Chapter Text
1981
He had been away. Away. For months. Perhaps this was all his fault.
The parchment was sticking to his fingertips.
Remus blinked. Blood.
Someone was stirring behind him. She was. He didn’t look back at her, didn’t want to see her naked form clutching the bedsheets to her body, to see the bruises on the swell of her left breast, the mess of her curly hair (his hands pulling and twisting and tugging). He didn’t look as she stumbled from the bed, her bony bare feet plodding along the muted floor of their dingy flat. Their. Their Their.
A pair. Together. He and her.
When had his become hers?
It made him feel sick, as sick as the letter in his hands, as sick as the blood on his lips
Only months ago, his life had been shared with someone else. It was a different pair of lips he kissed, a different chest of hickeys - a man he curled around at night, who made him breakfast in the morning and guided him into the shower. A man, who lounged on his sofas and played his records, made herbal teas, and listened to Remus read his novels aloud.
She was humming obliviously in the bathroom. If Remus looked to the right he would see her tossing her afro hair over her shoulders, smiling in the mirror. Lips red and pouted. She put her hands against the porcelain of the sink, arching to angle her breasts into the mirror. The duvet dropped to the floor revealing the dimples of her shoulders, the line of her spine, the perfect curve of her ass. There was a hiss of satisfaction as she pressed against her bruises. But Remus did not look. He blinked again, his vision did not clear. His hands did not move from the parchment.
Their wash bags were in the cabinet of the mirror above the sink, she pulled it open, the image of herself distorting. Her bag was a purple floral, yellow zipped. His was a greyed blue, the fabric fraying and old, it was stained. It fit perfectly with the mouldy, dark cupboard, the peeling wallpaper throughout his flat, the cracked toilet seat, and the cold shower.
She pulled out her travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush and began to brush her teeth. They had only been home for a night and had not had the chance to buy essentials or fully unpack from their month-long trip to the mountains.
The broken tap's squeaking noise awoke Remus from his daze. His hands did not shake as he folded the letter and carefully slid it back into its envelope, which he placed on the end table beneath a dying vase of sunflowers.
It's November. He had not been home since September, he had not been home longer than a night or two since June. Possibly. He grazed a knuckle against a flower and a petal fell to the wooden table at his touch. He took a breath and turned, moving through the hallway into the bathroom.
He stood in the doorway, watching her. Watching her hips and thighs, the shake of her body as she brushed her teeth, the lean forward as she spat into the sink before resuming brushing. He moved to stand behind her. She sighed blissfully around her toothbrush as his hands came to her shoulders before moving slowly, ever so slowly trailing down her body until they rested just below her hips. There were marks of brown-red-brown blood in his wake. No
He squeezed hard and she groaned. He pushed her into the rim of the sink, body crowding her, chapped lips attaching to the back of her neck, her hair brushing his face, thick and dark and hiding, hiding, hiding.
It was knotting in a clump around his nose.
She laughed a moan. “Merlin, you feel good, baby.”
The endearment made him pause, replace his lips with his forehead, and lessen the pressure of his palms perceptibly. He was heaving breaths against her neck.
She frowned into the mirror, pouty and plump lips twitching down, overplucked eyebrows drawing together. She turned in his grasp. Her long fingers pressed into his cheeks and she lifted his head from her body, of which it had stayed pushed against as she had turned - her neck to her upper side to her chest.
She gasped.
“Remus,” she said, fingertips against his cheek, “Remus. You’re bleeding.”
His mouth formed an oh but the sound never came out. He pulled himself away from her, harshly, suddenly, as if he was a bee reluctant to sting. He looked above her shoulder and into the mirror. His nose was pouring, his lips were crusted with blood. He had been tasting it for goodness knows how long. Detached, he brought his hands to his face, he looked down and they were bloody. He looked to her, to his companion, and saw the marks he had left across her skin. Marks from then, marks from the night before, some marks days old and only just yellowing.
She pushed her hands against his shoulders and sat him on the toilet, Remus had no choice but to cooperate. His knees bent of their own accord. She pressed the last of his toilet roll into his hands and, gently, pushed his head forward.
