The Elegy of the Damned

Remus

England is gloomy and grey.

That’s the first thought running through Remus Lupin’s head as he watches rain slide down the car window in long, lazy streaks, the droplets racing each other toward the edge of the glass like they’re trying to escape.

He’s slouched in the backseat of Uncle Rembrandt’s hatchback, knees cramped beside his duffel bag, guitar case wedged tight against his leg like a trusted sidekick.

Up front, his dad and Uncle Rembrandt are in full history-nerd mode, trading facts about every monument and cathedral they pass like it’s some kind of academic showdown. His mum chimes in here and there, laughing as she points out a pub that’s apparently older than America.

Remus tunes it all out, not unkindly—he just needs a second to think. To breathe.

His headphones hang around his neck, silent for now. There’s something almost respectful about the quiet in this place, like cranking up The Stooges right now would be yelling in a museum.

So he watches the rain.

It’s not that he hates England. Not exactly.

Okay— maybe a little. But only because it isn’t home.

Not the home he knows with his eyes closed. Not the home where he could walk three blocks and buy the best bagel in the borough, where the subway groaned like an old friend, where music spilled out of every bodega and bar window.

He already misses it. The chaos. The rhythm. The city that lets you disappear and belong at the same time.

He misses the corner store guy who always gave him extra change.

The record shop on 3rd where he found his first Patti Smith vinyl and thought maybe, just maybe, music could save a person.

The food truck with the best falafel he’s ever had, and the sweet Hispanic family who set up shop outside 125th station selling cherry, mango, and coconut icees every summer.

He thought of the boys back home—their band had never been serious, not really. Just a couple of them jamming in basements, playing tiny sets in downtown bars for tips and cheap beer. But still, there’d been something sacred in it. In the way his friend Theo would always count in too fast, how Sam could never remember the bridge, how Jess sang like she’d been born with a cigarette in her throat and heartbreak in her back pocket.

They weren’t aiming for stardom. Just a moment. A feeling. A night when everything felt loud and right and theirs.

Remus missed that. The sweat-slicked walls of low-lit bars, the tangle of cables and chords, the way his fingers felt raw and perfect after hours of strumming. He missed the way they’d laugh until their ribs hurt, eat greasy fries on the curb outside Rudy’s, pass around a flask and talk about the world like it might actually listen.

They’d promised to keep in touch. And they would. But already, the ocean felt like a wall, and England—beautiful, grey, humming with history—felt too quiet in comparison.

He already knows he’s in for some serious culture shock, and it’s barely been twenty-four hours.

Everything here feels muted. Still. The roads are too clean. The buildings too orderly. Even the sky seems like it’s holding something back.

Tonbridge is just ahead. A proper English boarding school, full of rules and reputations, pressed uniforms and ancient traditions. Rosalie’s already there, and apparently she’s managed to make it tolerable, even fun. She says the girls’ side is more relaxed, that the food is bearable, that the boys won’t know what to do with him.

Remus isn’t holding his breath.

He’s not trying to shake anything up. He’s not trying to be anyone’s fascination.

He just wants to make it through the year. Play some music. Keep his head on straight.

Eighteen is the mark. Once he hits it, he’s free to head back to the States, maybe find a place with a gigging scene, maybe even get a flat above a dive bar and play sets for beer money and street cred.

Until then, this is it.

He leans his forehead lightly against the window and lets the rain tap against the glass in its quiet, steady rhythm.

England is gloomy and grey.

But maybe—if he squints hard enough—he can find something here worth tuning into.

“Remus!”

His mother’s voice pulled him gently out of his thoughts—not jarring, just bright, like sunlight cracking through a cloud.

“Look, darling, that’s where Uncle Brandt and I used to sneak into when we were kids.”

Remus glanced up in time to see a moss-covered wall and a crooked iron gate swallowed up by ivy. Beyond it, a field stretched out in soft shades of green and grey, mist curling between the trees like it belonged there.

“You used to sneak into… a field?” he asked, raising one eyebrow without moving the rest of his face.

