(20) A voice not heard, calling gently and loudly. Gently and loudly, falling down, down,
(19) down like the raindrops on the roof. A glass is raised to no one, particularly
(18) not one one-time friend. ‘A toast,’ he says, his voice ragged from lack of use:
(17) No use, he thinks, no one to hear you. The glass settles on the table now.
(16) More raindrops hit the pane, smacking gently and loudly, gently and down,
(15) down, down like teardrops off his nose into stale, old champagne.
(14) ‘A toast,’ he repeats, this time with both less and more fervour;
(13) the glass hangs in the air too long and stays there too long
(12) so it stays there for long, not coming gently and loudly
(11) down, down, down on the age-weathered tabletop.
(10) Not to say he didn't have anything
(9) to say; on the contrary there was
(8) quite a bit. Gently and loudly,
(7) he takes a breath and drinks: down,
(6) down, down goes the champagne.
(5) It races through his
(4) throat like day dreams.
(3) His voice comes,
(2) down, down,
(1) ‘Pete.’
Author's Notes: So, did you catch that? Remus alone, before he takes the teaching position in PoA (this is probably sometime in the eighties), counting down to New Year's with a toast to an old friend who died a hero: Pete, Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew. Eh?