and longer, should he wish.
His accuracy stemmed from the moon's rhythmic dance through the night sky, ominously lighting the night sky in a depressingly predictable cycle. The morbid truth would always stay the same: the lunar phases dictated his life. Besides, remembering the date each month and behaving accordingly had been etched in his memory from a very young age, a lesson he had learned the hard way.
As Aberforth shuffled away, Remus found himself too engrossed in his thoughts to catch the man's mumbling. The pub owner had repeatedly declared that he said nothing worth listening to until he had drunk his "life force," aka coffee. Obviously, Remus would never intentionally ignore the man; the werewolf just found himself spacing out more than usual, haunted by the recent near-death experience. After edging closer to the abyss than ever before, he held a newfound appreciation for life, each breath filling his lungs a precious gift. He could still remember the sickly certainty he wouldn't survive before Aberforth had found him.
At least Remus' magic remained intact as he stumbled from the Whomping Willow's dark embrace into the castle's familiar halls, eventually navigating through the secret passageway leading to Honeydukes. In his weary state, he desperately wished to be caught in the castle. His bloodied hands left a trail, and his blurred vision left him stumbling into walls, each tentative step a cruel gamble with fate. However, no one discovered him. Apparently, Filch didn't guard the castle year-round, unlike the rumours suggested.
The werewolf soon found himself discarding the past to attempt to secure a future, slim though surviving a second moon by himself might be. Hours melted away as Remus submerged himself in his books, pouring over healing spells until Aberforth practically forced food into his hands for lunch and again for dinner, grumbling all the while. Perhaps, having overheard Remus' terrifying screams as he jolted awake from nightmares the previous night—thanks to his carelessness with placing the silencing charm on himself—Aberforth had decided to ease up on him, allowing the weary werewolf to lose himself in study and practice.
As night crept in, the evening's familiar flow unfolded: "Robyn" served drinks to loyal customers, waiting for the regulars' din to die down before diligently scrubbing tables and sweeping. Once Aberforth retired for the night after uselessly suggesting 'Robyn' do fewer chores for the millionth time, Remus slipped back into the study. His mind surged with determination, desperate to master the healing spells that might mean the difference between life and death. Besides, he couldn't stand the idea of sleeping and confronting his demons lurking inside his nightmares.
"There you go, getting stuck in your head again, kid," Aberforth huffed, startling Remus from his reverie. How had he not noticed the man standing there, right beside him? His stomach twisted with embarrassment. Thankfully, Aberforth had long ago proven himself to be no threat. The old man simply extended a dull golden mug filled with freshly brewed tea, evidenced by the steam steadily spiralling.
"Sorry," Remus mumbled, accepting the gift with cupped hands, the warmth doing wonders for his throbbing fingers. He glanced at Aberforth, surprised to see him engaging so late. Their nightly ritual had devolved into an unspoken agreement to battle their demons alone. The unexpected interaction brought a wave of unease, even if it momentarily disrupted the suffocating solitude.
"What did I tell you about apologising?" Aberforth grumbled before disappearing behind the Daily Prophet, which the busy pub owner hadn't gotten the chance to read earlier. A pleasant silence descended between them, a comforting cocoon making Remus reminisce over rare and cherished moments spent beside his father, listening to the soft rustle of parchment, minus the mug of tea grounding the werewolf to the present. But if he couldn't be with his dad, Aberforth provided a satisfying alternative. In the bartender's company, Remus rediscovered fleeting comfort, a respite sure to evaporate like morning mist sooner rather than later amidst the tumult of his unpredictable life. But he'd appreciate the break all the more for its fragility until the peace vanished.
He already enjoyed his time at the Hog's Head a lot, too much, and he knew getting too attached wouldn't end well, but Aberforth made it hard not to. While nights were rowdy at the pub, Remus adored the quiet mornings. Like clockwork, Aberforth greeted him daily with a sleepy grunt and two well-worn mugs in hand. Depending on the type of day, Remus would receive an assortment of beverages: steaming tea, vibrant pumpkin juice, rich hot chocolate, or the vivacious warmth of butterbeer. Each drink had become a secret language, a kind, unspoken assurance of care, subtle enough that Remus could allow himself to lean into the soothing gesture despite the darker thoughts clouding his mind.
