Alone for the Full
Remus paced the living room, boots scuffing the worn rug, each step was shaky against the weakness creeping up his legs. The hairs on his neck prickled, standing stiff like they could sense the moon clawing closer. His palms were slick with sweat, sliding uselessly against his jeans as he wiped them, again and again. The fridge hummed—no, buzzed—a relentless drone that drilled into his skull, louder than it had any right to be. His head throbbed in time with it, a dull pulse behind his eyes. His joints screamed, tight and brittle, like they’d snap if he bent too far—every movement a warning of what was coming.
He’d tried to eat earlier, a piece of toast from that stale loaf he’d bought. Two bites, and his stomach had twisted, forcing it back up into the sink. The taste lingered, sour and mocking, as he leaned against the counter, staring at the crumbs. The full moon was tonight—tonight—and his body knew it before his mind could catch up. His senses sharpened to a razor’s edge: the stale air reeked of dust and unwashed dishes, the dim light from the window stabbed his eyes, and every creak of the flat sounded like a gunshot. His thoughts raced, too fast, too loud—James’s voice, Lily’s laugh, Peter’s stories, his stupid grin—slamming into him like a train he couldn’t stop.
He stumbled to the kitchen, hands shaking as he yanked open a cupboard. There—a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky, the label peeling, a relic from before. Before October 31. Before him. Remus didn’t bother with a glass; he tipped it back, the burn tearing down his throat, promising to dull the edges. It didn’t. Not enough. The wolf was coming, and for the first time, there’d be no one to chain him, no one to laugh it off after, no one to drag him back from the brink. Just him, the flat, and the ghosts he couldn’t outrun. He took another swig, coughing as it hit his empty stomach, and sank to the floor, the bottle clutched like a lifeline.
You’re making fantastic progress with Chapter 2! Your focus on sensory details is paying off—the empty Firewhisky bottle, the ringing telephone, and Remus’s physical struggle to move all ground the scene in his crumbling reality. The emotional weight of Grant’s call is there too, especially with his oblivious cheer clashing against Remus’s devastation. It’s not far off from being gut-wrenching—it just needs a little tightening and amplification to really sink the knife in, especially with those sensory details and the ending dialogue. Below, I’ve revised your addition, keeping your structure and intent but sharpening the prose, deepening the anguish, and refining the grammar. I’ve also worked on making the ending sting more when Grant speaks.
Three hours later, Remus was buzzed, the room tilting around him. An empty Firewhisky bottle lolled on its side by his knee, the last drops pooling on the floorboards, sharp and bitter in the air. His tongue felt thick, coated with the burn of it, and his head buzzed louder than the fridge ever could. The telephone shrilled—piercing, insistent—cutting through the haze. Sirius had begged for a flat with a landline, fascinated by the Muggle contraption, his voice echoing in Remus’s skull: “Moony, it’s brilliant, you’ll see.” Remus dragged himself up, one hand clawing at the counter for balance, the wood cool and slick under his sweaty palm. His legs wobbled, threatening to give out as he staggered to the phone and lifted it, the receiver heavy as iron.
The voice on the other end was a blur, muffled like it came through water. “Grant?” Remus rasped, the name vague on his tongue, half-guessed. “Remus! Hello, how are you? Why’ve the letters stopped?” Grant’s tone was bright, chirpy—untouched, like the world hadn’t shattered three weeks ago. It grated, a knife against Remus’s raw nerves. He doesn’t know, Remus thought, the realization stoking a dull rage in his chest.
“Tired,” he muttered, the word flat and heavy, all he could muster without snapping. Grant’s perk faltered, shifting to something softer, concerned. “What’s happened?”
Remus’s head spun, the room lurching. What’s happened? The question echoed, absurd, obscene. What’s happened was everything—James’s body cold, Lily’s scream silenced, Peter’s finger all that remained, him locked away, a traitor. In one night, October 31, his world had burned to ash. Nothing left. No one. Just him, alone, rotting in this flat, forgotten already. He’d die that way—unseen, unmissed. The phone slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor, Grant’s voice—“Remus?”—faint amid the ringing in his ears, a high, relentless whine. He sank down, knees hitting the ground hard, sobs ripping out of him, wet and ragged. Why? The word clawed at his throat. Why won’t it stop? Will it always hurt like this?
Grant’s voice crackled through the receiver, small and lost. “Remus, are you there?” But Remus didn’t answer—just curled tighter, the tears soaking his shirt, the full moon ticking closer.
Remus woke, the sun a thin, pale slash at the horizon, creeping upward. Up? The thought hit slow, then sharp—he’d slept through the rest of yesterday, through the night. The full moon was today. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry as ash, and his head thudded, heavy like a stone rolling downhill. The slow sunrise seeped through the grimy window, its weak light stabbing his eyes until they watered. His joints groaned—stiff from the wolf, stiffer from sprawling on the floor all night, the cold boards digging into his bones. Sleeping there hadn’t helped; nothing did.