“Pinch,” she said softly. She was ever so soft, crouched on the floor in front of him, watching his eyes and nose through his scraggly hair.
But then she stood, disappearing from Remus’ vision and he felt a sudden hollowness. A pointlessness to pinching his nose to stop the bleeding, a tiredness, a defeat. A sudden wash of grief.
Why hadn’t he been here? It should have been him, what exactly he doesn't know, he hasn’t worked out the details, but it should have been him, he should have been here and involved and connected.
“Dorcas,” he said and she appeared before him again, now clothed. A nightdress, long and silky, it would have been beautiful if not for the holes and fraying edges. Thirty-odd days by his side and she was already being torn apart.
Because that is what Remus does. He finds the good and attaches himself to it, under some guise of love or hope, selfish attachment, and sinks his dirty claws in until good is warped into something else entirely. Imprisonment. Murder. Death.
Maybe his Da had been right.
“You are what you eat,” he would say, winking at a small, red-cheeked Remus as his mother stood by the stove.
For months, Remus had been eating Greyback’s words and werewolves’ supper.
“Dorcas,” He repeated. And she lifted his chin until their eyes were meeting. She smiled reassuringly.
“Just a nosebleed,” She said.
She cleaned his face until it was free from blood and this was the most careful she had ever been with him, the most sweet anyone had been in months. The most cared for he had felt since Sirius.
Sirius, he thought in a mixture of guilt and resentment.
Once his face was clean and he had calmed himself slightly, he stood from the toilet, he was so much taller than her. He didn’t want to worry her just yet, didn’t want her to feel the breaking of his self, to suffer through the cracking of her own heart. He leaned down and pulled her into a kiss. He smiled into it the best he could and pulled her hands up to his neck.
“Thank you,” he mumbled sincerely. “Bed.”
She began to pull away, oppose him somehow. But his hands moved beneath her nightdress and she could not deny him.
With his knee wedged between her legs, and their mouths pressed together, Dorcas let him push her out of the bathroom and towards the bed. She fell back breathlessly.
He encompassed her.
An hour later, he detangled himself from her body, she tried to cling to his chest, hands sleepily pawing at him. He hushed her, stepping away from the bed and into a pair of trousers.
“Just going to the shops,” he said, “We need milk and bread - breakfast at least.”
“How much?” she began, but he silenced her again.
“Back to sleep, “ Remus ordered and Dorcas’ eyes were half closed as she watched him stumble out of the flat.
The old lady opposite was collecting her post as he left, “You look a sight, deary,” she tutted. Remus could only glare black.
There was this aching to his body, exhaustion due to an accumulation of things. Under usual circumstances, perhaps Remus would have been halfway to Dumbledore by now, demanding to see Harry, demanding answers and a visit to Azkaban. But Remus was exhausted, his brain worked barely enough to form his shopping list and he had yet to process the news. James and Lily were dead. Sirius in Azkaban? He could laugh at the thought.
And what about Peter?
Shaky hands rooted through his threadbare coat pockets. One left. He pulled the cigarette to his lips and waving his hands, lit it - barely. He inhaled, but the nicotine did little to calm him.
The walk to the shop was short but cold and windy. Remus detested London. On the way, he counted his change, which he was sure was the last of his money. It was easy to fall back into his routines. There was yet to be a divide between before and after. He was still in the past - before Halloween, before coming home, before facing the chaos. It was with this ease that on the way back home he made polite conversation with the old lady opposite - who, oddly, had yet to return to her flat. She was strange, this wasn’t uncommon for her.
Sirius used to adore her and she returned the sentiment. So much so that Remus thinks she hangs outside their flat waiting for Sirius to pop out.
It was with this ease and composure (ignorance) that he twisted his key into the door, and pushed it open whistling a tune. Dropped the shopping bag on the kitchen side. Began unpacking the bread and butter and milk.
He didn’t notice the odd stillness of the place until he turned around. The sofa-turned bed opposed the kitchen and Dorcas was sitting on the edge of it, her beautiful, round eyes red and raw.
