Highway to Nowhere

Remus spent the next day trying not to think about the letter. He failed miserably.

It was folded neatly in his pocket now, pressed against his thigh like a brand. He hadn’t written back yet—hadn’t even decided if he would—but something about having it with him made it easier to breathe. As if keeping it close meant he still had time to figure out how he felt.

Not that he’d had much time to himself. Between classes, James, Sirius, and Peter had been glued to his side, insisting he was still too "frail" from the full moon to do things like carry his own books or—God forbid—walk to class unaccompanied.

"It’s embarrassing," Remus had grumbled as James grabbed his bag before he could.

"It’s heroic," James had corrected. "Like a war veteran returning to the battlefield after a grievous injury."

"More like a stray cat recovering from a fight," Sirius had added, ruffling Remus’ already-messy hair.

And because arguing with them was pointless, Remus had let them fuss over him until the last bell rang.

By the time dinner rolled around, he was exhausted—not physically, but mentally. His head hurt from pretending he was fine, from acting like everything was normal when he felt like the ground beneath him had tilted just slightly.

Sirius must have noticed.

"Come on," he said, nudging Remus in the ribs as the four of them reached the Great Hall. "You look like you’re two seconds away from hexing someone. Let’s get out of here."

James raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly are you taking our delicate war veteran?"

"Somewhere quieter," Sirius answered vaguely, already steering Remus toward the doors. "Don’t wait up."

Remus didn’t protest. He didn’t have the energy.

They ended up outside, the crisp evening air wrapping around them as they made their way toward the courtyard. It was nearly empty at this hour, the usual clusters of students long gone in favor of dinner and warmth.

Sirius plopped himself down on a stone bench, stretching his arms out across the back. "Alright, Moony. Spill."

Remus exhaled through his nose, leaning against one of the pillars. "Spill what?"

Sirius gave him a flat look. "The thing that’s got you all twisted up. And don’t say it’s nothing, because you’ve been about five seconds away from combusting all day."

Remus hesitated. He should’ve expected this—Sirius was a lot of things, but oblivious about everything wasn’t one of them. He’d noticed the way Remus had been quieter than usual, how he’d barely engaged in James’ dramatics, how he hadn’t even rolled his eyes when Peter had gone on a tangent about some new sweets from Honeydukes.

"You really wanna know?" Remus asked, already knowing the answer.

Sirius spread his arms wide. "That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?"

Remus sighed, running a hand through his hair before pulling the letter from his pocket. He hesitated for a second before handing it over.

Sirius took it, unfolding the parchment carefully.

"Again?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were hoping his handwriting would improve with more readings."

Remus snorted. "Not likely."

Sirius skimmed the letter again, though he didn’t read it aloud this time. When he finished, he leaned back, tilting his head up toward the sky. "Alright," he said. "So you haven’t written back yet."

"No."

"Are you going to?"

"I don’t know."

Sirius hummed, twirling the letter between his fingers. "You never talked about him before."

"There wasn’t much to say," Remus replied, folding his arms over his chest.

Sirius gave him a look. "Clearly, there was."

Remus clenched his jaw. He didn’t know why this was so hard to talk about. Maybe because Grant had been a part of a life he’d locked away, a life that felt too raw to share with people who had always had families, always had homes that weren’t temporary.

"He was just… a friend," he said finally. "We grew up together. Same children’s home, same mess."

Sirius nodded, waiting.

"We looked out for each other," Remus continued. "When I got sent away to Hogwarts, he was the only person I felt bad about leaving."

Sirius was quiet for a moment, considering. "So you’re upset because he didn’t tell you when he got adopted?"

Remus exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. "Yes. No. I don’t know."

Sirius smirked. "Solid answer, mate."

Remus shot him a dry look.

Sirius sobered. "It makes sense," he said. "You don’t like change unless you’re in control of it. And this? This was a big one. And you didn’t get a say."

Remus looked down, scuffing his shoe against the stone floor. "He was the only real person who got it," he admitted. "Everyone else came and went. But he was always there."

Sirius nodded, his expression unreadable. "And now he’s not."

