Chapter Text
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
—Changes, David Bowie
Monday 1st September, 1975
Remus wonders, not for the first time, what sort of school wants a fifteen-year-old from a London children’s home badly enough to pay for him.
He’d been told almost a month ago now that he would be expected to attend a new school, a boarding school no less. It’s safe to say he wasn’t exactly over the moon about this new information. Anne, the matron at the home, had been the one to break the news to him over a cup of tea and chocolate digestives in her office. He’d been immediately suspicious when she brought the biscuits out. She usually only gave them to the children when they were leaving, or when it was their birthday. Neither of those had been the case for Remus that day.
Though, thinking about it now, technically he is leaving.
He’s packing his suitcase messily and throwing something close to a tantrum about it, so he is definitely going.
Really, he was supposed to arrive at the new school yesterday, a day earlier than everyone else, so he could get settled in, be given a tour, and endure countless introductions to the staff.
No one was surprised to find his room empty and Remus nowhere in sight. That’s kind of his thing, disappearing. He doesn’t like to be found when he doesn’t want to be, so he’s become very good at making sure he won’t be. It comes easily now, after being kept in the home for most of his life. Eleven years and counting. Twelve this year, on his birthday.
There’s something ironic about that, he thinks. He was dumped here on his birthday, the one day parents are supposed to celebrate their children’s very existence. Cherish their lives. Feel lucky to have brought such a wonderful child into the world.
It’s why Remus hates his birthday, and every reminder that comes with it.
Shoving the few belongings he owns into the beaten-up trunk Anne had left at the end of his metal framed bed yesterday morning, he grumbles pathetically under his breath.
He doesn’t have much to take with him, only a few scraggly clothes, knitted grandpa jumpers he keeps for their comfort, two or three records with sun-faded sleeves, and worn books, his favourites, which he carefully places beneath a pile of clothes to spare their already frail pages from any further tears or rips. And more cartons of cigarettes than he can count on one hand. That’s thanks to Christopher, who had kindly offered to head down to the local corner shop and stock him up before he left. He’d called it a goodbye gift.
Remus hates goodbyes, not because he’s impolite, but because goodbye is something you say when you don’t know if you’re ever going to see the other person again. Remus knows he’ll see Chris again. He’ll make certain of it, once he officially gets himself expelled from the boarding school, hopefully before the Easter holidays even have a chance to finish. If he’s lucky, maybe even before then.
Zipping his full trunk shut with a grunt and a sharp tug, Remus curls his fingers around the two straps on either side and begins to drag it towards the door.
His room isn’t very big, so it isn’t much of a journey from the bed to the doorway. It’s exactly what children complain about when they say they’ve been given a box room, though everyone knows they’re usually just spoiled brats who always want more, more, more. Remus, on the other hand, has an actual box room, a space barely big enough for him to lie flat on the floor without his outstretched arms and legs touching both walls at either end. Still, he’s made the most of it. And no matter how small it is, he’s always been grateful to have a room of his own.
Before he’d taken most things down, his room was covered in posters of some kind, whether they were printed downstairs on the machine that’s technically meant for homework and educational use, or nicked from games shops and record stores. He stuck up his first poster, one of Bowie’s face, right above his bed the second he was granted his own room at eleven, on his birthday.
That was probably the only birthday he remotely enjoyed, purely because he had so much to think about with his new room that he had no space left to think about anything else, or what day it happened to be the anniversary of.
Over the years, he’s added little bits of himself into every corner and across every surface. His books usually lie scattered across the desk beneath the window or crammed onto the bookshelf beside his wardrobe. His clothes are often strewn across the foot of his bed or littering the floor. And a thick blanket of smoke usually hangs in the room, courtesy of the endless supply of cigarettes he gets through in a day, never giving the air enough time to clear before he’s lighting the next.
Remus has never been a particularly muscular boy, his arms thin as twigs and his legs long as lampposts, so the trunk is much harder to move than it would probably be for nearly anyone else. It lets out a horrid screech as he drags it across the hardwood floor towards the open door.
“Whatcha doin’?” comes a familiar gruff voice from behind him.
Remus startles, jumping hard enough to drop the trunk back onto the floor with a deafening bang. Spinning around, he finds Christopher leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest and a smirk already pulling at his mouth.
“Need help, little man?”
“Don’t call me that,” Remus grumbles, giving the side of the trunk a petty kick and immediately regretting it as pain shoots through his socked toes. He lets out a low whine, dropping himself onto the lid and burying his face in his hands. “What d’you want?”