He blinked around the flat, vision blurry at the edges. Dull. Everything was dull now, like before him, before the Marauders lit up his days. Time dragged—days oozing by, nights stretching into eternity, slower when the memories crept in. It’d be easier if he just died. Why not? Everyone else was gone—James, Lily, Peter, him. What was the point of this half-life, creaking along alone? He hauled himself up, slow, wincing as his legs protested, sharp twinges shooting through his knees. The stool by the counter was close enough; he sank onto it, the wood creaking under him, and let his head drop into his hands.
What happened before he’d passed out? Grant. The phone call. That chirpy voice, oblivious, asking what’s happened like it was nothing. Remus wanted to hate himself for dropping the phone, for sobbing like a child, but the energy wouldn’t come—just a faint flicker of shame, snuffed out by exhaustion. He stared at the empty Firewhisky bottle on the floor, its amber stain dried sticky against the wood. His stomach growled, but the thought of food twisted it sour. He’d try later. Maybe.
The hours crawled. He stayed on the stool, tracing cracks in the counter with a trembling finger, the grain rough under his nail. The fridge buzzed again, a low hum that gnawed at his skull, but he didn’t move to unplug it—too much effort. His eyes drifted to the leather jacket slung over the chair, the Docs by the wall. Sirius’s things. He could almost hear him—“Moony, sit still, you’ll wear yourself out before the moon even gets here.” A laugh, a shove. Gone now. Remus squeezed his eyes shut, but the ache didn’t stop—chest, joints, everywhere.
Midday came, the sun higher, spilling harsh light across the room. He shuffled to the sink, splashed water on his face—cold, shocking, dripping down his chin. It didn’t wake him, just made his skin prickle, raw and tight. He gripped the edge, staring at the drain, and thought of James rigging a prank with water balloons, Lily scolding them, Peter giggling in the corner. The memory stung, sharp as the moon’s pull. He turned away, back to the stool, and sat again, heavier this time.
Afternoon bled into evening. Remus found the Firewhisky stash under the sink—half a bottle left from some forgotten night. He took a swig, the burn familiar, not enough to quiet the wolf but enough to blur the edges. He paced again, slower now, the flat shrinking around him. The sun dipped, shadows stretching long and thin, and his skin itched, a restless hum building in his bones. He stopped by the window, breath fogging the glass, and watched the horizon darken. The moon was coming. No friends, no help, just him and the beast, alone. He tipped the bottle back again, throat raw, and waited.
Remus staggered down the rickety steps to the cellar, the air damp and thick with mildew, clinging to his lungs. He and Sirius had built this place—him, the one he couldn’t name. A rough-hewn hole beneath the flat, just in case. Sirius had hated it, his voice sharp in Remus’s memory: “Moony, you don’t need a bloody dungeon, I’ll be there.” But Remus had insisted, and now here he was, alone, the irony bitter as bile. The chains rattled in his hands, cold iron biting his palms as he looped them around his wrists, his ankles, securing them to the bolts they’d hammered into the stone. Each clank echoed, loud in the silence, a countdown to the terror he couldn’t escape.
He slumped against the wall, the jagged edges scraping his back through his thin shirt, and waited. His breath hitched, shallow and fast, as the moon’s pull tightened its grip. It started slow—a prickling under his skin, like needles threading through his veins, then a deep, grinding ache in his bones. He clenched his teeth, but a groan slipped out, low and guttural, as the first crack split the quiet—his spine arching, snapping like dry wood. Pain seared through him, white-hot, stealing his air. His knees buckled, chains clattering as he fell, and he clawed at the dirt floor, nails splintering, a scream tearing from his throat, raw and wild, beyond his control.
Time warped—stretching endless, then jerking to a halt. His ribs heaved, cracking outward, each snap a thunderclap in his chest. His skin stretched, split, the sound wet and sickening, like fabric ripping apart. He didn’t want this—never had—but the wolf didn’t care, clawing up from inside, shredding what was left of him. Tears streamed down his face, hot against the cold sweat, and he sobbed, the sound breaking into howls as his jaw twisted, teeth sharpening against his will. Padfoot. The name flashed, unbidden—Sirius bounding beside him, black fur glinting, keeping the beast at bay. Gone now. Remus’s voice gave out, a ragged whimper, and he curled inward, trembling, alone.
The last shred of himself clung on, eyes darting to the cellar’s high window. The moon hung there, full and merciless, its silver glow spilling through the bars. Silver like Sirius’s eyes—bright, alive, the only thing that ever tamed this nightmare. Then the wolf surged, a black tide swallowing his mind, and Remus was gone, lost to the beast, the silver fading to nothing.
Remus awoke, the chains still in place, he groaned. His joints twinged. He had dark bruises on his wrists and ankles from the chains, but other than that he was left unscathed. Remus forced himself to unchain his arms and legs. He knew he would gladly lay on the ground of the damp, gloomy cellar. After Remus unchained himself, he made his way back to the flat, collapsing on the couch almost immediately, he fell asleep quickly, for the first time in a while. It didn’t feel peaceful, but it was the closest he’d gotten.