Remus swallowed, looking away.

They sat in silence for a while, the cool wind threading through the courtyard, rustling the bare branches of the trees.

Finally, Sirius spoke again. "You should write back."

Remus huffed a laugh. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Sirius said. "Even if it’s just to tell him he’s a tosser for waiting this long."

Remus snorted. "Tempting."

Sirius grinned, bumping his shoulder against Remus’. "You’ll figure it out, Moony."

Remus nodded, staring down at the letter in his hands. The words felt less heavy now, the edges less sharp.

Maybe, just maybe, Sirius was right.

Maybe it was time to stop carrying ghosts alone.

They stayed in the courtyard longer than either of them had planned, sitting in the kind of comfortable silence that only came after years of knowing someone. The sky had deepened into a navy blue, the stars blinking awake, but neither of them made a move to leave.

Sirius exhaled, tilting his head back against the stone bench. “You know, Moony, for someone who claims not to have had much of a life before Hogwarts, you sure seem haunted by it.”

Remus stiffened. “I wouldn’t call it haunting.”

Sirius side-eyed him. “No?”

“No.” Remus ran his fingers along the edge of the letter, debating whether or not to fold it up again. “It’s just… unfinished.”

Sirius hummed thoughtfully. “Still. Must’ve been nice, having someone like that before you got stuck with us.”

Remus hesitated before answering. “It was different.”

“Different how?”

“He wasn’t like you lot.”

Sirius laughed. “Obviously. If he was, I’d have heard about him ages ago.”

Remus gave a small shrug, choosing his words carefully. “I mean… he didn’t care that I was a werewolf, but he also didn’t make it his mission to fix things for me.”

Sirius made a face. “Oi, that’s a dig at James, isn’t it?”

Remus smirked despite himself. “Just a little.”

Sirius huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, excuse us for giving a damn.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Remus said quickly. “You lot—James, Peter, you—you always wanted to help. You wanted to find a way to make things better. And I—I appreciate it. More than I can say. But Grant was different. He just… let things be what they were.”

Sirius considered that, nodding slowly. “Sounds like a bit of a pessimist.”

“Realist,” Remus corrected. “He saw the world for what it was and didn’t waste time hoping for things that weren’t possible.”

Sirius scrunched his nose. “That’s bleak, mate.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “Maybe. But at the time, it made sense.”

Sirius looked over at him then, his usual smirk absent. “Do you still think like that?”

Remus didn’t answer right away. He thought about it. About how much had changed since first year, since meeting Sirius, James, and Peter. About how different things might have been if he’d never left the children’s home, if he’d never met them.

“No,” he said eventually. “Not entirely.”

Sirius let out a breath, nodding once like that was the right answer.

For a moment, they just sat there, the quiet stretching between them. Then Sirius nudged Remus’ shoulder with his own.

“So,” he said. “Are you going to tell me why this has you all tied in knots?”

Remus frowned. “I already did.”

“No, you told me the what. Not the why.”

Remus inhaled sharply through his nose. “Sirius—”

“Because from where I’m sitting,” Sirius went on, “this is a letter from an old friend who you haven’t seen in years. And yeah, maybe he should’ve told you when he got adopted, but you’re acting like this is something else entirely.”

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it.

Sirius waited.

Remus could have told him then. Could have said the truth plainly, let it settle between them like fresh snow.

But instead, he exhaled through his nose, stood up, and stretched. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”

Sirius groaned, letting his head fall back against the bench dramatically. “Oh, come on. That’s it? You’re giving me nothing?”

“Nothing,” Remus confirmed, though his lips twitched slightly.

Sirius sighed heavily but pushed himself up from the bench, rolling his shoulders. “Fine. But I’m not dropping it.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

They started walking back toward the castle, the glow of the Great Hall spilling out onto the grass.

As they reached the doors, Sirius shot him a sidelong glance. “You are going to write back, right?”

Remus pressed his lips together.

Sirius groaned. “Moony.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s code for I’ll

put it off until the guilt eats me alive.”

Remus smirked. “You know me so well.”