“Can’t a lad come and say goodbye to his baby brother?” Chris asks, stepping further into the room and perching on the end of Remus’s stripped-bare bed. The mattress is covered in all sorts of funky looking stains. Remus can remember where a few of them came from, though he’d rather not dwell on it.
“Didn’t say that, did I?”
“No.” Chris clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, studying him. “But you don’t seem very happy to see me.”
Remus lifts his head from his hands and offers him a genuine, if weak, smile. “I am.” He nods slowly, picking at the peeling leather on the corner of his trunk. He can feel it sagging beneath his weight, bowing in the middle, and knows he should probably get up before the whole thing gives way beneath him. Still, he ignores it. “Just bummed to be leaving, is all.”
Chris shrugs his shoulders loosely, before pushing himself back to his feet and offering Remus a calloused hand. “C’mon. I’ll see ya off properly, promise. Anne’s been waiting downstairs forever, bless ’er.”
“She can fuck herself,” Remus huffs darkly, taking Chris’s warm, rough hand and hauling himself upright, finally relieving the trunk of his weight.
“Oi.” Chris lets go of his hold only to smack him lightly upside the head. “Be nice to her. She’s done nothin’ but cry ‘bout you leavin’ for the past half hour.”
“She gonna miss me?”
Chris sighs, reaching out to give Remus’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “We all are, ya melt. Y’know that, Rem.”
“S’pose.”
“Don’t give me none of that bullshit. I’ll make sure none of the boys forget ya, swears it,” Chris says firmly, bending to grab one of the straps on Remus’s trunk. “Pick up the other side, then.”
Rolling his eyes, Remus bends to pick up his side. With Chris taking half the weight, it’s easy enough to manoeuvre the trunk through the open doorway. As they approach the stairs, though, Remus’s stomach gives a small, uneasy flip. He absolutely does not want to be the one walking it down backwards. He’s enough of a baby giraffe on his own two feet without adding forty pounds of luggage into the mix of it all.
His worries vanish before they’re even fully formed when Chris performs an awkward little half-turn in the narrow corridor and places his back to the staircase. “Best not rush,” he mutters, shifting his grip lower until he’s supporting the bottom of the trunk. “Don’t wanna go tumblin’ down and break our necks.”
Remus nods, too nauseous to trust himself to speak, as Chris eases down the first step, the second, the third. Only then does Remus lower one foot onto the top stair, careful not to catch it on the loose stair-runner trailing all the way to the bottom.
“You excited, then?” Chris asks, tightening his grip on the trunk as they inch further down the steps. “Don’t think I would be. Not much those posh yobs can do that we can’t, eh?”
Remus only shakes his head, following the blonde boy’s lead.
“Don’t go all mute on me now, little man.”
“Shuddup.”
They make it down the rest of the stairs without anyone breaking their necks, for which Remus is deeply grateful. Chris helps him dump the heavy trunk in the corner of the reception, beside the rusted double doors that are forever swinging open and shut, letting children of all ages drift in and out with no certainty as to when they’ll return, or if they’ll leave for good.
Most of them do leave, eventually. Remus hasn’t known a single child to stay here as long as he has. There was a close second once, Shirley, a tiny little thing, all bones and hardly any meat on her frame. It was clear she’d been starved, or something close to it. When she first arrived at ten, Remus had been frightened of her protruding ribs and visible bones, but quickly learnt not to stare when she snapped, “Whatcha lookin’ at, fuck face?”
Remus hadn’t much liked Shirley after that, but he’d still been bummed when she went. It was just another loss to add to the ever growing pile, whether he wanted it or not. Most of the time, he doesn’t want it. But he’s quickly come to realise abandonment doesn’t care for wants or needs.
He doesn’t remember the first time he stepped through those doors, or more accurately, was carried through them, and he has no idea when the last time will be either. But one thing he knows for certain: this place hasn’t seen the last of him. He’ll be back. He always is.
“Oh, Remus, come here!” Anne weeps, bustling over to him with wide-spread arms and a quivering bottom lip. “Oh, you poor little darling. I’m sure you’re devastated about leaving, but I promise to call for our welfare check-ups. The house will miss you so much.”
I promise, I promise, I promise. So many promises and not enough keepers, Remus thinks bitterly, as Anne sweeps him into her arms, pulling him close to her thick frame.
