Chapter 1
1987
Grief has a way of permeating one’s existence to the point where everything feels tainted, and Remus hasn’t felt clean in six years.
There was a time when he had everything he ever wanted; he had friends, he had love, he had a roof over his head, a full stomach, and a bed warmed by someone he thought he could never do without.
Now, waking up on the cold, damp floor of a random cave in the Welsh countryside alone after the full moon, stomach grumbling, Remus could almost laugh at how wrong he was. He would, if every inch of his body didn’t hurt so much.
The full moons are the hardest, he reckoned. Of course, every passing day had been difficult since James, Lily and Peter (since him); Remus has had a sinking feeling ever since he got Kingsley’s patronus confirming that his worst nightmare came true and that it wasn’t even the worst of it ( ‘Remus, when did you last hear from Black?’ ). That sinking feeling, like he’s dizzy and drowning at the same time, hadn’t gone away. Remus doubts it ever will.
But the full moons were the hardest, because there was a time that Remus was so loved that he found joy and mischief in his transformations—a stag and a rat (and a dog)—that made him forget of the literally bone-crushing pain he had to endure every month.
He’d even look forward to the mornings that followed the full moon. Waking up with an arm in a sling, or bandages round his chest, or both, and laughing with James and Peter (and him) so much that Madam Pomfrey would worry Remus might open his stitches. James would bring sweets and food from the Great Hall and sit at the foot of his bed; Peter would often come with a chess board and take a seat on the chair beside his bed, both content in spending time with Remus and keeping him company until he got better.
(He would close the curtains around Remus’ bed, especially if it was a particularly bad moon, and block out the hospital wing, the castle, the entire world, until it was just the two of them, limbs intertwined as he’d stroke Remus’ hair the way he liked it with one hand and clutch a book in another, his soft voice reading outloud and lulling Remus to sleep.)
(More often than not, Remus falls asleep with one hand in his hair, making his arm cramp like a bitch in the morning, but at least he had slept soundly.)
There was no such happiness anymore, and sometimes Remus wished he never knew it in the first place. How cruel it is to know such happiness (such love) that makes you see yourself as something that can be appreciated (and wanted) after years of feeling like the whole world was against you, that everyone had a place but you, only to have taken from you in the worst way possible, in a way that there is no chance for you to feel whole again.
Apparating back to the small bathroom of his flat, Remus promptly threw up in the toilet and sobbed for a minute or two on the floor before clutching the edge of the crooked sink to haul himself to his feet. A glass of water was already waiting for him at the top of the sink next to his toothbrushes, and Remus gave himself a mental pat on the back; he hated forgetting to leave himself some water and having to shuffle to the cold kitchen. He downed the glass and made his way to his bed, careful to avoid the springs protruding from the mattress; the last thing he needed at the moment was another annoying scratch. Performing the necessary healing spells in the cave meant that Remus could promptly pass out on his bed, the residual pain in his bones acting as a comforting distraction and effectively blocking out the noise in his mind. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up to the banging racket that his next-door neighbour insists on making whenever he leaves the building, and Remus would get up on steady legs, fumbling for his cane, and clock in for work at the small bookshop across the street. Only he’ll be late and would have to hear the owner of ‘Tim’s Tomes ’ rant about punctuality and how ‘ you better get your act right, Lupin’ , which had Remus stretching his arm enough to grab hold of the drawer beside his desk, take out the ibuprofen, and toss it in the general direction of where he knew his cane was leaning against the wall. He’ll thank himself in the morning when his head starts throbbing by the time he’s taking his lunch break.
***
“You wan’ some coffee. Lupin? My treat.”
Remus looked up from his desk and smiled.
“Sure, Tim, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Tim said, stuffing his arms in his puffy jacket. “You really should get some glasses, mate.”
Remus shut his eyes and pinched the top of his nose, trying to relieve the tension his thin muscles gained from squinting over the new books that came this morning.
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he lied, fully aware that he can’t even afford a checkup, let alone a pair of new glasses.
Tim fished his pockets, possibly looking for his car keys, which meant he was bringing them the good kind of coffee that was about twenty minutes away, rather than walking to the cheap coffeeshop round the corner. Remus sighed just thinking about the coffee. Tim may be a hardass when it came to clocking in and out of work on time, but he was a good boss, better than Remus could hope for, and bought him lunch or coffee almost every day. ‘ Company Policy’ , he’d say to the only other employee in the small bookshop, but Remus was grateful. Some days, it was the only meal he’d have, not that he’ll ever let Tim know.