Sirius shook his head but didn’t press further.

They stepped into the warmth of the castle, the sounds of laughter and clinking plates spilling toward them from the Great Hall.

As they crossed into the entrance hall, Sirius gave him one last nudge. “Just… don’t let ghosts make decisions for you, yeah?”

Remus didn’t answer.

But later that night, when he was alone in the dormitory, he sat at his desk, unfolded the letter one last time, and picked up a quill.

And, against all logic, he started to write back

Remus had never been good at writing letters.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have things to say—his mind was always too full of words, shifting thoughts, half-formed ideas. But putting them down on parchment made them feel real, and sometimes, it was easier to let things stay in his head where no one else could see them.

But as he sat at his desk, the dormitory dim around him, he dipped his quill into the ink and forced himself to start.

Grant,

I’d say it’s good to hear from you, but honestly, I’m not sure what to think. I reckon you know that, though, or you wouldn’t have waited so long to write.

I got your letter. Read it twice. Your handwriting is still awful. Worse than mine, even. Didn’t think that was possible.

(Sorry, that was a bit mean. But you’ve always been bad at this sort of thing, and I think I’m allowed to be a little bitter that I had to hear about your adoption through a letter instead of from you directly.)

I don’t know what to say. I want to be happy for you. I think I am. You deserve this—you always did. But it’s hard to imagine you anywhere else but St. Edmund’s, you know?

You once told me that we’d leave that place together. That we’d find somewhere better. But I guess that was just one of those things kids say, wasn’t it?

Anyway, I don’t even know if this will reach you, but if it does—write back. I want to hear more.

—Remus

He sat back, eyeing the parchment, then ran a hand through his hair. It was an awful letter. Too blunt. Too open. Too something.

He should have rewritten it. Should have smoothed out the edges, made it sound less like a raw nerve.

But it was late, and he was too tired to fight with himself anymore.

With a sigh, he folded it up, tucked it into an envelope, and set it on his nightstand. He’d figure out how to send it tomorrow.

For now, sleep.

Or, at least, he’d try.

“Alright, spill.”

Remus barely had time to register the voice before a body landed heavily on the couch beside him, nearly toppling his book from his lap.

He sighed, righting it. “Good morning to you too, Padfoot.”

Sirius grinned, stretching his legs out across the common room rug. “Come on, Moony, don’t be boring. I know you stayed up late writing back to your mysterious muggle friend.”

Remus’ grip tightened slightly on the book. “How do you know I wrote back?”

Sirius scoffed. “Please. You had the look.”

Remus frowned. “The look?”

“Yeah. The broody, overthinking, ‘I’m going to regret this in the morning’ look.” Sirius waved a hand dramatically. “Classic Moony.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I try.” Sirius grinned, then tilted his head. “So? What’d you say?”

Remus hesitated. “Nothing much.”

Sirius pouted. “Boring. What’s the fun in that?”

Remus sighed. “Look, it’s complicated, alright? You wouldn’t get it.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Remus shook his head. “No.”

Sirius huffed. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the common room warm and filled with the quiet chatter of other students getting ready for the day.

Then, Sirius nudged him. “You’re going to send it, right?”

Remus glanced at the envelope sticking out from his bag.

“…Yeah.”

Sirius smiled. “Good.”

Remus exhaled, pressing his lips together. He still wasn’t sure what he wanted from this—what he wanted from Grant, from this piece of his past he wasn’t sure how to fit into his present.

But he supposed he’d find out soon enough.

Remus had never been so aware of an envelope in his life.

It sat in his bag like a weight, tucked between his textbooks and notes, as he made his way down to breakfast. Every step down the staircase felt like a reminder that he still hadn’t sent it.

It would be easy. A quick trip to the Owlery, one letter in the beak of a school owl, and it would be out of his hands. Done.

So why hadn’t he done it yet?

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. He needed tea. And toast. Maybe after breakfast, he’d—

“Oi, Moony!”

Sirius appeared at his side, grinning, James and Peter a few steps behind him.

“You look troubled,” Sirius observed, peering at him.