Pumpkin juice meant 'Robyn' had been caught self-isolating; the werewolf's depressing mood would soon shatter thanks to Aberforth's 'demand' to hear about everything learned during the previous day's reading. More often than not, the arrival of one or both of Remus' new companions would follow, their playful banter coaxing him away from the confines of his mind and into more energetic yet debatably less critical conversation.
However, a modest serving of butterbeer was a different matter; it indicated that 'Robyn' had been less skilled at masking his pain. On butterbeer days, Aberforth would ban all chores, and instead, the two of them read the day away together, immersed in the pages of books, both savouring the quiet companionship. Meanwhile, a hearty mug of butterbeer poured much too generously meant the same thing, the only difference being the half-asleep bartender's blurred judgment. The underage boy could barely pass for a puny fifteen-year-old despite growing like a weed over the summer and would nurse the low-alcoholic drink for hours, terrified to become like his dad but not wanting to reject such misplaced kindness.
Hot chocolate, rich and velvety, usually signified a reason to celebrate—albeit the occasions were often trivial, like the bar's patrons managing to avoid any undignified displays of drunkenness or 'Robyn' not dropping the broom or rag because his hands shook so frequently. In those moments soaked in sweetness, Aberforth would regale Remus with amusing tales of the eccentric clientele that frequented his establishment, and, on occasion, 'Robyn' would unveil snippets of his own happier memories, carefully omitting any specific details. Such joyful days were by far Remus' favourite, and the laid-back fun would follow him into the night before the nightmares obliterated any lingering happiness.
Tea told a different tale. It signified Aberforth's struggle, the man needing an excuse to engage with Remus openly. On those days, the surface-level conversation normally spiralled into the man's passionate rants about injustices and the terror the Death Eaters spread. Aberforth's commentary often proved more enriching than anything reported amongst the Daily Prophet's pages, igniting Remus' curiosity at how the man knew so much. However, he knew better than to ask and kept his suspicions to himself.
"Whatcha looking at, kid?" Aberforth's gruff voice cut through Remus' trance, who winced and gestured toward the pictured exploded Muggle bank's remnants. The scars left by recent Death Eater attacks and the frightening frequency chilled Remus to the bone, alongside the gnawing ache to hear from his friends whose safety he couldn't guarantee. Their absences left a hole in his heart, and he wished he didn't have to wait another two and a half weeks to discover they were all right. If only he could receive letters from them.
Sure, Remus trusted Aberforth…to an extent. However, he couldn't ignore his situation's precariousness. Maintaining an alias defended him against any meddling. If Linda convinced Aberforth to seek help with the ministry, Remus could disappear again, and no one would know to look for him. Besides, maybe...just maybe someone searching for a Robyn might mean... No, he wouldn't go there...it hurt far too much! He inhaled sharply through his nose, unsure if the sudden headache or his hands hurt worse. After taking several shaky breaths and turning the page despite not comprehending a single word, he convinced himself he wouldn't be caught unaware by the adults who wanted to help but couldn't possibly understand his dangerous situation. He shuddered to think what would happen should his uncle get his hands on him, even though the werewolf logically knew he couldn't avoid either older Lupin forever... unless he could...
Even though Remus knew he should return to the Shrieking Shack, he couldn't force himself to leave. He'd even heard Linda and Aberforth arguing about him several times, not that he purposely eavesdropped. However, his secluded room was not far enough away to miss the pub owners' stressed tones. It marked yet another way Remus burdened Aberforth, but he couldn't dwell on it unless he committed himself to leaving the Hog's Head. And the werewolf knew his deep-seated selfishness would prevent him from doing so unless Aberforth kicked him out or the ministry came sniffing. No, the precarious balance would just have to be maintained.