The letter was in her fisted hand.
Remus’ mouth parted, ready to provide an explanation.
“How dare you,” she said, pushing past the lump in her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Remus was well practised at hiding things, it wasn’t often he told anyone anything. Remus let himself be bossed around, let people tell him whatever was needed, let people guess and figure things out. It wasn’t out of laziness, it was out of fear - fear of being wrong or facing a bad reaction. It wasn’t laziness, it was cowardice.
“I didn’t-”
Her palms were on his chest within seconds, pushing and beating, she had sprung from her place. He held his arms useless in the air, he did not try to restrain her. Dorcas was looking at him through distraught eyes and puffy lips - she had showered, her hair was wet and dripping down her clothes and skin, and her face was rid of any debris that had remained from their excursion to the mountains. Their Order mission that had taken him away.
She stopped as quick as she started, fists opening, her palms hovering above the fabric of his t-shirt. She wasn’t touching him - Remus thought she was disgusted with him.
He tried to reach out as she sobbed, tried to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer, but Dorcas stepped away before he could touch her.
The letter was crumpled at their feet.
She was searching for something, hurrying between the bathroom and the main room, pushing the bed blankets around, and reaching beneath the cushions. Once she found her wand, which was lost under the bed. She pulled on her walking boots by the door, not looking at Remus. He had not moved since the rejection of his touch.
He watched her walk out, pyjama-clad, dripping hair, and no socks, with only her wand.
She was gone for seconds before he crumpled to the floor, picking up the letter and reading it over and over again.
It was a while before he picked himself up - physically not emotionally. Remus doubted he would ever be able to pick himself up from the loss of his friends, especially not today when it was crushing him. Suffocating him. Choking him to death. He wondered if they had felt pain in their last moments if they felt the Earth-shattering sorrow he does now. He wonders if they had been scared - had they had the time to be scared? He wants to know how it happened, every detail, yet at the same time, he wishes he could feign blissful ignorance.
He does not think of Sirius.
Remus is known for his logic, his calmness. He is known for having a clear head and a plan. And this natural disposition for creating clear steps in his mind is what leads him to get up. First, stand. Second, walk to the kitchen. Third, take out a glass. Four, fill it. And so on it goes
The night is harder than the afternoon. It’s lonely and cold as Remus’ building has no heating and he refuses to use more than one blanket. The other is Dorcas’ and, well, Remus thinks that currently, she would be less than pleased to see him curled up in her belongings. The only other blanket in the flat is folded up under the bed, a striped black and green made from thick wool. It is perhaps the most comfortable thing in the world. It is Sirius’.
Remus cries and cries and cries.
The day that follows passes rather quietly - too quietly.
Remus doesn’t leave the flat. He doesn’t eat, but he sleeps -in short bursts off and on.
This means he doesn’t sleep that night, his activity of choice is blank staring at the wall. He can’t remember thinking or not thinking or checking the time. The world is blurry, he feels like he’s blending in, a camouflaged smudge on his sofa.
He hears a key turning in the front door in the early hours of the next morning. When he pulls his eyes away from counting the cracks in his kitchen tiles, Dorcas is standing staring at him, with her big, sorrowful eyes.
“I know, baby,” is all she says, before she’s cradling him in her arms. Remus is much larger, with broad shoulders, far more muscular, but she carries his weight effortlessly, smoothing her hand over his curls, the other hand on his back.
He bites her neck and she pulls him into a kiss. It isn’t soft.
Remus Lupin and Dorcas Meadowes aren’t the greatest love story but they're all each other has in the world. So, for now, Remus will drown himself in Dorcas’ moans, let her kiss his bruises as if her mouth is their antidote, he will cling to her like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.
She makes breakfast - a feast of beans on toast - for them both. She pulls Remus off the sofa and to the kitchen table made for two. There’s an ash tray in the middle, next to a vase of dead flowers. She’s filled two glasses with the orange juice which Remus bought on his shopping trip as a luxury. She sits him in his dining chair and forces a knife and fork into his hand and watches from the other side of the table. It’s only when he’s halfway through his plate that she herself starts eating.