Truthfully, Remus has always liked Anne the most. She’s always been the one there for him when he needed someone most, but wouldn’t admit it. She smells a lot like stale cigarettes and hard toffee sweets. Her chubby arms enclose him tightly against her chest. With his ear pressed flat to her sternum, he can hear the faint beating of her heart. It’s a rapid, thumping rhythm he’s always found comfort in. It’s probably breaking in two right now as they hug, but then again, she probably doesn’t even care in the slightest. It could all be a façade. After all, she’s paid to care.
Remus doesn’t hug her back, his arms hanging loose and awkward at his sides. She seems to take this as a hint and pulls away, sliding her hands up to squeeze his shoulders briefly before stepping back fully and pulling a floral-print hanky from her pocket to dab at the corners of her watery eyes.
“It’s a lovely school,” she continues, sniffling quietly as she tucks the damp handkerchief back into her cardigan pocket. “Very big. You’ll make so many new friends. Might even find yourself a girlfriend, hm?”
Chris snickers, sidling up beside Remus and slinging an arm around his hunched shoulders. “A’course he will. Look at our boy,” he says, ruffling Remus’s curls affectionately. “All the birds’ll be swoonin’ after him.”
“Fuck right off,” Remus mumbles, shoving Chris’s arm from his shoulders and swatting lightly at his chest. “Don’t want no bird or no new mates. Got plenty ’ere, don’t I?”
“You do,” Chris agrees, giving Remus’s shoulder one last pat and then pulling his hands back to tuck them into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. He rocks back on his heels as he cocks his head towards the door. “But no harm in makin’ some new ones out there, yeah? Don’t be wanderin’ about on yer own.”
“He won’t be. I’ll make sure of it,” Anne says softly, clasping her hands tightly together in front of her chest. “I’ve been in contact with the headmistress about you missing yesterday’s introduction, and she’s perfectly okay with you coming in today. She’s a lovely woman, kind but stern. A lady like that in charge will do us all some good.”
“A’course it will,” Remus grumbles under his breath, bending down to grab his battered Converse from the shoe rack in the doorway. He shoves his feet into them, quickly tying the once-white laces. “Bet she’s a grumpy old bat just like the rest of ‘em ‘ave been.”
“Don’t be a Negative Nigel, or whatever it is they say,” Chris tuts in mock authority, plucking the pre-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear. He brings the filter to his lips and rummages around in his pockets until his fingers close around a chipped metal Zippo lighter. Flicking the flame alive, he brings it to the end of his fag and flashes Anne a grin as she tuts when smoke starts to fill the small reception area. Not caring, Chris takes another long pull and glances sideways at Remus. “Bet you’ll end up havin’ the time of yer little life. I ’eard posh schools is where it all goes down.”
“Oh yeah?” Remus straightens up once his shoes are on as best they can be. They’re more ripped fabric and flopping rubber than anything else, but he can’t afford new ones and doesn’t have any time to nick a decent pair from somewhere local. Not that he cares much what the posh yobs have to say about him, he’s almost certain he’ll have heard worse around these ends. “Where’d you hear that from, then?”
“Around ’n’ all that, y’know how it is, Rem.” Chris winks, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke into the air. “Nank gets past these ears.”
“And as much as I’m sure you’re right,” Anne interrupts, shooting Chris a light-hearted glare and a pointed glance down at the smoking fag between his fingers, “Remus needs to go. Now. Come on, darling, the car is out the front. We’ve kept the driver waiting long enough. Let me just get you a packed lunch from the kitchen for the drive over. It’s quite a long one, you’ll be needing your nutrients.”
She crosses the room and pulls open the living room door to head through to the kitchen. The second it opens, Remus can hear the other kids screaming, laughing, and arguing inside. He tilts his head just enough to peer through the crack in the door once Anne has disappeared from view. He can just make out a flash of brunette bunches darting across the sofas, which must be Lila, one of the younger kids here. Remus doesn’t really know her all that well, but he knows she’s a new one and fairly young. Around five or six, if he had to guess.
The television seems to be blaring, a staticky crackling sound playing some sort of colourful children’s cartoon. Remus thinks it must be around eleven o’clock by now. Judging by the channel on the telly, it’s under-tens time on the rota, which usually starts around half ten.
“Yer a smart kid, Lupin,” Chris pipes up, drawing Remus’s attention from the door to him instead. “Proper good brain goin’ for ya. I’ll bet ya make it all the way through this term, at least. You’ll do me proud, if ya do.”