"It's bad enough you aren't listening, but now you got that look in your eyes…" Aberforth's tone dipped closer to concern, pulling Remus back from his spiralling thoughts. "Bad night?" the man inquired, dangerously close to outwardly expressing concern, his eyes searching for a glimpse of truth he wouldn't find. Remus shrugged, sure to keep his mouth shut anytime such instances arose, or the questions directed at him grew too pointed. "Suit yourself, stubborn oaf," Aberforth sighed, amusement flickering across his features. "Bartenders are notoriously good listeners, though, and you might find a little conversation eases the weight of whatever's eating you."
"I thought you said I shouldn't enter a bar until I'm of age," Remus deflected lightly, fully aware Aberforth would let him. The older man had a knack for gracefully retreating when he sensed he had ventured too far.
Aberforth raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the amused chuckle escaping his lips. "Smartass. That reminds me, your little friend and her mother are coming back here in a few hours or so." Remus shifted, his heart skipping a beat before the vague mention and unexpected return left his nerves skyrocketing.
Pandora! If Aberforth had been a welcome shelter from the tumultuous summer storm, then Pandora represented a breath of undiluted fun he hadn't anticipated experiencing until he returned to Hogwarts. He vividly recalled the day she burst into his life, a fond memory now, though he had found her unnerving at the time. The beaming girl practically skipped into the place, her long blond hair touching the wet table as she gleefully flopped onto the surface he'd been cleaning. She'd nearly gotten herself smacked in the face, startling him from one of his increasingly occurring 'lost in thought' moments.
Remus had been under Aberforth's roof for roughly five days by then, the old bartender finally declaring him healed enough to leave the confines of the small, safe room that had somehow become his. It wasn't until Aberforth, who could give Madam Pomfrey a run for her money with exaggerated healing timelines, ushered him downstairs that Remus learned a girl his age had been living under the same roof with her mum. With her infectious energy, Pandora had wasted no time assuming they were destined to be friends. The werewolf had been decidedly reluctant to entertain the notion, yet Aberforth refrained from dismissing the bubbly girl as he often did with other Hog's Head patrons. Perhaps he simply didn't find it worth the hassle. With her spirited charm, Pandora wouldn't have argued with the surly bartender; instead, she would sweetly 'cooperate' with a convincingly 'innocent' smile, slipping back to bother Remus as soon as an opportunity presented itself. From the very first glance, her persistence couldn't be missed, her eyes sparkling with a playful curiosity that seemed unquenchable.
Her opening question had cut through the pub's usual murmur, strikingly bold compared to the timid inquiries other guests sometimes made: "What happened to your hands?" His pointed silence didn't seem to dampen her spirits. He soon discovered her relentless inquisitiveness kept him engaged, whether he answered her or not, reducing his tendency to spiral into dark thoughts. At his blank look to her initial question, she simply dangled her legs, sucking on a brightly coloured lollipop, giving her a youthfulness that misrepresented her actual age. Undeterred, she launched into her next barrage of questions, wearing an optimistic smile, "What house are you in, and why are you staying here?"
While Remus had been mistaken about the unlikelihood of him forging a friendship with Pandora, he had accurately predicted that avoiding her wouldn't fly. From the start, Aberforth emphasised this reality, standing sentinel behind the bar, eyebrow raised in a silent challenge to 'Robyn.' Thus, with reluctant resolve, Remus took another gamble of the summer, feeling an odd comfort growing with the old man he had already started to warm to. Consequently, Pandora became entangled with Robyn, a fifth-year Hufflepuff spending the summer at his uncle's pub. The satisfyingly dumbstruck look on Aberforth's face, glimpsed behind Pandora's back, had almost been enough to make the lie worthwhile.
Soon, Remus learned that disliking Pandora proved impossible. Her bubbly nature and Peter-like insistence on always offering him sweets drew him into her orbit. Avoidance remained a non-starter; he would never hide in his room and neglect the precious few ways he could assist Aberforth, a predicament Pandora knew about and took full and unashamed advantage of.