“It wasn’t just a field,” Hope said with a grin, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. “There was an old manor house down that way—completely abandoned. We used to dare each other to go in after dark. Brandt chickened out every time.”

“I did not,” Uncle Brandt huffed from the driver’s seat, though his smile gave him away.

“You did,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You made me go in first and then screamed when a pigeon flew out of the chimney.”

Lyall chuckled in the passenger seat, warm and low. “I knew marrying into this family would be an adventure. Haunted manors and all.”

“You married in willingly,” Brandt said with mock solemnity. “No take-backs.”

Remus let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. This was what car rides always sounded like in his family—half-banter, half-memory, wrapped in laughter and the same five stories told a hundred different ways.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the strap of his guitar case where it leaned against his leg, the familiar shape grounding him more than the scenery outside ever could.

His mother turned halfway around in her seat, curls haloing her face, the sleeve of her jumper smudged with green paint. “You doing alright back there, moonbeam?”

He nodded, eyes still on the rain tracing soft lines across the window. “Yeah. I’m good.”

They passed a crooked little pub, roof sagging like it was too tired to hold its shape, a chalkboard out front declaring Curry Night Every Thursday! in swooping, confident script. Hope pointed again.

“That’s where your dad and I met my cousin Jane for dinner once. Worst shepherd’s pie of our lives.”

“Cardboard and peas,” Lyall added, with a dramatic shudder.

“I had two helpings,” Brandt offered with a shrug.

“Because you have the taste buds of a corpse,” Hope shot back, flicking his shoulder.

Remus snorted under his breath. They were all like this—his whole family. Playful, a little weird, effortlessly close. His parents weren’t strict, weren’t the type to hover or demand. But they noticed things. Paid attention in the quiet ways that mattered. They let him figure himself out at his own pace, trusted him to follow the beat of whatever drum he heard in his chest.

It made everything feel a little less sharp.

He settled back against the seat, letting the sound of their laughter roll over him. Outside, the landscape blurred by—stone fences, low hills, endless fields slick with rain.

England might be grey, sure. But with his parents in the front seat and his guitar at his side, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Not yet.

They pulled up to a narrow brick house on a quiet street tucked behind rows of lavender hedges and crumbling stone walls. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, soft and silver against the car windows. Remus recognized the place from photos his mum had shown him—something about the way the ivy curled around the doorway made it look like a storybook house that didn’t quite know it was real.

As soon as the car stopped, the front door flew open.

“Finally!”

Rosalie burst out onto the front step like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment. She wore bright blue flared jeans, an oversized band tee with some local group Remus didn’t recognize, and a long cardigan that trailed behind her like a cape. Her hair was tucked messily into two clips, and she grinned like someone who knew they were the best part of everyone’s day.

“Come on, moonbeam, out you get,” Hope said, already unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for one of the bags in the back.

Remus stepped out into the cool air and barely had time to shut the car door before Rosalie launched herself at him in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re so tall now,” she said, arms still wrapped around his shoulders. “You weren’t this tall last summer, were you?”

Remus gave a quiet laugh. “I think I was. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Rude,” she said, stepping back to squint at him. “You look cool as hell. Mum said you were going full New York rocker, but I didn’t believe her until now.”

He shrugged, adjusting the strap of his guitar case. “Gotta live up to expectations, I guess.”

“Well, mission accomplished.” She turned toward the house and waved them all in. “Come on, the kettle’s on and I made banana bread. You’re not allowed to insult it until you’ve tried it.”

Inside, the house was warm and a little chaotic—books stacked two deep on every shelf, records leaning against the fireplace, a half-finished painting propped up on the kitchen table. The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar hung in the air. It felt lived-in, real. Remus liked it immediately.

His parents and Uncle Brandt followed behind, already shedding coats and talking about where the moving van might be by now. Most of their things were still in boxes somewhere between New York and Oxford, but Hope had arranged for them to stay here for a couple of nights while the new house was sorted out. Remus wasn’t too fussed—he wouldn’t be around long enough to unpack anyway. In two days, he’d be leaving for Tonbridge with Rosalie.