Remus nods slowly, dropping his gaze to the faded carpet beneath his shoes. It’s embarrassing when Chris gets like this. Sentimental, Remus would call it. Chris isn’t usually one to care much for education, or anything of the sort. He’s the loud one, the no-good scum everyone warns you about in places like these. It seems fitting that Remus was drawn to Chris first, out of everyone. Or rather, Chris pulled him in. It just happened, and Remus is forever thankful it did. He hasn’t a clue what he’d do without Christopher White hanging around his shoulder and making fun of his face every day.
He lifts his head, biting his chapped lip over a small smile. He’d like to tell Chris how much their friendship, or brotherhood rather, has meant to him. How much Chris has helped him out without having a clue about it. How much their shared cigarettes, robbing corner stores’ stock of beers dry, covering the local parks in graffiti and their very own made-up tags, have made him feel like he belonged somewhere for the first time, the only time, in his life. But he doesn’t, because thanking someone for a friendship that isn’t close to over is stupid. It sounds like something you do when the relationship is coming to an end. And this one isn’t, not for as long as Remus breathes and his heart pumps. So instead, he lets his grin show and shakes his head lightly.
“Piss off, ya great sop.” Then he adds, “Ain’t I already done ya proud?”
Chris returns his grin, his lips just as chapped, and the width of his smile shows the chip in his front tooth. Remus remembers when he got that, the famous front-tooth chip.
Two summers ago, they’d been hanging about an abandoned train station, mucking about over the rusted old run-down tracks. One of the older boys, Dean Jones, had dared Chris to jump from one side of the track to the other. He’d taunted him the whole time, Bet ya won’t, ya big sissy. Never one to turn away from a dare, Chris had done it without a thought. He’d taken a big, dramatic run-up from the back wall of the abandoned station house, pushed off with all his might, and leapt clean across the gap, only to smash his jaw on the other side’s ledge. The concrete had been thick, a huge chunk of brick wall riddled with chips and cracks, and Chris had only gone and added a new one to it, along with the chip in his front tooth. He hadn’t minded, though, never once shed a single tear. Bleeding lip and gums, a chunk gone from his tooth, he’d simply grinned through blood and declared himself champion of the tracks.
“’Course ya ’ave, Rem. I’ve raised ya into a proper little street rat, just as God planned for ya to be.” He pauses, running his tongue along his top teeth. “But God’s got a plan, y’know? And if education is in the Lord’s books for ya, then who am I to hold ya back?”
Remus isn’t quite sure how to reply to that, for multiple reasons. He does not believe in God, or any god for that matter. He wasn’t aware Chris did, either, if he’s honest. Chris has never brought up religion or religious beliefs before to Remus, though he can’t think of any reason why he would have. Most of the things they participate in are probably not for God’s eyes to witness. It’s ironic, considering Remus is two minutes away from being shipped off to a religious boarding school. He doesn’t even have any idea which god Catholics pray to, or how they even pray. Lucky for him, he’s only a few hours away from finding out for himself. Though, if you asked him, he wouldn’t count himself lucky in the slightest.
Anne slips back into the room with a small brown paper bag clasped in her grip. She spots Remus and Chris hanging around by the door and makes her way over, her keys jangling on the lanyard strapped around her neck.
“Here we are,” she says, handing the light bag to Remus, who takes it reluctantly. “It’s just got a few bits and bobs inside. I’m sure you’ll like it. I even popped in a little treat for you.”
“Thanks.”
Anne waves a dismissive hand, moving around both boys to peer at Remus’s trunk. She bends halfway to begin dragging it closer to the open door, where she straightens up and beckons with a hand to whoever is waiting outside. No less than two seconds later, the doors open and a burly old lad in a too-tight uniform waddles in to collect the trunk himself.
Remus eyes the man intently, trying to gather any information about his destination from the uniform, or what kind of lad he appears to be at first glance.
His uniform is certainly too small for his larger frame. The buttons along the front of his dark green blazer and crisp white undershirt look close to popping off completely. He’s wearing a black leather flat cap atop his meaty head, and a few wisps of hair escape from the back to tickle his neck. He appears to be going grey, a silvery-white shade of thin hair visible as far as Remus can see. Gleaming silver cufflinks decorate the sleeves of his posh blazer, shining black dress shoes cover his feet, and he’s wearing a sterling brooch clipped to the left side of his chest.
The only word Remus can muster that seems fitting enough is: expensive.