Like him, Dorcas’ eyes are dead. There are dark bruising smudges and her eyelids are drooping. But there’s something else in the red rims of her eyes and the flush of her cheeks.
Remus tells himself it’s just the sex.
After breakfast, they go to bed. And she holds him to her chest and pushes her fingers through his hair and talks in a soft voice until he sleeps.
It’s domestic in an awful way.
On the fourth day, Minerva McGonagall visits. Her face is as hard as stone and it does not soften upon seeing the state of Remus’ flat - dirty, messy. There are plates everywhere, neither of them had bothered to wash up. The rubbish hasn’t been taken out, only piled up on the kitchen counter. The bed has returned to its sofa form, but it is covered in blankets and unwashed clothes. It is a tip and Remus and Dorcas feel ashamed as soon as she steps inside.
Dorcas clears a seat for her on the sofa, whilst Remus stands welcoming her in the hallway. He asks to take her coat; she declines.
“I won’t be staying long.”
Dorcas is hovering in the living room as Remus leads her through. She looks so nervous, and off-kilter. The only comfort he can give is to take her hand and intertwine their fingers. McGonagall glances at their joined hands. She is watching their every move, scrutinizing, and it’s not difficult to work out why.
“Tea, Rem?” Dorcas asks.
McGonagall’s eye twitches.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Professor?”
“Black.”
Hesitantly, Remus sits next to McGonagall on the sofa. Nothing is quite as humiliating as your ex-professor seeing you living in a hovel. She looks at him and for a second she softens. She places her hand on his wrist.
In the kitchen, Dorcas is washing up two mugs.
“I don’t often keep in contact with students after they leave my classroom,” McGonagall starts, “but we’re connected with something other than teaching. The Order. You’re not my student anymore, Mr. Lupin, you’re my peer.”
Remus frowns but nods along. “It’s an honor for you to think so, professor.”
Her lips twitch. `There’s a get-together next month for remembrance. Poppy and I are hosting and we do hope you and Miss Meadowes come along. A lot of the Order will be there - those who are still here.”
Those who are still here. The phrase seems to echo in Remus’ mind. He doesn’t suppose there are many who are still here, Remus isn’t entirely sure he himself is still all there. Pieces lost, happiness lost, laughter gone, family and friends dead. He can’t be entirely there without them all, it would make no sense.
Maybe having a physical body isn’t the definition of alive.
People can live without their souls, the Dementors performing the Kiss have proved that. Remus almost wishes he had been kissed rather than deal with the grief the war has left him with.
He squeezes his hands together. Dorcas clears her throat quietly, “I don’t know if we’ll be making that,” she says almost whispering.
McGonagall nods. “Have you spoken to Albus about the funeral arrangements?”
Remus doesn’t like the change in topic.
Dorcas perches on the arm next to Remus, “Funeral arrangements?”
“For James and Lily.”
Remus wants to growl at her for even daring to say their names. Dorcas’ hand is on his shoulder and he wants to shrug it off - he does. Before he even realises, he is standing up awkwardly and staring at them. His breath is stuck in his throat.
McGonagall leaves after instructing them how to contact Dumbledore - apparation coordinates to Dumbledore’s home in the mountains and the times he is usually home.
Dorcas takes Remus’ hand and pulls him close. The redness of her eyes had gone. “We can do this,” she says. “We have to.”
Remus shakes his head softly. The flat is dark, the lights haven’t been switched on in days, the curtains are pulled. He breathes in the smell of his unwashed self. He tuts and shakes his head more determinedly. “I can’t organise a funeral,” he said, “not theirs.”
Dorcas squeezes his hand so tightly it hurts. She looks into his eyes. “I’m here,” she promises, “we’ll do this together.”
Remus wishes he could comfort her in return, but he has nothing left to give. He is hollow and empty, a shell of despair. Anything he could give her would only proceed to hurt.
The day before the funeral, Remus finally plucks the courage (and energy) to visit Dumbledore. Well, saying it that way suggests it was a planned visit when in reality, it was not.
