Heart of the Wolf

There’s a full moon tonight, and although it’s still early, it hangs low and heavy in the sky. If ever I were to be something else, Remus Lupin thinks, I would be a wolf. There’s something carnal about this moon--something about its fullness which slides beneath his skin and tugs at his bones, as though willing him to escape his weary body. Would if he could. Right now, that weary body loiters outside a bookshop, wrapped in layers of wool clothing, hidden from the bitter chill of the December air. A moment ago, he was walking along the side street. In another moment, he will be entering the shop. But for right now, Remus is suspended in this moment--the moment that exists between approaching and doing. His problem heart lets out a few ill-toned beats as he takes in the overwhelming sensation of the now. Inside the shop there is a comfortable and quiet chaos. The layout of the store is haphazard at best, with mismatched loveseats and discoloured shelves. The shop owner is a Scottish woman named Pince, who wears a severe facial expression most days, and has frazzled hair. She smiles at Remus when he enters--a gesture he tries to return, as he processes the change between being suspended, and going back to the “doing.” “Good to see you, Remus,” says Pince, sorting a pile of books at her counter. “It’s been a while. Ms. Evans was in here a few days ago and said you were in hospital.” “Just a little hiccup,” Remus says, gesturing awkwardly at his chest. “Only had to stay for one night.” “Damn shame, that heart of yours,” Pince says. “Have you tried ginger root? My wife swears by ginger root tea. Cures everything from hangovers to HIV, she says.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” Remus says, promptly and purposefully forgetting the suggestion. He steps away and moves between the familiar aisles of the shop, running a finger down the bindings of books he hasn’t read before, and a few that he has. One of Remus’ biggest fears is needles, and he has the unfortunate need to be poked with them often. Whenever a nurse comes at him with something sharp, he closes his eyes, and finds himself here, wandering amongst tattered and yellowing pages of used books. Instead of the smell of hospital antiseptic, he smells the dust in the crevices, and the age in the paper. If not a wolf, Remus thinks, then perhaps, instead, a tree, so that some lumbering, bearded man may cut him down, some factory worker with calloused hands may smash him into paper, and some publishing company (independently owned, perhaps), could print stories on his skin. He thinks he would live very well as a book, provided he fell into the hands of someone who read him gently. And so, happy to just be here, Remus strolls about the shop, occasionally stopping to pull down a particularly ragged book, to read a page or two. He’s drawn to the covers that seem well-used--it means someone loved it enough to pick it up more than once. Remus finds himself leafing through an account of World War II, and the binding is literally falling apart at the seams. “The Nazi Death Camps,” he reads to himself. “Left most of their prisoners dead, and for those left alive, it was not an existence worth having.” He sits the book back on its place on the shelf, and walks to the fiction section with a newfound sense of purpose. His memory has been jogged by this simple sentence, into remembering a book that no longer is in his collection at home, but should be. He heads towards the “W” section. The latter half of the alphabet is crammed in an awkward corner in the back of the shop, where the heater doesn’t reach too well, so there’s a draft. On a quiet night like tonight, there is exactly one other person browsing here, and Remus has to try not to stare, for he is very attractive. He is a man, but a young one, with long black hair, and a stoic disposition. He is broad in the shoulders, and stocky in his frame, which is draped in a heavy, leather jacket. He wears motorcycle boots. Remus can’t tell definitively, but he thinks he might smell like motor oil. Remus diverts his eyes, but can’t help but to try and watch the man in his periphery as he searches the shelves for his book. The man is directly beside him, scanning the same section as he, and the air between them is full of the tension that comes when two people are trying hard not to acknowledge that they both know they’re in each other’s personal space. Remus, though distracted, spots his book. It is directly in the middle of the middle shelf, and is not really tattered enough for Remus’ liking. This is a book that deserves folded corners, and loose covers, and pencil scratches in the margins. He vows to rectify this wrongdoing, reaching out a hand, just as the man to his side reaches out his, and the two of them make accidental contact as they both grab at the very same book. They both drop their hands, take a step back, laughing awkwardly. “Sorry,” Remus says. “No, it’s fine, I’m sorry,” he says. They stare hard at their own feet for a moment. They laugh again. They are uncomfortable. “You can have the book,” Remus says quickly, even though he still wants it. His desire to get out of this situation is stronger than his desire for his book. “Truly, go ahead. I’ve, uh, I’ve already read it about a thousand times.” The man laughs