“Are you Remus J. Lupin?” the man asks him directly, throwing Remus off guard. His voice is a little rough around the edges, matching his whole being, but Remus can hear the silky-smooth way it curls around certain syllables and letters. Annoyingly, he rolls his r’s to a ridiculous extent. If Remus didn’t know any better, he’d think he was speaking to a member of the royal family.
“Erm, yeah, s’me.”
The man nods his head shortly, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world for another lower-class teenager about to get in the back of his car, and promptly lifts Remus’s trunk with both hands and heads back out the door without so much as a glance behind him. Remus can hear him grunting with each step down the driveway.
Well, rude, Remus thinks.
“Posh wanker,” Chris mutters, raising both eyebrows in surprise. “Did ya see the state of his suit? If I had that much dosh to toss about, I’d at least buy myself a decent fitting blazer. Fat bastard.”
“Oi!” Anne scolds, smacking Chris’s arm sharply. “Don’t you be going around fat-shaming no one. It’s not nice.”
Chris pulls a face, giving her a little smack right back. It’s more of a pathetic tap, if anything, because everyone knows Anne could floor any of the kids here without hesitation. She might be a short, chubby little woman, but she can sure hold her own. It’s what makes her so good at her job, Remus reckons. No one wants to voluntarily work with a house full of children no one wanted, but Anne does.
Twenty-seven years running, she’s been shouting wake-up calls to them all, tossing plates of food across the dining table at them, offering a shoulder to cry on to every single kid who’s ever set foot in the building. Anne’s the man of the house, as the saying goes, because no one stated “the man of the house” had to be an actual man. Anne is good for it just as much as any man would be.
“You, my sweet darling,” she turns to Remus, giving him a soft, sad smile, “it’s time to get a move on. I know how much you don’t want to go, but I’ll bet you’ll be loving every second of it once you settle down and make a few friends, yes?”
“No,” Remus replies stubbornly, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the carpet, silently refusing to move a foot closer to the doors of impending doom.
“None of that, now,” Anne orders firmly. She reaches out to catch Remus’s cheek between two fingers and gives it a little wobble as she laughs through sniffles. “We’ll all be right here when you come back for the holidays. No one is going anywhere.”
Remus scowls, pulling away from her affectionate ministrations grumpily. “You can’t make me, ya not my mum.”
This seems to strike its mark. Anne frowns and crosses her arms tightly over her chest. She gives Remus the look. “No, I’m not your mother. I am very well aware of that, Remus. But I’m damn near close to it, aren’t I?”
“She’s right, mate,” Chris adds, giving Remus a look that says: come on now. “Don’t be like this, yeah? Don’t wanna ruin a perfectly good goodbye.”
Chewing on his bottom lip, Remus weighs his options in his head. He could beat the shit out of both of them and make a run for it, but that doesn’t seem very likely to go all that well for him in the long run. Or, he could say goodbye and leave. He’s edging much closer to the former by the second, as unrealistic as it may be.
The driver pokes his head around the front doors, asking Anne how much longer Remus will be. Remus huffs. Now, with Mr Big-Boned Driver here, he’d have to beat him up too, which is definitely not going to happen with Remus’s slight frame against triple his weight and height. Accepting his unfortunate disadvantage, Remus turns to face the driver.
“I’m coming. Gimme a second.”
Satisfied, the driver nods his head once before slipping back out to his car. Remus can take a hint so he knows the posh old man is getting impatient. Remus would be loosing his patience too if he had to constantly drive around collecting children from their houses and dropping them off at some religious boarding school disguised hell.
Chris extends his arms wide, offering Remus an inviting crooked smile. “Bring it in then, little man.”
Remus dips his head, suddenly shy, but throws himself into Chris’s arms anyway. He winds his arms around the other boy’s neck, burying his face in the rough fabric of his jacket to hide his sad expression. He basks in the moment as though it’s the last hug the two of them will ever share. He can’t remember when their first hug was, but he’ll make sure to remember this one, just in case it does happen to be the last.
Chris’s arms come up around him to hold his back, a firm, warm palm rubs slow, soothing circles over the wool of his oversized jumper. Remus has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying out and breaking down in the older boy’s arms. It’s bittersweet, moments like these, when one friendly hug becomes the beginning of something unknown to the two people sharing it. A solid friendship put through the test of becoming long-distance, with very few ways of keeping in contact.
“Don’t let no posh tosser change who ya are, Remus,” Chris whispers into his hair, hugging him tighter. “I’ve brought you up to be exactly who ya are, and whoever yer destined to become. But m’sure he’s gonna be a good enough bloke as he is, whether m’there to see him grow or not.”