In return, Remus worked tirelessly and often went out of his way to make the quaint little bookshop welcoming and warm enough to keep their regulars coming back and stopping new people in their tracks as they’d walk down the streets. Remus added a few tables and chairs in a corner for students looking to get some work down, some beanbags and cushions in another corner for people looking to simply relax, and even added a ramp at the front of the door when an elderly woman in a wheelchair, Daisy Hudson, had stopped with a gentle 'oh, how lovely!’ but Remus found it difficult to help her inside, so he had to give her the copy of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ outside. He had the ramp installed two days later, and now Daisy was a regular and, according to the clock above the door, was due to come any minute.
Tim headed out with a small wave, and Daisy entered with a bright smile not two minutes later. “There’s my handsome boy!” She squealed enthusiastically and opened her arms, making Remus smile bashfully as he kneeled down to hug her.
“There’s my English Rose,” Remus said, and Daisy giggled in his shoulder.
“I was looking for a book for my grandson,” Daisy said, looking around the shelves that stretched towards the back of the shop. Remus moved out of her way and let her browse at her pleasure, following close behind in case she needed his help.
“Any special occasion?” Remus asked politely as he carried as many books his body would allow and gingerly began shelving them.
“It’s his birthday next week, and I wanted to get something by Wilde; he loves him,” Daisy replied as she moved towards the end of the shelf and picked out a book, “‘Dorian Gray’. Do you know it?”
(‘Intimately’ , Remus thought.)
“I’ve read it,” he replied, shelving the last of the books in his hand before walking back to his desk to grab the rest. “It’s good.”
( ‘The curves of your lips rewrite history,’ he had said. Remus had laughed, confused and a little dazed after kissing him. ‘What did you just say?’ . He had smiled, his tooth shining in the shadows of the astronomy tower. ‘Not me. It’s Oscar Wilde’ . Remus had grinned and kissed him again. Only he could quote bloody Oscar Wilde after sneaky out to the astronomy tower and snogging under the stars.)
“Is it really?” Daisy’s voice rang through Remus’ ears. “What about it is good?”
“It’s poetry, the way he writes,” Remus replied, cringing at his comment, knowing how reductionist it was. But Daisy didn’t mind, so Remus continued.
“ ‘Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic’," Remus quoted. It was the only line he could think of these past six years. Like he said, poetry. Devastatingly beautiful poetry.
“That’s beautiful,” Daisy breathed, a hand over her heart.
Remus shrugged, “That’s Wilde.”
“Dorian Gray it is, then,” she said and set the book in her lap before browsing the shelves again.
Remus went to his desk and sat down, his leg aching horribly and effectively distracting him from thinking about Oscar Wilde, Dorian Gray, the Hogwarts astronomy tower (or him).
Tim came back half an hour later, with the good coffee and a brownie, and Remus almost cried right there. He had his breakfast with Daisy on one of the tables at the far end of the store, content to lean his head against the wall and let the old woman go on and go on about her grandson and daughter and other family members, the love and adoration in her voice making him smile and wishing that he could bask in it for as long as he could.
***
For dinner, Remus had a carrot and some milk that tasted like it was only a few hours from going bad, but it was better than going to sleep with an aching stomach. With his healing spells slowly working and making movement easier, Remus sat on the floor next to his small pile of books and began flipping through some of them, trying to decide which one to read. In the back of his mind, he knew this was a futile attempt to delay the inevitable; he’d been thinking about ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ the whole day and was practically itching to read it, even if he might cry himself to sleep after.
He found the copy ( his copy) under a couple of thick encyclopaedias that Remus had bought after leaving Hogwarts and stupidly tried to lift three at the same time and set them aside. Instead, his half-healed wrist all but buckled under the weight of the books, sending him toppling to the floor with a yelp of pain before groaning at the brown pages that flew out the encyclopaedias and scattered all over the floorboards.
Just as Remus began to grumble and complain about having to strain his body again to clean the mess, his eyes fell to something that wasn’t as old and frail as the papers of the old books. Still seated on the floor, he scooted towards the pale white envelope and turned it over in his hands.
Remus froze. Literally froze as a chill overtook his aching body and made a home in his brittle heart.
Prongs.
The hasty scribble was unmistakeable; it was his handwriting. Beautiful and swooping. Remus thumbed the broken seal on the envelope, which felt heavier than he expected—this only meant that it contained more than just one letter.
