Downpour
August 31st
Remus Lupin stood outside in the rain because, of course, bad days must always be accompanied by an oppressive downpour. But this—this felt good. The water was piercingly cold, running over every part of his damaged skin, a sharp reminder that he was still here. His clothes quickly became soaked, clinging to him like a great weight dragging him down. Maybe he could just collapse onto the ground, melt into the mud and disappear. His bones would find their place in the soil, and his flesh would rot away. They were going to end up there anyway; at least this way would be quicker.
He looked down at the small brown envelope in his hand, his neatly addressed name now smudged and blotchy. He shoved the ink-stained paper into his pocket with no intention of ever opening it before beginning the trek back up the hill. This time, though, he had no choice but to go inside the house.
Remus had spent the better part of the day outside in the muggy heat, busying himself with every mundane chore and previously abandoned task. Anything to stop himself from thinking, from acknowledging anything at all.
It started with mucking out the chicken coop. He liked the noise—the screech of the hens and the yell of the bloody rooster. He scrubbed the coop until it looked as it did the day it was delivered, all shiny and new, by his father ten years ago.
Now that Remus thought about it, there was so much to get done.
From there it was a blur of chores: fixing the dingy gate that never shut properly, milking Daisy the cow, and raking the dusty dirt paths. He moved from task to task with a strange urgency, as if completing the endless list could somehow quiet the roaring in his head. Next he picked the ripe fruit from the trees that lined the back fence, and then watered his mothers flowers that had begun to wilt and brown.
Before he knew it, Remus found himself wandering into the garden, where he discovered the familiar figure of Peter Pettigrew. He was crouched over the vegetable patch, his short frame almost completely hidden among the overgrown leaves. Neither of them exchanged any formalities, their hands falling into a rhythm of deftly pulling weeds from the dry soil.
Peter’s family had moved in next door a year ago, and in that time, he’d quietly worked his way into Remus’s life—no small feat, considering how little patience Remus usually had for people. When Remus’s mother hired Peter to tend the garden during the dry season, it felt more like an excuse to keep the boy around than a necessity.
After a while, the soft sound of rustling plants was broken by Peter clearing his throat.
“All right, mate?” he asked, finally, glancing sideways at Remus. His voice was full of caution and concern, Remus wasn't blind to his fear either.
“Yeah,” Remus mumbled, heaving his shovel into the earth particularly hard. He didn’t look up.
Peter didn’t push. He never did. Instead, he offered a quiet “Let me know if you need anything,” and they returned to work, staking the cucumbers and tying the tomato plants in silence until Remus muttered some excuse to leave.
His entire body was dripping with sweat after chopping logs of firewood they wouldn’t need for months, and his arms ached after organising the shed. But by the time he walked the perimeter of the farm twice, painting over every chip and mark on the white picket fence, Remus was sure he couldn’t sense any pain in his body at all.
Maybe that’s why he found himself at his father’s grave for the first time in five years. With a bucket of soapy water and a scraper in hand, ready to clean the moss that had formed over time and the leaves that had fallen from the willow tree above. When he was done, one could finally see who lay in the corner of the Lupin property.
“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered before turning around and not glancing back.
It was when Remus finally sat down on the front porch that the grey clouds, which had been looming all day, began to rumble and pour. As he leaned back on the post, he let himself breathe, tipping his arm out to feel the sweet coolness that finally broke the scorching summer months. Looking out at the uneven planes surrounding the farm, his eyes caught the unmistakable flash of long red hair, belonging to a girl on a rusty bike at the bottom of the hill. She fiddled with the mailbox and gazed at the house. Even though she couldn’t possibly see him, Remus could feel her stare upon him.
Now, Remus stands at the front door, Lily’s letter hidden in his jeans. The water dripping from him patters on the porch and harmonises with the heavy falling of rain. There’s an unusual sense of calm at this particular moment. The evening crickets produce their low hum and all the animals have begun to settle, even the chickens. Remus focuses on the diamond cutout on the door, tracing the glass flowered mosaic. It is quite pretty, really, even in the dull light. As he continues to gape, black spots invade his vision and Remus feels as if he is floating. For a moment, the world is truly still.
That is, until a clap of thunder causes the smell of char to register in Remus’s head.
Fuck.
She’s been cooking again.
Remus runs into the kitchen, forgetting about his muddy shoes that would surely stain the carpet. He finds the forgotten oven mitt on the counter and opens the burning oven. A small flame erupts, and Remus quickly tips the dark circles into the sink, running cold water over them.
He braces himself on the benchtop, closing his eyes. The blissful feeling of painlessness had subsided and gave way to a throbbing migraine. Maybe it was because of all the work he’d done that day. Maybe it was because he couldn’t bring himself to eat anything. Maybe it was because everyone was acting so differently. Maybe it was because everything was so wrong.
“Mum,” he called out, eyes still closed. “I think you overdid the, um, cookies.”
Hope Lupin came bustling into the kitchen, her once neat curly hair now a mess on top of her head. There was no color in her cheeks today; instead, it was replaced with a dull grey tone. The only redness was in her glassy eyes, holding so much pain.
I’m so sorry, Mum, Remus thought.
She broke out into a frown, a frail hand coming to her head.
“Oh, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” she started. “I just—I wanted to make the biscuits, you know, the ones you always liked. I thought maybe it would cheer you up.”
“Mum, I’ve told you I’m—”
“I know, I know. You’re fine.”
Her hands come to her hips, and she looks Remus up and down, surveying her son. At seventeen, he was tall and slim, with light, wavy hair and freckles that dusted his nose in the summer—features he’d inherited from his mother. Despite this, Remus knew all she could see in him was her husband. She looked like she was about to say something, but before she could, Remus cut in.
“Why don’t you go and sit down? I’ll clean up.”
She looked at him apologetically, as if she wanted to say, I’m your mother, I’m supposed to look after you, but couldn’t.
“Seriously, I’m all right, Mum. Go rest.”
She squeezes his arm, mustering up a small smile, and walks out of the kitchen.
Remus gathers the soggy, burnt pieces from the sink and throws them away, not sure what biscuits his mother was talking about to begin with. Her small voice trails in from the living room as Remus begins to fill the basin with soapy water. He doesn't need to see her to know exactly what she is doing.
She would be sitting on the far left of the sofa, talking on the phone, with a fluffy pink blanket underneath her. Her legs would be curled up, and she’d be fiddling with the teabag in her leftover mug on the side table. It’s where she has been for most of the day and where she stays when she doesn't know what else to do.
Remus tries to stop himself overhearing the conversation, concentrating on scrubbing the stubborn remains on the baking tray.
“...well, they said six months...yes, but the commute to the city…”
The mere mention is already enough to make him feel nauseous. When he can’t stand it any longer, he walks down the hallway to his bedroom and shuts the door rather forcefully before stripping off his work clothes.
Remus pauses at the site of the letter on the floor. He reluctantly picks it up before standing over the paper waste bin. The rain had done it's damage, but Remus still recognises the loopy handwriting of his friend. He lets out a groan before quickly throwing the letter into a drawer.
Aimlessly looking around, as if to make sure he hasn't been detected, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror that sits upon his old wooden dresser. The faint glow of the lamp illuminates his worn out body. Lingering on his reflection, he brings a shaky hand up to his neck, tracing the freshly healed scar that runs between his collarbone and throat. It’s still there. Of course it's still there. Remus rips his head away, suddenly filled with dread and the desire to scream.
His legs feel like lead as he stumbles to the small bed, collapsing onto the mattress. And it was only then, as Remus stared up at his dimly lit ceiling, that he let a few straggling tears fall down his face.