It was as though Abby was speaking in a foreign tongue. Nothing was making sense. Well, it was – Remus understood the words and the meanings and what she was trying to say, but it just didn’t make sense! Gods and goddesses? Well, okay, maybe they existed – after all, werewolves and witches existed, and it was said that the first werewolf was a God who tried to trick Zeus and was then cursed when he failed. Whether or not that was true had yet to be seen. For Remus, however, he had always assumed that old myth to be false.
But if what Abby was saying was true…
This was just great. He had somehow walked into a dream – because this was starting to seem more and more like a dream (even though it didn’t feel like one, because all of his senses seemed to be working perfectly which was pretty unusual for his dreams – even for the most realistic ones) – in which nothing made sense but he was being forced to believe it was all true. Great. Where was he?
He didn’t bother voicing that question aloud again, for it was quite obvious that the woman had no answer to that question. In fact, in a strange roundabout way, though she was the one trying to welcome him here, it looked as though she was almost as confused as he was, though she hid it pretty well.
“Okay…” he slowly conceded as he realized that he would probably not be getting any answers anytime soon.
His eyebrows rose as she talked about the rule of harming others and his hand instantly fell from his wand. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said immediately, his face softening as he realized that was exactly what it must have looked like to her. She probably thought he had a gun or a knife stowed away now. Not that she could really say much if he had a weapon like that, with her own gun and crossbow strapped to her body.
“Though…” he added wryly with a single eyebrow raised, “if that’s a rule, why are you carrying around weapons?”
His wry look, however, quickly turned to an embarrassed one as she questioned his sobriety. He was going to kill Sirius and James next time he saw them. This was their entire bloody fault. Somehow. He was certain it was. And it was probably Sirius’s fault more so than James’s… so maybe James would be allowed to live. Maybe.
A slight red hue danced across his cheeks as he averted his eyes. “I’m… I’m not drunk,” he said, feeling like he was eleven again and getting caught by Professor McGonagall after charming the serpent on the Slytherin banner to announce Gryffindor’s superiority every five minutes. “I had just a little to drink,” he added in a mutter.
At least he was of drinking age this time. Sixth year, Sirius had dragged him, James, and Peter to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate Remus’s sixteenth birthday ‘properly’. By properly, he meant by charming Madame Rosmerta (which he did rather well and quite often) into giving the four of them some ‘real’ drinks. They hadn’t been caught (Thank Merlin!) but they had gotten pretty damn close.