“I’m fine,” Remus muttered.

James snorted. “That’s never true.”

“Shut up, you,” Remus grumbled, but without heat.

The four of them wove their way through the Great Hall, dodging floating plates and first-years scrambling for a seat, before settling into their usual spot at the Gryffindor table.

James immediately piled his plate high with toast and eggs. Peter reached for a pot of jam. Sirius, naturally, made a show of stealing a sausage off Remus’ plate before even getting his own.

Remus sighed. “You do know there’s a whole platter of them right in front of you?”

Sirius smirked, biting into the stolen sausage. “Yeah, but yours taste better.”

James snickered. Peter rolled his eyes.

Remus shook his head, but it was hard to suppress the small, exasperated smile tugging at his lips.

Then, James nudged him. “So. Letter situation. What’s the plan?”

Remus blinked. “What?”

James gestured vaguely. “The letter you wrote last night. The one Sirius wouldn’t shut up about.”

Sirius made an affronted noise. “I did not—”

“You did,” Peter said, smirking.

“—shut up about it,” Sirius finished, ignoring him.

Remus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s sake.”

Sirius leaned forward. “So? Are you sending it?”

Remus sighed. “Yes, Padfoot. I’m sending it.”

Sirius beamed. “Brilliant. When?”

Remus hesitated.

James pointed at him with a piece of toast. “That means he hasn’t done it yet.”

Remus groaned. “I will.”

“When?” Sirius pressed.

Remus picked up his teacup and took a slow sip, as if delaying the inevitable.

“After breakfast,” he said finally.

Sirius grinned. “Good. We’ll come with you.”

Remus nearly choked on his tea. “What?”

James nodded. “Yeah, moral support, you know?”

“I don’t need moral support to send a letter,” Remus muttered.

“Clearly, you do,” Peter remarked, buttering his toast.

Remus glared at him.

Sirius threw an arm around Remus’ shoulders dramatically. “Come on, Moony, let us have this. It’ll be a grand adventure. We’ll trek up the winding, treacherous steps of the Owlery, battle the raging storm—”

“It’s sunny,” Remus pointed out.

“—face the vicious, man-eating owls—”

James snorted. “They’re literally trained to be friendly.”

“—and finally complete your epic quest of sending one single letter to your beloved muggle friend.”

Remus groaned, shrugging Sirius’ arm off. “You’re all insufferable.”

Sirius grinned. “And yet, here we are.”

James clapped him on the back. “Eat up, mate. We’ve got a letter to send.”

The walk to the Owlery was surprisingly uneventful, aside from Sirius making a grand show of inspecting Remus’ letter (which Remus promptly swiped back).

Once they stepped inside, Remus was immediately hit with the familiar scent of feathers, parchment, and something vaguely unpleasant that came from having that many birds in one place.

Sirius wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“Shocking,” Remus deadpanned. “The Owlery smells like owls.”

Sirius elbowed him.

James strode forward, picking an eager-looking barn owl. “Alright, Moony, let’s get this over with before Padfoot starts whining.”

“I do not whine,” Sirius huffed.

Remus rolled his eyes, but with a resigned sigh, he stepped forward and held out the letter. The owl gave an excited hoot, sticking out its leg.

For a brief moment, he hesitated.

Was this a mistake?

But then, before he could second-guess himself, he tied the letter to the owl’s leg.

“There,” he muttered. “Done.”

The owl flapped its wings, lifted off, and disappeared into the sky.

Sirius slung an arm around Remus’ shoulders, shaking him slightly. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Remus gave him a dry look. “I hate you.”

Sirius grinned. “No, you don’t.”

James and Peter exchanged amused glances before heading for the stairs.

“Well,” James said, stretching. “Now that that’s sorted, who’s up for some Quidditch?”

Sirius groaned. “Nooo.”

Peter smirked. “I don’t know, Padfoot, I think a bit of running would do you good.”

Sirius gasped dramatically. “How dare you.”

Remus chuckled, shaking his head.

And just like that, life went on.

Even as the weight in his chest remained.

Even as the uncertainty lingered.

All he could do now was wait.