a real laugh this time, and says, “Honestly, I’ve read it before too.” “Really?” Remus asks, looking up from his shoes, his surprise genuine. This book--this particular book--means the world to Remus; it’s a part of his soul. It is also, almost entirely, unknown. A failure. A flop. This shop wouldn’t even own a copy if it weren’t for Remus’ recommendation. No one in the world has read this book. Except Remus. And, apparently, this man. “Yeah,” the man says, shrugging. “Hah, what are the odds we’d both be look for it at the same time, huh?” Remus nods absently, and before he can stop himself, like some nervous tick, he finds himself saying, “‘If it happens, then it was supposed to.’” The man looks confused for a second, until realization washes over him. “Did you just quote the book at me?”Remus tries not to look too sheepish.“I told you I’ve read it too much.” The man reaches over to the shelf and pulls the book down. It is called A Life Worth Living, by Eugene Washburn, and it is the most tragic thing Remus has ever laid eyes on. His weak little heartstrings pull at the thought of it, in fact. Remus watches, transfixed, at the way the man holds his precious book. He has large hands. Worker’s hands, Remus can tell, by the thickness of the skin, and the blackness beneath the nails. He does not hold the book gently; he grasps it tightly along the edges. When he flips through the pages, he does so with little grace--the sound of the page turning seems to echo off the walls of their tiny corner in the latter half of the alphabet. Remus is pleased. This man will take the proper care of his book. “I’m surprised,” the man says, still leafing through the book, not looking at Remus. “If you can quote this off the cuff, I’d expect you to already have a copy.” “I did,” Remus assures him. “A very well-used copy, I might add, that I took with me everywhere. But I, uh, I was in hospital earlier this week, and between the commotion of moving rooms and getting settled, it got misplaced. I didn’t realize it until I was home. I went back to look for it, but they hadn’t seen it.” He scowls. “They probably trashed it, honestly.” The man glances back at him. He has very dark eyes. “That’s a real tragedy,” he says nicely. Then he holds out the book. “I also think that you probably deserve this more than I do. I only read it once by chance at a library. I never thought to buy a copy, until today when I came here just to kill some time.” “I don’t mind,” Remus lies, staring greedily at the book. “You can have it.” “Come now,” says the man, grinning. “We can go back and forth about this for a million years, but eventually one of us is gonna have to end up with this damn book. Isn’t there a quote like that in here?” The man looks to the ceiling, thinking hard. “‘You can always put off the inevitable,’ or something like that?” Remus smiles very wide. “Close,” he says. “You got the general idea, at least. ‘There is almost always something you can do to postpone the inevitable, but I suppose the real courage is being able to face that which is fated,’” he quotes. “And then, well, the quote goes on, but…” he trails off. The man, he realizes, is laughing at him. “See what I mean?” he says kindly. “This book belongs with you.” The man holds out the book again, as though presenting some sort of precious gift. He holds the binding so tightly that his fingers are white. He loves my book, Remus thinks, and who else would ever do that? He casts a sad glance at Eugene Washburn’s first and only novel, and shakes his head. “No, see, I already know it all, almost literally to the letter. You keep it.” The man raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth to protest, but Remus puts up a hand. “I mean it, it’s okay. Someone else has got to love that book, and that won’t happen if I keep hogging all the copies. Besides,” he adds. “I can always find another one.” The man looks skeptical, but slowly withdraws the book, clutching it tightly in one hand, down at his side. He regards Remus with a curious expression. “My name’s Sirius,” he says finally. “I’m Remus.” Sirius nods. “Thank you for the book,” he says. “Now I feel like I need to give you one of my favorites to make up for it.” “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Remus says, but Sirius waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Here, wait for two seconds, let me see if I can find something.” He leaves before Remus has a chance to even process what Sirius said, let alone protest against it. He stands stupidly in the middle of the aisle, suddenly very aware of his own body, and how awkwardly he is holding himself. He straightens his back and fiddles with his sleeves. “I’ve got it!” He hears Sirius before he sees him, noisily trampling around the shop in a way Remus would never do. “Perfect trade,” Sirius says, once he rounds the corner a few minutes later, brandishing a book at Remus. Remus takes it and immediately lets out a snort. “Ah yes,” he says wisely. “A true classic. Football’s Greatest.” “Are you a football fan?” Sirius asks, grinning. “Not in the slightest,” Remus says, and Sirius’ grin only gets wider. “Perfect,” he says excitedly. “Then you don’t have any spoilers for the book.” “Christ,” Remus says, laughing. He holds the book to his chest. “I will cherish it always, thank you.”