Until then, he had banana bread, borrowed slippers, and the distant comfort of his mum’s laugh drifting in from the kitchen.

Rosalie led him upstairs to the guest room, which looked more like a storage closet someone had made peace with. There was a bed with mismatched sheets, a lava lamp on the nightstand, and a poster of David Bowie over the wardrobe.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said, shoving a stack of clothes off the chair by the window. “I told Mum not to use this room for overflow storage, but she never listens. Anyway, it’s yours now. Make yourself at home.”

He set his guitar gently in the corner and dropped his bag beside the bed. “It’s perfect,” he said, and meant it.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and looked up at him. “So… you ready for school?”

Remus snorted. “Not even slightly.”

“Good,” she said, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”

Later that evening, after dinner and stories and the kind of laughter that only happens when old family reunites in small, familiar kitchens, Rosalie nudged Remus with her elbow as they stood near the back door. She reached into the pocket of her cardigan with a conspiratorial smirk and pulled out a neatly rolled spliff, holding it between two fingers like it was a magic trick she’d been saving just for him.

Remus blinked, then broke into a grin, slow and wide.

“I don’t know if you’re too jet-lagged from traveling,” she said, lowering her voice like the walls might be listening, “but I thought—what better way to start off this new chapter than getting high?”

She giggled at her own suggestion, eyes dancing, and Remus laughed too, something in his chest loosening.

“My girl,” he said, and his smile held real affection.

He followed her through the kitchen and out the back door, passing their parents mid-conversation at the table. Hope was animatedly talking with a glass of red wine in hand, Lyall leaning back with a matching glass and the familiar twinkle in his eye that meant he was about to go on a long tangent about jazz theory. Uncle Brandt had already cracked open something stronger and was digging through the cabinet for snacks.

“We’re going to walk around the neighborhood a bit,” Rosalie called over her shoulder. “I’m showing Remus the area.”

“Don’t get caught trespassing like last time,” Brandt said without looking up.

“Bring me back some crisps if you stop at the corner shop!” Hope added, waving them off.

The adults didn’t even pause in their conversation, already winding deeper into another wine-soaked memory.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the pavement was still slick and shining under the low yellow glow of the streetlamps. The night air smelled like wet stone and blooming something—roses maybe, or jasmine. Remus shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as they walked side by side down the narrow lane, his body still buzzing faintly from the time shift but already starting to settle into this new, quiet rhythm.

Rosalie lit the spliff and passed it to him without a word.

He took a slow drag, exhaled, and for the first time since leaving New York, felt a little more like himself.

They turned down a side street lined with crooked lampposts and low stone walls, the kind of road that looked like it belonged in an old film reel—golden light, soft shadows, the occasional scurry of a fox across a garden path.

The spliff passed between them in silence for a while. The smoke curled up in lazy spirals, disappearing into the misty air. Remus tilted his head back as he walked, watching it vanish, his hands tucked deep in his jacket pockets.

“I think I’m still half on New York time,” he muttered.

“Better than being fully on Tonbridge time,” Rosalie said with a snort.

He laughed through his nose. “That bad?”

She glanced over at him with a crooked grin. “Nah, not really. Just… small. You’ll see. Everyone knows everyone. They’ll know you before your suitcase even hits the dorm floor.”

“Great,” he deadpanned. “Nothing I love more than being the foreign exchange student with a guitar and a denim jacket. That won’t draw attention at all.”

“Oh, they’ll eat it up,” she said, waving the joint casually as she spoke. “You’ll be the mysterious, brooding American in, like, a week. You’ll have people writing poetry about your leather boots and tragic aura.”

Remus snorted. “My aura’s not tragic.”

“Tell that to your cheekbones, darling.” She winked, then bumped his shoulder lightly with hers. “But seriously, you’ll be fine. Tonbridge is weird in the way schools get when they’ve existed for too long. There’s a lot of… history. Boys who think they’re royalty, girls who could run MI6, and teachers who’ve been there since the Crusades. But the music rooms are decent. The art studio’s a mess, but it’s got soul. And the woods behind the pitch? Magical. Literally. I swear I saw a ghost last year.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You’re high.”