He throws himself out of bed and picks up his wand and before he knows it he’s stood outside of an old cobbled bungalow. Steam is floating through the chimney. The off-white curtains in the windows are drawn and the porch light is off.
Remus stands for a second and debates. Ultimately it’s the hot, fiery rage spinning in electrocuting circles inside his head that forces his bare feet towards the wooden front door. He raises his fist to bang against the door but it opens before his hand makes contact.
Albus Dumbledore is standing in a long, star-print nightgown, a sleeping cap atop his head. Despite his night attire, he doesn’t look tired. His half-moon glasses are perched on the edge of his nose.
“Where is he?” This is Remus’ demand. He repeats it stood on Dumbledore’s doorstep, heated and manic. Crazed. “Where is he? Where is he?”
“Why don’t you come in Remus?” Dumbledore attempts to soothe. “We can talk about this calmly. I’ll fetch us some tea.”
But Remus isn’t listening. “Where is he?” He repeats again, for what might be the sixth or seventh time, his voice is starting to sound desperate. “Where are they?”
“Come in, Remus, come in and calm down.” Dumbledore is looking at him like one might look at a sad child, his stare is hollowing Remus by the minute.
“Where are they?” He says for the final time. “Please,” he begs.
His bare feet hurt from the hardwood beneath them. He is cold in his threadbare pyjamas and tears are streaming down his face. Once, Remus thinks he would have been ashamed. But Remus has no room in his heart for shame, only grief and its outpour.
During the war, he felt like a tree in the wind. At the start, it was breezing through his branches, invigorating him, pushing him on. And then he was swaying, rocky and wary, but still stable. Still determined. Still holding himself up and moving with the wind, not against it. But soon it was a hurricane, breaking his spine. Fracturing. And now he was disconnected from the base of his trunk, a clean snap, his inner rings exposed to the elements. He is led on the ground, his stability behind him.
“It’s all your fault,” Remus cries. He’s vaguely aware he’s waving his middle finger in DUmbledore’s face. “You did this to them. You killed them.” The thought is looping in his head. “How could you?”
Dumbledore does not react and yet Remus recoils at the look in his eyes. Perhaps it is warning. You’re pushing your luck, Remus. Perhaps it is recognition. I’m to blame, I agree.
The old man moves back and gestures to the house behind him.
Remus steps into Dumbledore’s house defeated. He has plush carpets and a brick fireplace. The armchair Dumbledore guides him to is soft and well-used, and Remus sinks into it. It is the most comfortable thing he has felt in a long time. Months.
Dumbledore waves his wand and a tea set comes floating through an archway to Remus’ left. The dainty teacups place themselves on saucers on the coffee table: the pot fills them smoothly.
“Please,” Remus whispers. “I need to know.”
Dumbledore sighs. “I can’t give you Harry. He is safe with his muggle family. They will look after him and give him the peaceful childhood he deserves, out of the spotlight.”
Remus collapses into himself, his head in his shaking bone-thin hands. He hadn’t even thought of caring for Harry or seeing Harry. He wanted him to be safe, was preying, and hoping that wherever he was he was happy. But he didn’t want to care for him full time. He could never step into James’ shoes, not with who and what he is. Dumbledore is still talking to Remus, about Harry’s safety, of his family, of how Remus would make a poor guardian.
It is at this moment Remus Lupin decides he never wants children.
“I don’t want Harry,” Remus says.
“Sirius,” Dumbledore mutters knowingly. Remus’ eyes widen at the name. The name he and Dorcas never say, haven’t said since they got together, the name Remus thinks over and over like a chant.
There is ash in Remus’ mouth. “What happened?” His voice is croaky.
“Black was sentenced yesterday to a lifetime in Azkaban for conspiring with the Dark Lord and committing countless crimes against the Ministry - breaking the Peace Amendment Act of ‘73. In simpler terms, Black was sentenced for being a Death Eater and for confiding in You-Know-Who the location of James and Lily.”
“Stop calling him Black,” Remus protests, but his words are weak. “He’s not one of them.”