Maybe Remus missed his friends more profoundly than he could articulate, but every facet of Pandora mirrored his companions in subtle, nostalgic ways that gradually wore down his defences. Her generosity echoed Peter's, her constant chatter matched Lily's, her passion for injustice shined as brightly as Ryan's, her animated storytelling—complete with grand reenactments—brought to mind James, and her unquenchable curiosity echoed Sirius'. However, unlike the oldest and nosiest Marauder, she displayed a keen awareness she wasn't privy to all information. She even responded with surprise and delight anytime he dared answer her question. Her resemblance to his friends never failed to invoke strong nostalgia and longing. Time spent at Hogwarts felt like a distant memory, a fleeting dream rather than Remus attending the school mere months ago.
Just a few days prior, he had finally summoned the courage to ask her if he could borrow her owl. After Pandora wheedled out a confession of their friendship status, a dangerous reality Remus couldn't even bring himself to avoid, she eagerly agreed to help him. She had been considerate enough not to immediately insist on inscribing the letter for him, despite her knowing the severe nerve damage to his hands rendered him practically unable to write at all. For that reason, along with countless others, he had to confront how much he appreciated her presence—her vibrant energy had become a much-needed sunbeam in his dreary summer. Eventually, he had to surrender and request her to write for him. However, she skillfully kept her comments to herself regarding the initials and the 'Moony' signature.
Pandora's mother, not around often, had been working closely with some Auror on a top-secret project. This revelation sparked Remus' suspicion of her potential involvement in The Order. Knowing Pandora's relentless nature, it wasn't surprising that she had managed to wiggle her way into joining her mother in such significant endeavours. What he hadn't caught wind of before, until overhearing a conversation between mother and daughter, was the underlying reason for her insistence on coming with. Apparently, she'd gotten into an argument with her father; the particulars were lost on him as he quickly pulled away from unintentionally eavesdropping, his enhanced senses yet again betraying him.
While acknowledging his unjust discovery, especially considering how little Pandora knew him, he soon regretted not listening more intently. Yesterday, Pandora's mother had announced their abrupt departure without warning. His newest friend had protested vehemently, insisting that her father hadn't apologised to either of them, but her mother's tense demeanour tolerated no argument. The woman insisted her daughter say her goodbyes, and within mere moments, they vanished, leaving an unforeseen void in Remus' day.
Yet now they were returning? Already? Part of him leapt at the prospect of seeing her again, yet lingering anxiety gnawed at him, suggesting the abrupt return could only be an ill omen. If Pandora's mother had been working for The Order, something must have gone awry. Or perhaps whatever turmoil had erupted with his friend's father remained unresolved? A deep-seated foreboding curled in his stomach, writhing and simmering uncomfortably like a burning acromantula, leaving Remus with the nagging suspicion that there was much more to Pandora's family than met the eye.
"Yeah, kid, me too," Aberforth admitted begrudgingly, folding the Daily Prophet and setting it aside. The fact the man hadn't commented on Remus' continual 'space cadet-ness' proved as much a testament to something bad coming as the verbal confirmation. "Elise sounded scared. I didn't get much out of her."
"She… didn't mention her other kids?" Remus pondered, his voice barely a whisper as he grappled with the weight of his friend's silence. Given the many vibrant tales she had spun about her family, he felt a bizarre kinship with them. Pandora's eldest brother, Eric, had just graduated from Hogwarts and had begun to pursue his aspirations to become a medical potioneer—hoping to create antidotes for dreaded ailments like Dragon Pox. And then there was Pandora's adopted sister, Emma, entering her second year, someone who seemed an endless source of amusement for the older Ravenclaw.
Aberforth leaned back, relaxing his posture as he glanced at Remus to instil some calmness in the tense atmosphere. "No, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything," he murmured, though doubt crept into his tone. Their eyes locked momentarily, and Remus caught Aberforth mumbling something under his breath—a common occurrence usually overheard by the werewolf. But today, Remus' worry kept ringing too loudly in his ears. "Look, us sitting around panicking isn't doing 'em a lick of good. We'll handle whatever it is when it arrives. Now, let's see how you're progressing on that healing charm of yours. It's been weeks since you started practising, so you ought to be making some progress by now."