“Don’t be thick,” Remus forces himself to say back. His voice is thick, muffled by Chris’s jacket, or tears, he’s unsure which one. “’Course you’ll be there. Think I’m gonna let ya get away from me now? Or ever.”
“Nah,” Chris replies through a laugh. “Didn’t think ya would. Too obsessed with me, you are.”
“You’re pushin’ it too far.”
Chris barks a loud laugh, pulling back to look down at Remus’s face and scrunching his nose in mock offence. “Ya sayin’ yer ain’t obsessed with me?”
Remus rolls his eyes, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “No, m’fucking not.”
“Only fuckin’ with ya, little man.” Chris smiles down at him, ruffling Remus’s curls gently. “Imma miss ya, kid.”
“I know.”
“Ain’t gonna say it back?”
“Nah.”
“S’alright. I know yer’ll miss me.”
Remus dips his head again, chewing on his bottom lip as he slowly heads for the door. He spares Anne one last glance in goodbye, but doesn’t allow himself the comfort of looking back at Chris. If he did, he knows he’d immediately crumble and run right back into his arms, begging desperately for Chris to help him do a runner. And Chris would. He’d shrug his shoulders and whisk Remus up and over them before bolting right out the double doors, his middle finger high in the air, daring anyone to stop the two of them. That’s Chris for you, Remus’s saviour, at the very least.
Chris holds the place of many absent people in Remus’s life: he’s a mother in the way he forces food down Remus’s throat when he refuses anyone else; he’s a father in the way he taught Remus how to ride a bike without the stabilisers on; he’s an older brother in the way he taught Remus how to rob beers and fags from behind the counters at corner shops; he’s a sister in the way he showed Remus how to style his hair to suit his face; he’s a friend in the way he’s always there for Remus to talk to, to smoke with, to cause shit with, to run from the police with; and he’s a best friend in the way he never left. Ever. And that’s more than anyone else has done for Remus in his life, so for that, Chris earns every single title Remus can think of, and all the ones he can’t.
As he pushes the double doors open, they squeak in the familiar way they always do, the rusted hinges in desperate need of oiling. But in places like these, with people like them, oil is a luxury they cannot afford to buy on top of the necessities. Remus is about to learn a whole other way of living as he reaches the car door and notices the silver badge protruding from the front. He doesn’t know his cars well, and doesn’t care for them much, but he’s not an idiot and knows that particular logo. Bentley.
It’s sleek, crisp, expensive. Money on wheels, as Chris would call it. It’s the exact type of car he and the boys would key across the doors or puncture the tyres of, just out of pure spite. It’s rare a car as worthy as this is seen around their ends of London, but when one is, the boys make sure to give them a good run for their money. It’s almost a tradition now, you see a posh car, you key it.
It’s not because they’re bitter other people have fortunes when they don’t. It’s because said people feel superior to those living in the very streets they dare to park on. It’s their way of saying, you want to come to our ends and flex your money? How about that. Fuck you.
The driver is nowhere in sight, so Remus can only assume he got irritated and climbed back into the car to wait instead. Closing his fingers around the door handle, Remus yanks it open far more aggressively than necessary, though he’d argue it’s perfectly justified in his current state of mind.
As he slumps inside, the smell of old money and rich leather is overpowering, and just underneath it he can smell the bitter hint of pipe smoke. His suspicions are confirmed when he slams the door shut behind him and glances forward through the barrier of glass, spotting the driver seated behind the wheel with a fancy-looking pipe hanging from his plump lips.
Remus doesn’t bother speaking to the old man. He doesn’t particularly want to be involved with anything as snobby as he is. It’s making him uncomfortable already, and he hasn’t even gotten to the worst of it. Instead, he fumbles at his side for his belt, feeling the cool seats beneath his fingertips as they brush the smooth strap. He pulls it forward and across, clipping it into the red buckle beside him with a quiet clunk.
He’s thrown back into his seat as the car pulls away from the drive, gravel crunching loudly beneath the turning wheels as speed picks up. Remus keeps his gaze stubbornly fixed forward, not daring to look back in case Chris or Anne have decided to wave him off from the front steps. He watches the back of the driver’s head swivel from left to right as he prepares to turn onto the busy main road out of London.
“Where are we goin’?” Remus asks eventually, not turning his face from the window, watching the buildings blur together through the pristine glass. Not a fingerprint in sight.
“Blackthorn Abbey College,” comes the gruff reply.