Journey to Perfection
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. I only claim ownership to the characters I create (i.e. Isabelle Starrpynski) and the situations (that are not Canon) that I place them in.
Rating: R, for sexual and adult themes, violence, and imagery.
Word Count: 1380
Summary: Remus Lupin has not always had an easy or a happy life, but now after resigning from a job he loved and enjoyed, he's forced to, once again, sulk on his lonely and bitter existence. Wallowing in his self-pity, Remus ventures into the Hog's Head, only to meet a erudite woman that may just help to disrupt the monotony his life has become. Remus/OC, Post-POA.
Note: This story was featured on Mugglenet Fan Fiction, in March 2005.
Remus indulged himself in the Daily Prophet’s classifieds section,
scouring the paper thoroughly, not leaving a single ad unread. Unfortunately,
underneath most of the ads’ requirements, underlined, scrolling, or in large, bold
type read NO DARK CREATURES, stripping him of any hope of finding a
job. So far, he had circled four prospects out of a whopping hundred and
twenty-seven, and knew if he landed an interview with any of them, they’d turn
him down with a swift kick to the rear and send him off.
But he had to try.
Setting down the paper and pen, Remus relaxed and crossed his arms over his
chest and stared across at the wall-calendar.
1 July.
Remus cursed. It was one week ‘til the full moon, and it would be his second
turning without the Wolfsbane to keep his human mind. He was no longer
thinking of jobs, but of when he turned without Wolfsbane. How he would crash
into the door and bang into walls, suffocated by the room and his need to roam
free. How he would bite and tear into himself, limb from limb, so to preoccupy his
mind from human flesh and blood.
No, he didn’t want to go back to that, but did he really have a choice in the
matter?
Though Wolfsbane was invented for werewolves, it was unaffordable to most.
The Apothecary carried ingredients for it, but there was one ingredient in
particular, Remus had heard, that you could only procure from the Ministry's
Magical Equipment Control. He had also heard that to prepare the difficult potion
that you needed a license, signed and approved by the person administering
your test. He remembered Severus showing him his license when he asked if he,
in fact, could prepare it.
Waking from his daze, Remus stood and took his faded T-shirt where it hung
over the back of the chair, putting it on over his undershirt. Snaffling the
periodical and pen from the table, he set out for a day of job hunting and
rejection.
Apparating into the Leaky Cauldron and walking out the back, he tapped his
wand to the designated bricks and watched, bored, as they made an entrance
for him. Stepping through, he tapped the wall again and only had little walking
distance to go, since the stationery shop was between Quality Quidditch
Supplies and Flourish & Blott’s.
He didn’t like the shop all that much. It was a bit too feminine for his taste and
smelled of potpourri, which teased his nasal orifices and kicked up his allergies.
And though he didn’t care if he’d be named a “Nancy boy” for working there, he
didn’t know if he could handle the smack to his allergies. His immune system
was all ready fragile enough.
Determined, he trudged into the small shop and rang the bell at the counter.
Peering over the glass case, he looked to see if anyone was coming and hastily
straightened his shirt when an older woman transpired from the dark
corridor.
Her heels clicked rhythmically and the knot on top her head bounced. Her attire
was proper and she carried herself with her nose in the clouds. If Remus didn’t
look so average, he would not have doubted that there would be a bit of
dirt on her nose as well.
“May I help you?” she greeted snootily, her voice nasally and rich, eyes darting
down and gradually up, critiquing Remus.
Remus shifted beneath her harsh glare, and self-consciously replied, “Hello and,
um, yes. I noticed your ad in the classifieds this morning and was wondering if I
could obtain an application?” He showed her the periodical and pointed to
Séarlait’s Snappy Stationery ad.
She scanned the ad and looked at him, observing that there was something off
about him.
“I need to ask a few personal questions first. Standard procedure.”
Of course, it always is. “Okay.” Remus answered nervously and
gulped.
“Have you ever been tried and convicted to Azkaban?” She folded her hands
and placed them on top of the glass counter, staring expectantly at the
werewolf.
“No. I’ve never committed a crime, pinched or pilfered,” he responded calmly.
In my adulthood, at least.
The woman nodded curtly, “Good answer,” and proceeded. “Have you ever
been in league with You-Know-Who?”
Remus gazed inquiringly, “What does that have to do with my employment, and
specifically in a stationery shop?”
“Standard procedure, guv,” she reiterated.
“No, I have never been in league with Lord Voldemort,” he stated and noted her
shudder.
Composing herself and placing a strand of escaped hair behind her ear, she
asked, “Do you plan to work part-time or full-time?” She was not going to let
herself be intimidated by him, though he didn’t look at all intimidating.
It dawned on Remus what she was doing. Any personnel that questioned him
when he attempted to get an application would subtly make their way toward
the inevitable question. Some were better than others, but he had an inkling of
what the next question was going to pertain to, no matter how bizarre.
She cleared her throat, “Since this is a stationery shop, there are many things
we sell that go along with stationery, such as pens, ink, ribbon and quills.” She
stared pointedly and an odd smile played on her face, “We also sell many things
made from silver. Do you have an allergy to silver?”
Now that’s subtlety. “Slight. Nothing major.” Remus could see the end
was coming, so he might as well have a bit of fun.
She arched an eyebrow and recovered. “This next question must be answered
truthfully. For the safety of our customers and personnel, we do not hire dark
creatures or people related to them. Do you have any relatives who are dark
creatures, or are one yourself?”
People related? That’s different. Remus stared thoughtfully and asked,
“May I inquire why you don’t hire dark creatures besides the obvious reason
you pointed?” He always liked to hear people’s response to this question and
see how narrow-minded they really were. It was a ritual he’d been doing since
the new anti-werewolf legislation came out a couple years ago.
The woman was taken aback, “What an absurd question! They are vile,
loathsome creatures with no soul that have no place in this world. Why would
you even ask?” She looked to see that he was already half out the door,
“Where are you going?” she retorted.
He turned and spoke sincerely, “That’s a misconception. Werewolves have
souls,” and exited.
Remus removed the Prophet from his pocket and crossed out Séarlait’s Snappy
Stationery, moving to the next ad that he had circled.
Two hours later, Remus came home, fuming. He was about to turn the doorknob
when he looked down to see a covered cauldron and piece of parchment.
Putting his anger aside, he picked up the cauldron and parchment and headed
inside.
The cauldron was warm and small wisps of smoke came from the holes in its
cover. He sat down and unfolded the parchment, curious as to what it was.
Silently, he read:
(An original work by Isabelle Starrpynski)
I apologize for the way I acted
My behaviour was atrocious
I didn’t mean to be so distracted
My reprimanding was ferocious
You came in for a conversation
Unfortunately I wasn’t willing
Instead you got a laceration
From my horrible shrilling
I am embarrassed to apologize
Though you are probably amused
But not harassed enough to sympathize
And the smile on your face is bemused
So take this eulogy kind to heart
And, please, oh please, don’t rip it apart
(As a token of my apology, I made you a cauldron of Wolfsbane. Surprisingly,
the conscience I thought I didn’t have decided to rear its ugly head. Also, do not
expect many poems, Lupin. And no, I am not the pleading type, but I could not
for the life of me think of anything better for that last line.)
—Isabelle
Remus smiled and laughed, “She is a piece of work, that Starrpynski.”
He thought she had forgotten all about incident from two weeks ago, but now
he knew what she had been doing: formulating an apology.
So she’s not the type to apologize, unless obligated? Interesting. Wait . .
. “How did she know my address?”