Dumbledore must see something in Remus’ gaze for he softens perceptibly. “My apologies, Remus, I know you cared for him. I mean to say Sirius.”
It’s all in the past tense. Remus’ head is throbbing, he doesn’t think he can do this.
“No,” he says. It’s his instinct. “It wasn’t him, he wouldn’t.”
There is pity in Dumbledore’s eyes. It is loud and clear. “I know this is a hard pill to swallow, my boy. I know how difficult it is to accept the one you love is dark, but it is fact. And you will learn to live with it the best you can.”
Remus shakes his head in his hands. The world is quaking at his feet. His knees are jumping wildly and he is breaking down in his headmaster’s living room. “Please, please, please.”
“Sirius is a Black, Remus, it would have been a miracle for him to escape his fate.”
Remus begs and begs.
“Time.” Is the last thing Remus remembers Dumbledore saying before he wakes up in a twin-sized bed with a pounding headache and tear stains on his face.
He feels groggy and dazed.
It is the strangest morning Remus has ever lived. He feels like some long lost warden of Dumbledore’s. They breakfast together, awkwardly. Remus can stomach little and Dumbledore hums awful cheery tunes to himself. They’re sat opposite on a round table smaller than even the one Remus has in his flat. There are flowers in the middle and birds tweeting outside the kitchen window.
Remus washes in Dumbedore’s bathroom and looks in Dumbledore’s mirror and uses what is probably Dumbledore’s shampoo.
Remus inhales the oddity, it’s a hilarious distraction from what is to come.
When he returns to the bedroom he woke in, there is a black suit at the end of the bed. He puts it on slowly. First thing he shirt, he counts the buttons and loops them through their holes. His hands are unexpectedly steady.
Dumbledore is waiting for him in the lounge. Remus is filled with distrust and anger, he wants to scream at Dumbledore - scream that it was all his fault and he should have done something .
But then Remus remembers his own war crimes and pushes that anger back in his head.
As soon as Remus is ready to leave, they do in a mournful silence to the church in Godric’s Hollow. Remus hadn’t known they had lived there. His stomach is sinking.
Remus is staring at the grand church, looking at the stone pillars and colourful glass murals. They depict Godric Gryffindor in various stages of his life, many of his achievements. It is only fitting that James and Lily, who died bravely and valiantly, were buried in his graveyard. Dumbledore leaves Remus alone, seeing McGonagall in the distance.
Whilst he is admiring, a woman appears at his side. Remus looks down. Mary is a whole foot shorter than him and yet she looks stronger. Her feet are steady in their tall black heels and her face holds a sombre gravity. She looks up at Remus, through the top of her tall veiled black hat. Her eyes are red.
“I thought Marlene’s would be the last,” Mary says.
They’re both looking towards the church, where there is a crowd of people dressed in black waiting for the service to begin.
It has been a while since Remus thought of Marlene. She would be ashamed of Sirius.
“Me too,” he says.
There’s a breeze and Mary’s short, floaty dress sways.
“I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you,” Mary starts. Remus couldn’t care about whatever she says. “But, please Lupin, Dorcas is all I have left.”
Remus wants to scoff. Me too, he thinks. What about me?
“My family are dead,” Mary continues. “I watched my six year old brother and ten year old sister be buried in the ground, then my mother and father. I identified what was left of their bodies and dressed them in their caskets. And then I lost Gideon.” She pauses and looks him in the eye. “Lily and Marlene and Dorcas were my only family left. I don’t think I can bare to bury another sister.”
She heaves a breath, still maintaining eye contact. “But I have to. For Dorcas and for Gideon’s family. And you have to continue too.”
Remus only nods confused. He doesn’t understand the purpose of this lecture. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere.
“We won’t forgive you if you don’t.” Then she smiles, serenely, and links her arm through his. “Dorcas has been waiting for you.”
Dorcas leaps at him outside the church. She throws her arms around his neck and clings to him, as if he had been gone weeks, not barely eight hours. Remus thinks he feels her sniffle into his neck. Unlike Mary’s short dress and thigh high heels, Dorcas is wearing what Remus can only describe as a gown. She looks ethereal, powerful, something akin to a regency era princess. Her hair is tamed and pulled back behind her neck. He can feel the cool touch of her multitude of rings against his skin.