‘ He kept them,’ Remus thought numbly, ‘ He kept his best friend’s letters in my books and got him and his wife killed. Orphaned his godson. Left him to Lily’s sister. Lily never liked her, and he gave her Harry.’
These past six years, the farther Remus ran from anything that reminded him of him , the more he latched onto remnants of James, Lily and Peter, which is why he didn’t think twice before pulling out a paper from the small bundle in the envelope and turning himself to face the small lamp in the room.
He read the first word, and his heart pounded in his ears.
Prongs.
The flimsy paper in his hands shook as Remus’ vision swam.
They weren’t James’ letters. They were his .
Prongs,
I’m officially in hell.
Remember my cousin Bella? The one who tried to light my hair on fire when I tried to touch hers? Yeah, she got engaged, that bitch. And my darling mother is hosting a grand banquet tomorrow, which is the last thing I need right now. I just want to go back to school and see you all.
I miss you so much, Prongs. It’s not the same without you; nothing is the same without you. You ever feel like you’re missing a part of yourself when we’re apart? I mean, I like Moony a lot; I may even love him, but mate, you taught me what love is. What it could be.
I’m getting sentimental in this shitstain of a house, but I just wish I could see you all the time. Call me crazy, but sometimes I like going through the bad times at home because it makes me love you more. And your parents. And your house. And our dorm room. And Remus, and Pete. And Remus.
Mate, I’ve been your wingman with Evans since second-year; it’s time you pay me back by helping me win Moony’s heart. I can’t stop thinking about him, Prongs. I finally get why you used to go on and on about Evans, and I sympathise because, holy shit it fucking hurts.
Anyway, I’m rambling. It’s difficult to fit all my thoughts in a letter; I have so much to tell you. Hopefully, I can steal my mirror back during the banquet tomorrow; Merlin knows where Mother hid it.
So to summarise:
I hate this fucking family.
I hate this fucking house.
I fucking love you.
I fucking miss you.
Please make Moony love me.
Tell your parents I said hi.
Your first love (suck it, Evans),
Padfoot
Remus choked back a sob by the time he finished reading the letter, his eyes fixed on the name at the end. His name. It was like Remus could hear his voice outside in the hallway, distant but there , talking to James and making Remus marvel at the bond two people could share. Like the letter said, the love Remus shared with him was something , but the love he had for James was something else.
And so Remus read on.
You’re the best mate I could have, Prongs.
I’ve never known a friendship like yours.
I can’t wait to see you, mate.
I have such an amazing idea for a prank; can’t wait to tell you about it.
I’d do anything for you, James.
One letter after another, picking apart each word, trying to find signs, answers, anything that could betray his intentions before that night.
But there was nothing, and each letter twisted the knife deeper and deeper before pulling out completely, leaving Remus bleeding out on the floor of his shitty excuse of an apartment. But, instead of dying, Remus felt reborn, like the cobwebs of his depression had cleared and he could think .
Think about how it was before everything went to shit. Think about how he was with James—how they looked at each other, how they spoke about each other, how they fought to keep each other in their lives. The faster Remus thought, the easier it was for him to come to a conclusion that had been threatening to give him hope for more than half a decade: it doesn’t add up .
It was what he thought when he got Kingley’s patronus. It was what he thought when Dumbledore told Remus about Azkaban. It was what he thought every time he thought to himself, ‘Why? Why would he do this to James and Lily? To Harry? To me?’
‘It doesn’t add up.’
‘It doesn’t add up.’
‘It doesn’t add up.’
Remus knew him. Remus knew him. Remus loved him. And no amount of dark magic could make his heart a stranger to Remus’. And while his heart belonged to Remus, it used to beat for James— because of him.
So no, it didn’t add up, and these letters were proof of that.
Abandoning the old encyclopaedia papers on the ground, Remus carefully tucked in the letters into the envelope and got up from the floor. He quickly grabbed his jacket and cane and bit the inside of his cheek, already anticipating the amount of pain he’d be in after Apparating a second time after the full moon.
But it wasn’t important. Remus had had questions for years; now he finally had courage to demand answers as well.
He closed his eyes and, as he felt the snow crunch under his worn boots, he bent over in pain and let out a groan before straightening up with a white knuckle grip on his cane. Despite the throbbing ache in his back and leg, Remus smiled and took a deep breath of the rich chocolate-scented air as he entered Honeydukes.