Plan in Motion
Once upon a time, really not all that long ago, Remus Lupin had been happy. Even on the very bad days, on or immediately after a full, there'd been someone there to flood his brain with serotonin and make every ache feel that little bit better. He wasn't happy now, wasn't sure he could be actually. Not in real time, in memories only maybe. He liked to ignore the war years when the drink took him down memory lane, after all he wasn't really him in those years. It couldn't have been, ask anyone, Remus Lupin was all about books and chocolate and soft jumpers and records in their living room and the Remus Lupin that was alive between 1980 and, well, now hadn't eaten so much as one single chocolate frog. So, when he switched out the weepy gin for nostalgic whisky, it was normally kind enough to skip all those not-really-him years and take him straight to the good stuff. The deep red sheets and Bowie and late night parties in the common room sort of stuff.
That's what he thought about now, his weeks of research scattered about and only a couple of measures missing from the bottle to his left. Was it worth it? There was a good chance he'd be dead, properly splat on the ground, gone forever, dead the second this spell left his mouth. It had been…a while since he'd even cast a proper spell, like, with words and all. Somehow doing things the Muggle way was just better, easier. Less painful. He had no pleasant, and therefore achy, memories of hoovering. So, there were three options really. Most likely, the spell would be a dud and he'd drown himself in a bottle. There were worse ways to spend an evening, he supposed. Or, it would backfire and he'd be strawberry jam staining the walls. Less appealing but still probably painless. Least likely of all, it would work perfectly.
And then? And then.
He'd be back with them, with his friends, his family. He might be happy again. Maybe.
So, definitely worth it then. Definitely worth it for a maybe. Something almost very close to excitement thrummed in Remus' chest as he rifled through the sheets of paper and searched his messy scrawl. He lit a cigarette, breathed in the burn and checked through his work. When that was smoked down to the bitter end he lit another and checked again. And then another. Only when the carton was well and truly empty and he was almost dizzy from the nicotine rush, did his resolve truly harden. There was nothing left to do, no more time wasting or procrastinating. He'd put in the work; theorised and forecasted and scribbled notes until his head swam and his ballpoint ran dry. The only options left to him were to scrap the whole idea and somehow hit a lower rock bottom.
Or.
Or, to try it, to let the incantation spill from his lips and transport him somewhere else. Somewhere better.
Really, it was no choice at all.
“Iter Retro Tempore Reditus”
His voice cracked, not even close to the sort of commitment a spell this unstable needed. The way his wand very nearly almost slipped his shaky grip wasn't even worth a mention. Dehydrated, probably. Alcohol and cigarettes a competent wizard did not make. Easy remedy, he sipped from a questionable glass of water from the cluttered table top to his left. A little warmer than room temp and definitely tasted more than a little dusty but it did the job. Once more, he cleared his throat and wet his lips. Cleared his throat again.
“Iter Retro Tempore Reditus!”
Nothing happened. The incantation was stronger this time, more determined. It had left his fingertips tingling and there was a definite tang of magic in the air, he could taste it. But still not quite right, not quite enough. His pronunciation had been perfect, wand flourishes absolutely impeccable, hell, even his stance was unquestionably strong. There was something missing. His fist clenched around his wand until it dug viciously into his palm and suddenly he was sixteen again, crowded round a library table for an intense debrief with Lily after he'd flopped the very last demo of his charms assessment. It was the same all consuming frustration filling his veins now as it had been a decade ago, except this time there was no reasonable red head around to talk him through it.
What was it she'd said back then?
Something about his head? Probably not, there'd almost definitely have been a joke there if so. Someone would never have missed a set up like that.
No it wasn't his head it was his mind. His mindset.
“Remus, you've got to change your mindset! The thing with the Patronus charm is you've got to focus on all the nice stuff, the gooey bits that you pretend don't exist. You're such a pessimist, it's no wonder you struggle with it.”
She'd said it mostly kindly. Lily was always kind. And always right.
If the Patronus charm needed him to think of happiness, a laughable idea at this point, then maybe this one required a focus on memory, something specific. And strong. Strong enough to pull him back to the right time, a couple of years too early and he'd be stuck babysitting a load of silly thirteen year olds. A couple of years too late and he'd be reliving his own personal, bloody, gin smogged hell. Late ‘78. Early 1979. That was the sweet spot.
It was such a year, too. Freshly out of school. A war that was close enough to be exciting, far off enough for them to be without fear. A poorly decorated flat of their own, decked out with a crappy little tv that only caught static if it rained. A record player with charmed speakers and a needle that never skipped. James' puka shell necklace. Dire Straits. Leather jackets and ripped t-shirts. Sex Pistols. Then Nancy and then, a tad too much heroin and no more Sex Pistols. Strikes. Wizard and muggle. Just, so many strikes. Rise of Thatcher. Blegh. Dr Who every week with Peter and Lily. So much Queen, so much Bowie.
Despite it all, despite the fervent sting, he smiled.
“Iter Retro Tempore Reditus!”