SEA, SWALLOW ME, remus lupin

trì, dinner and diatribes

CHAPTER THREE
dinner and diatribes

𖦹 ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ˚⋆˚ 𖦹

THE NIGHT FEELS A FRACTION WARMER in Bristol, though frost still prickles the landscape with a vengeance. Townhouses and tenements smatter the landscape in a haze, flocked like fireflies as they coruscate in Cove's peripheral vision. The cold cradles the amethyst sky astride its tender palm, spreading in wisps between the stars so they glitter like pearls; supernovas laid beguilingly upon a velveteen atmosphere.

   When Cove lands in Euphemia Potter's hydrangea bush, she has a clear view of the constellations spread out overhead, basking in their serene glow as she strains to recover from the fall. The rise of her chest stutters as she gasps to regain her breath, winded and aching upon the frozen flower bed.

Remus is quick to help her to her feet, their scars intertwining as he shields her from the torrential winds. He shepherds her toward the door with no time to waste, skipping over the unstable tile on the second step and going to twist the handle for entry.

  Only, the door cracks open before he can touch it, revealing the accusatory sliver of an older man's face. Remus shares a puzzled side glance with Cove. The three of them are only separated by hesitation and a chain, buttery lamplight streaming onto the stairs from within as a single emerald eye blinks at them warily.

"Alright, Mont—"

  "What's my favourite flavour of ice cream?"

  "Huh? I—" Remus frowns. "Biscoff?"

  The man sighs in relief. He swings the door open to clap Remus on the shoulder and squeeze Cove's hand amicably, ushering them both to step inside. His eyes dart anxiously around the expanse of his front garden, crystallised by frost, his blurry vision wading through the darkness as if he's expecting something to stare straight back. His eyebrows settle in a heavy furrow as he latches the door behind him, shivering slightly at the chill that invites itself in after them.

She recognises Fleamont Potter from the Christmas party, his crow's feet heralding the absence of a smile and his lips perpetually ghosted by a fading laugh. His grizzled hair is mussed from sleep yet shiny from his own fabled product, his tartan dressing gown cocooning his weedy frame.

  "Sorry about that," he laments, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "Safety precaution. Moody would've incinerated the lot of us if I didn't check it was really you. Awfully cold out tonight, isn't it?"

Cove blinks in surprise. "Aye, it is."

  "Everyone's just through in the dining room," Fleamont continues. "Had to use an extension charm on the table just to fit half the Order around it, ha! Kingsley swears that we're here for something urgent this time." He sucks his teeth. "Better be bloody urgent enough to get us out of our beds this early, eh?"

  Remus offers a tight lipped smile. He parrots his agreement in a low voice that's laced by his sleep depravation, slumping against Cove like he'll crumble to the ground without her as an anchor. She pats his forearm sympathetically, dragging him forward while trying to save him tripping over the hall runner.

Cove hazards a glance at the Potter Manor as she's led through the dark hallways, the only proper light source in the house spilling out onto the creaky floorboards from an ajar kitchen door. The ancestral home is bare of any Yuletide festivities this time around, though the tasteful decorations and antiques make Cove awe slightly. Chatter warms the otherwise hollow silence, distant and echoing, a garbled cobweb of a dozen different voices melting into one another.