Caught off guard, Remus blinked in surprise, forgetting to consider his painfully obvious practice might intrigue the old man. But what if Aberforth had figured out the real reason for his rigorous training?
"Oh, don't look so guilty," Aberforth admonished, waving a dismissive hand. "If you ask me, an advanced healing spell is not a bad tool in your arsenal. And there's nothing wrong with a healthy dose of paranoia now and then." After saying his piece, the man rummaged through a cluttered drawer, and for a fleeting moment, Remus felt the suffocating tension ease its grip. Perhaps Aberforth was right—wallowing in what-ifs wouldn't serve him well. If only his thoughts could abide by the simple wisdom.
Unbothered by Robyn's internal struggle, the bar owner produced a particularly sharp letter opener, its blade gleaming under the dim candlelight, and extended it towards him. Not thinking much of the gesture, Remus reached out to grasp it. He had been using the difindo spell to give himself a canvas to work with, but he supposed he could make do with the object as long as he pressed into his skin hard enough. Just as his fingertips brushed the handle, Aberforth yanked it back with an exaggerated eye roll, a frustrated "damn kid" tumbling from his lips quietly.
Was it "damn, kid" or "damn kid"? The ambiguity hung in the air as Remus contemplated whether to seek clarity about what he'd done wrong, unsure if the sentiment had been uttered loud enough to acceptably overhear. He couldn't shake the feeling he'd flunked some invisible test. However, a bigger concern soon trampled his previous one. The crazy old man jabbed the letter opener into his arm, carving a messy red scrawl across his skin with a grimace.
"Aberforth!" Remus exclaimed in a gasp, half-exasperated, half offended over the man not letting the werewolf pay the price.
"Oh, don't give me that look, Robyn. Did you honestly think I was just going to let a kid slice his arm when I have a perfectly good one available?" Aberforth quirked a challenging eyebrow, far too observant as always.
"But... but…," Remus stammered, hands trembling as he became tangled in his confusion and sense of responsibility.
"Quit your stammering and show me the progress you've made." Aberforth's normal gruff yet encouraging tone kept Remus from zoning out. "You strike me as someone who gets into heaps of trouble, so I'm sure you'll need it eventually. Go on, then—impress me with that fancy wandwork."
Uncertain whether Aberforth felt so strongly about saving 'Robyn' from another cut or simply wanted to distract him from his worries about Pandora, a strange warmth once again surrounded Remus. Aberforth caring for him remained disorienting; why would this solitary bar owner, despite his apparent loneliness, take on the burden of a troubled kid like Remus with such startling ease?
Eyes drawn to a few droplets of blood trickling off the man's arm, he knew he needed to act. It felt ungracious to allow someone—who, by all accounts, should still be a stranger—to bleed on his behalf while Remus remained preoccupied with his insecurities. However, the responsibility crushed him, and he hesitated, tripped up by causing such unwarranted problems once again. Nor could he help but get caught up in the irony of Aberforth—who used not wanting blood on his floor as his sole reason for insisting on changing Robyn's bandages—to be now dirtying his floor.
Well, technically, the blame rested on Remus. Ultimately, the werewolf knew he often triggered disasters. His very presence seemed to attract calamity, as if he were a harbinger of misfortune. Perhaps accepting Pandora's insistent friendship had somehow twisted fate, leading to whatever misfortune had befallen her family. He recognised those thoughts as absurd and egotistical, yet the nagging doubt clung stubbornly to his heart.
"Quit moping. Your patient is bleeding to death." Aberforth's exaggerated sarcasm jolted Remus out of his head. He gave a short nod, forcing himself to regain composure. If he was a catalyst doomed to bring danger to those around him, his best bet lay in learning how to alleviate the pain. Remus knew his selfishness would prevent cutting his precious 'pack' out of his life entirely. Camaraderie's warmth remained as vital as oxygen filling his lungs after he'd been deprived of friendship for so long.
