_______________________<br/><br/>Remus felt like he was on a different plane of existence. The dislocation between the camps from which he had just returned, and the sheer triviality of his local, muggle fish and chips shop was severe enough, that Remus didn't feel fully a part of reality. The darkness of a February afternoon did little to help Remus regain his footing, fully aware of the fact that they had made no effort in maintaining any sense of correcting his ruined circadian rhythm.<br/>Remus just stood on the pavement in front of the shop, blinking into the illuminated menus, waiting for their order to be made.<br/>Packed away behind several layers of clothing, Remus had gone quiet, though not out of discomfort. The tattered oilskin coat was heavy against his shoulders, and a large scarf and knitted hat both helped soften the cuts on his face and the bruised bags beneath his eyes.<br/>He had actively sought out the cold, much preferring to wait out front than to spend time inside the small shop. It was awkwardly between lunch and dinner rush, yet the sounds and smells were still enough to threaten Remus with a headache.