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Summary
“I’m Sirius,” he says, casual, as if those three syllables aren’t the predecessor to devastation. “Sirius Black.”
All of Remus’ blood flees his body like the liquid traitor that it is.
Sirius Black.
Sirius Black, as in the artist of the works the very room they stand in is entirely dedicated to displaying.
Sirius Black, as in the artist of the works Remus has spent the better part of the last twenty minutes quite audibly slagging off.
or: Grumpy countryman, Remus Lupin, is dragged to the Tate Modern. He finds himself with rather more than he really bargained for.