She whispers something into his neck that Remus doesn’t catch but he gathers the sentiment by the kiss she leaves in her words’ wake. Mary is glaring at him over Dorcas’ shoulders. So he forces his arms to encase Dorcas’ body. He hides his treacherous face in her hair. It’s a habit by now, in their months they’ve spent together.
Dorcas will whisper those three god awful words and Remus will bury his face in her hair, breathing in her ever-changing scent. Sometimes, in the worst of times, she smells of blood and grime and sweat; in the best of times, she is citrus and pretty and heavenly. Remus is not religious anymore, he lost his belief through the war, but if he still carried the notion in his head, he would swear Dorcas was an angel sent to Earth, his angel.
His mother would agree. If she was alive now, Remus had no doubt Hope would adore her. She would be demanding Remus bring her to Sunday lunches. She would show her the sheep and take her for a walk about the field. After lunch, she would pull the baby album off the fireplace and recount Remus’ most embarrassing childhood stories.
Just like she had done with Sirius - perhaps she wouldn’t have been so kind to Dorcas.
Remus supposes his mother’s death was the beginning of their breakdown. He can remember believing he and Sirius were a stone wall, their bricks aligned perfectly and they were strong another to weather the harshest winds. But then soon enough they were dressed in black and Remus was throwing his wine - Sirius was pulling Remus’ tie - James was intervening…
Remus breathed deeper into Dorcas. James Potter would never intervene in Remus’ life again. He would never talk more sense into him, force him to see reason when he was being a prat. He would never hold Remus’ hand after a fight, pull him back together after a bad full moon. He would never laugh again or smile or moon over Lily. Remus regrets every time he had told James to shut up. He wishes he had said, more, James, keep talking, say more, I want to hear everything you have to say.
It makes Remus feel sick.
Dorcas pulls away and slips her fingers between his. She looks him in the eyes. “Where have you been?” She asks.
Remus says, “Dumbledore,” and she nods. “They’ve locked him away.”
Dorcas shakes her head softly. Her eyes are harsh, there is always a cold look about her when Sirius is mentioned, even before Lily and James had died. Remus wasn’t entirely sure on their history, but he doubted any positivity.
She starts to walk inside, tugging her with him. Remus looks to the sky before following. It is the last prayer he will ever make. Even if he doesn’t know who exactly he is praying to, certainly not a god he doesn’t believe him, most likely the dead - but who exactly, he isn’t entirely sure.
Inside the church, Remus sees Petunia Evans sat at the very back, oddly stiff on her pew. She has a baby sitting on her lap. Remus’ heart lurches when he sees the lightning shaped scar on his forehead.
Remus leaves Dorcas to get their seats. He stops in front of Petunia. She is stoic and says nothing to him.
Despite this, Remus crouches in front of Harry, whose eyes light up at his face.
“Moo,” he babbles, reaches for Remus. Small hands find themselves gripping at Remus’ shirt. Remus brushes his knuckle down the side of Harry’s pudgy face.
“He prongslet,” Remus manages a small, sad smile. “I’ve missed you, buddy.” He feels the urge to cry. “You’ll be okay, I know you will. Don’t forget your Uncle Remus, aye. I’ll miss you, I will, I promise. I wish things could be different. You’ll be okay Harry. I love you, I promise.”
There are tears on Remus’ cheeks and he steps away. “Look after him,” he orders Petunia, who doesn’t even acknowledge him.
Remus hears Harry cry for him as he turns and walks away for the last time
He sits down and Dorcas leans her head on his shoulder.
The service commences.
While they were granted peace, six feet below the ground, holding hands in a wooden casket, Remus was stuck seated on top, fingers clawing at the dirt, knowing he would never be beside them again. He would never feel the weight of James’ arms around him, the softness of Lily’s cheeks beneath his lips, the silk of her hair between his fingers. The casual comfort they both brought him was gone.
It’s 1981 and Remus wishes he was in the 70s.