Chapter Text
Last night I dreamed of Sirius.
It’s strange: I haven’t thought about him in a while, much less dreamed. Of course there are always reminders—certain songs that come on the radio; the dogs that run unleashed through Battersea Park—but nothing major, lately. Nothing that’s run me over like a train.
That is, until last night. I was standing in a clearing of the Forbidden Forest. The moon was huge above the trees, cutting through the swirling mist, making leaves and twigs silvery and slick. At first, there was only an unearthly silence, so unlike the real forest at night.
Then a movement, and he was there. Sirius Black himself. The dark hair falling to his shoulders. The dark eyes pinprick-bright. But—I sensed it more than I saw it—he was older. No longer a child. Maybe as old as I am, now.
Kitty, he said to me—urgent like that, in italics. I saw that he was smiling, and his hands were stretching out towards my own. Dream-me let him take them.
Something caught his attention over my shoulder, and he gave the same warm nod of greeting. I turned and saw Remus. Calm and still. Tall and thin. His sandy hair almost colourless in that light. Something shivery rose up in me at the sight of him—something curious, disorienting.
But Sirius just reached for Remus’s hand too. He looked at the both of us. Find me, he said. I dare you.
And we stood there hand in hand in the blue forest. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, this reunion.
I must have started crying at some point because I wake up and my cheeks and neck are wet. Sirius and Remus drop out of focus—and are replaced, unnervingly, by a young, freckly man, staring into my face, too close.
He’s saying, “Lillian! Lil, wake up! Lillian!”
Oh, right—I’m “Lillian”. But who the hell is he?
I sit up. Yesterday evening comes back like pieces spat up onto a beach: A club. A gig. A drummer. A not insignificant amount of hash. His... flat? I see now that I’m on a sofa—no, a mattress?—in some kind of cramped studio. Sunlight is streaming in through a small window and by the looks of it, it’s not early.
The drummer has boxers on and no shirt. My underwear is tangled around my ankles, for some reason. I guess that’s convenient.
“Alright?” he says. He’s a Muggle—the flat screams non-magic. Anyway, I only go home with Muggles these days. “You must have had a nightmare. Crying buckets in your sleep, gave me a fright.”
“Oh,” I say, wiping at my face. Eyeliner comes off onto my fingers. “Sorry. That—er—doesn’t usually happen.”
“S’alright. Not your fault, is it, having a bad dream? Or a sad one, or whatever it was.” He watches me fish around for my dress. It’s across the room, draped over a greasy little dining table, alongside—thank Godric—my handbag. Which contains my wand. “You were shaking all over. Saying things in your sleep, too. Sounded intense, like. Wasn’t sure I should wake you.”
“What? What was I saying?”
“Nothing that made sense. One word mostly. Er… something ‘foot’... ‘Padfoot’? ‘Padfoot’, yeah. Over and over. ‘Padfoot, Padfoot’.” He must see my expression because he sits up straighter, worried. “Hey, you sure you’re alright? It was just a dream, Lil. Seriously. Do you even remember what it was about?”
“No,” I manage, valiantly smoothening out my dress and my face at the same time. My heart did a horrible flop hearing him say the name—can’t have heard it spoken out loud in, what, a decade? “Look, I’m fine. I think I’m just really hungover. You didn’t put anything extra in that hash, did you?”
He laughs at that, eyebrows waggling. I let him have his joke. As if he could have ever got anything past me (even thoroughly sloshed me). I slip into last night’s heels and look towards the door. He’s still in bed. He’s skinny and his ears stick out, but he’s moderately fit; I’ve done worse, anyway. Right now he’s got on a wistful look, like he’s about to burst out something that he’ll regret in a couple hours.
I suppose I should Obliviate him...
Suppose? says a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Mad-Eye Moody’s. Damn right you should Obliviate him. What the hell are you playing at, anyway, picking up random Muggles on the weekend? Leaving your wand lying around all night? How sloppy could you get, McKinnon?
“So, er,” the drummer begins, “I had a great time last night... we’re doing another gig next Saturday in Soho if you wanted to pop by...”
No, Mad-Eye. I won’t wipe this one’s memory. First, I don’t believe in meddling with people’s minds—especially not Muggles. Second, he’s sweet. Anyway, what’s there to wipe? All he knows is, he brought home a blonde bird called Lillian on a Saturday night and she muttered some rubbish in her sleep. Only three people alive know what “Padfoot” means. It’s a secret nickname, that’s the whole point.
“Lil,” he’s saying now, “you’re really... er... you’re...” I’m about to just leave and put him out of his misery, but he finishes in a rush: “What I mean is, girls like you don’t usually come home with blokes like me.”
For a frantic second I prepare to Obliviate him after all. “‘Girls like me?’ What do you mean?”
He rubs his neck shyly. “Y’know. Posh girls. Pretty girls—I mean, not just ‘pretty’, you’re bloody stunning…”
Oh. That’s all. Not “a witch”. Not “one of the Ministry of Magic’s top Aurors, working through some bad habits that would get her fired if the Department ever caught wind”.
I give him Lillian’s most gracious smile.
Outside the sun is blinding. It’s definitely past noon, and the streets are busy, full of sweating tourists and swearing locals. Noises and smells and everything jumping out at you at once—London in August.
I’m ducking into a narrow alley to Apparate back to Chelsea before it hits me: the thing that struck me as so very strange about Remus in my dream.
It wasn’t just seeing him older (or happier, honestly) than when we parted, all those years ago.
It was seeing Remus Lupin’s face—his whole, human face—by the light of a full moon.
I shiver in the heat. Then I collect myself and go home.