“And you’re not?” she shot back, laughing. “Come on, I’m trying to prepare you. You’ve got to be ready. It’s not like New York—no one’s going to pretend to mind their own business. They’ll stare . They’ll ask questions. They’ll pronounce your name wrong. Just lean into it. Be a mystery. Scare them a little.”

He grinned, quiet and amused. “You’re making this sound like Hogwarts.”

Rosalie gasped. “You wish it was Hogwarts. Honestly, it’s more like The Breakfast Club but everyone’s in tweed and pretending not to be horny.”

That made him laugh harder than he meant to. She offered the spliff again and he took it, the edge of his nerves starting to wear down with each passing block.

Rosalie kicked a pebble down the pavement and let out a breath that fogged in the cool air. “You’ll be in my year, obviously. But on the boys’ side. We won’t see each other loads , but I’ll introduce you to some people. Lily’s brilliant. Marlene’s a menace. Mary’s sweet. And if anyone gives you shit, I’ll hex them.”

“You can’t do magic.”

“I can do emotional damage,” she said with pride. “Way more effective.”

Remus looked around at the unfamiliar street, quiet and old and damp, and thought—maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t be New York, but maybe there’d be music, and strange hallways, and people who surprised him. Maybe that would be enough.

He exhaled slowly, passing the joint back. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”

Rosalie grinned at him, wide and unstoppable. “Welcome to England, cousin.”

The morning Remus leaves for Tonbridge is damp and pale, the sky the color of unwashed linen. Mist hangs low over the hedges, softening the edges of the world. The house smells like toast and coffee, and someone’s burned the eggs.

Hope flits between the kitchen and the hallway, already halfway into a ramble about sending care packages and labeling laundry. She’s wearing a knitted jumper with a sun embroidered on the chest, sleeves pushed up, curls barely tamed. Her eyes are brighter than usual, which Remus knows means she’s trying not to cry.

Lyall stands by the table, nursing a mug of tea like it’s something stronger. He looks tired, but in that thoughtful way he gets sometimes—like his mind is already a few steps down the road Remus is about to take.

Rosalie’s waiting by the door with her coat on, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, pretending not to notice the family moment happening in slow motion behind her.

Remus checks his bag for the third time—guitar, books, Walkman, sketchpad, all there. He’s not nervous exactly, but something about the stillness of the morning makes it feel more real than it has until now.

Hope crosses the room and pulls him into a hug that smells like lavender and paint thinner. “Take care of yourself, moonbeam,” she whispers. “Don’t forget to eat, and write if you get lonely. And if anyone gives you trouble—”

“Just like Rosalie, I’ll hex them emotionally,” Remus finishes with a small smile.

She lets out a laugh that trembles at the end and kisses his forehead before stepping back, blinking a little too quickly.

Then Lyall sets down his mug and steps forward, quiet and calm in that way only he knows how to be. He places both hands on Remus’s shoulders, steady, grounding.

“You’ve got a good head and a better heart,” he says. “Trust them both.”

Remus meets his father’s eyes, trying to memorize the way he looks in this moment—soft and sure, even though Remus knows he’s holding just as much emotion as Mum, just hiding it better.

“But more than that,” Lyall goes on, “remember this—when the world tells you who to be, you don’t have to listen. You listen to the music . Always. The one that plays in here.” He taps gently against Remus’s chest. “That’s the only sound that matters.”

Remus nods, his throat a little tight. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. The words hang between them like a chord struck just right, reverberating in the air long after it’s played.

Outside, the car honks twice. Rosalie’s already halfway down the path, waving impatiently.

He slings his bag over his shoulder, presses one last look into the faces of the people who made him, and steps out into the mist.

The road to Tonbridge stretches ahead, unfamiliar and waiting.

But the music is already playing.