"Vanera propera," he murmured, trying to coax a melodic lilt to the words, much like he had observed Madam Pomfrey do countless times. In his studies of advanced healing magic, he discovered that a sonorous tone could heighten the spell's effectiveness, though the intricate theories behind it often left his head spinning. This particular enchantment felt monumental; it marked his first attempt at vastly complex magic. "Vanera propera," he chanted again, striving to keep his wand steady, even as it quivered in his grasp. "Vanera propera."
Before his eyes, Aberforth's minor wound began to mend. The injury could have easily been treated with the safer spell 'Episky', complicated magic also, but less so. Aberforth whistled lowly as if 'Robyn' had done something extraordinary. Remus sagged into the armchair, utterly drained. His exhaustion blurred his vision and played tricks on his mind, convincing him he couldn't move and would dissolve into nothingness. That was the problem with a young kid succeeding at such complicated magic; it didn't matter how small the cut was; Remus had carried out the equivalent of breaking open a fire hydrant to access a great gush of water to extinguish a candle rather than just tap into a sprinkler.
Perhaps because desperation to heal another person had fueled his spell and pushed him past his limits, Remus knew Aberforth's cut would never reopen, unlike his matching ones. He should have been elated at the success, but his body betrayed him, plunging into a cold and heavy state that transformed his eyelids into lead weights, making them impossible to open. A severe headache began to throb at his temples, pounding into his head the reminder he ought to heed already. Magic, he recalled, invariably demanded a steep, unrelenting price. The cost of overexertion was one Remus had witnessed his exhausted father pay frequently, casting necessary magic to raise a werewolf at the detriment of his health.
"You're quite the overachiever, aren't you?" Aberforth's worry and admiration cut through Robyn's foggy mind. The man misinterpreted the boy's limp noddle body and unsteady breaths as signs of passing out. Yet, the monster lingered in an uncomfortable twilight, hovering between consciousness and sleep, a skill honed from years of forcing himself to stay alert after the punishing full moons. "Damn impressive for a fifth year… Fucking hell, impressive would have just been Episky. I shouldn't encourage this recklessness. What the hell are you playing at, kid?"
Remus fought to swallow, a new pain blossoming in his chest, sharper and more alarming than before. He had never heard Aberforth's voice drip with such raw concern and... fear. The wary tone lingered in the air, the man obviously confident in Robyn's unconscious state, not that it comforted the werewolf.
"Kids die from pushing too much magic through their fragile bodies. And the foolish brat was mangled a disturbingly short time ago. Ugh, I wish I could pass it off as arrogant. But I bet the kid's oblivious to how talented he is. What do you think?"
The words reached Robyn's ears, only to swirl around, their meaning slipping through his fingers like sand. He could grasp fragments—concern, worry—but the complete message eluded him, and he struggled to slot the meanings together into a coherent picture.
He should surrender to the pull of sleep. After all, Aberforth would hardly chide him for it—he would likely just make a wry remark about Robyn getting what he deserved for consistently sacrificing sleep on any given night.
"Mrwah." Ah, Fleabag. The jolting sound stirred him into a more wakeful state, though he kept his eyes shut. At least that explained Aberforth talking out loud. The man must genuinely be lonely and in clear need of companionship, for he spoke to his cat with as much ease as Remus confided in Hope when no one else could witness his insanity. Two lonely souls. Perhaps that's why they got along.
"Yeah, you said it, Fleabag. Not that the stubborn fool will listen to me. Don't look at me like that! What am I supposed to do? It's his pulling that kind of crap that makes me worried getting the ministry involved would be a mistake—no matter what 'Righteous Rosemerta' thinks. Look, I'm doing what I can right now, so you'd better get off your high horse before I—"
And with that, comprehension slipped away completely as Remus surrendered to the familiar and unwelcoming depths of unconsciousness.