Egg
There are no words in the envelope save for it’s over. Seven pathetic letters. One measly line. It doesn’t say stand down, because that would be far too optimistic. It doesn’t add for good, or for now, because that’s far too certain.
But it does say enough.
Remus wanders out onto his porch and drops heavily into one of his mam’s plastic dunelm garden chairs. Cost a fair fortune, they did. It’s almost nice. He hasn’t sat out here for weeks; too much danger in being out of doors. ‘Specially in the state he’s in. Remus has taken to smoking out of the bathroom window like a piss-head teenager again, burning his fingertips every time a floorboard creaks. At least he’s not desperate enough to squirrel away every half-used fag-end anymore. He left his pack on the sill. He wishes he was holding them.
Remus tilts his head back and breathes in a lungful of cold night air. His head is full of strange, overcast thoughts. They jostle beneath his eyelids like insomniac ghosts. Somewhere in the dark, beyond the sheep fank and the yellow window of their quarter-mile neighbour, a bird cries out.
If there were moths in every porch light, should they always be sad?
There are in most. Lily’s house had tons- little black millipedes too, curled up into questions. James used to clean it out every month, when he got into one of those fidgety, hyperactive moods and decided to bash out a week’s worth of odd jobs in a day. Remus supposes it’s the James-Potter-equivalent of a sulk- being overly, irritatingly helpful. Before they got all domestic, there was quidditch to blow it off, but not such luck in their sudden marital bliss. It used to happen mostly when Lily was mad at him for something or other, some broken favourite mug or another failed attempt to hide the latest horror story in the prophet. It was silly, when he did that- as if Lily Evans wasn’t capable of handling a bit more bad news. The latest shit on the shit pile, she used to say.
Maybe she still does. Remus wouldn’t know. He hasn’t seen her since last spring.
The year is nineteen-eighty-one. As of an hour ago, Lord Voldemort has been killed by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. He doesn’t suppose the dark lord has- or, had- any middle names. Riddle, Sirius has called him once. Wanker, Remus had called him, on several occasions.
With a sudden exhale, Remus remembers he is a wizard. In a single murmur, he summons his cigarettes. Better. A much more satisfying taste than night-air. The end glows faintly, like the red of a rising sun.
His mam is still asleep. Should he wake her? Remus knows already that he won’t. It’s not her war; never has been. This is their fight- the wix and wizards, the order and the aurors. The muggleborns and the bloodtraitors and the children.
He’ll be twenty three in less than a year. Far too old. A good age for a celebratory gaff, though- for anyone who’s left, of course. Fuck. Remus misses James. They write, of course, but rarely. Admittedly, Remus is the weak link. Being pen-pals just doesn’t feel the same. No words compare to the strength of James Potter’s hands on your shoulder, his voice in your ear. Living sunlight. Endless serotonin. An ego the size of the moon. He misses him. And Lily. Quick, clever Lily. And Peter, even though he was over last weekend. Didn’t even stay a night, besides- nervous little bastard, Remus thinks, fondly. He’s always been of the quiet, sensible courage. Not the batshit fire that had lit James and Sirius from the inside, blazing red-and-gold Gryffindors since the day that they could toddle. Nah, Peter’s good at hiding. Keeps him safe, doesn’t it?
Kept. It’s over now. Remus wonders how many times he’ll need to repeat that before it sinks in.
He scratches his chin. Ought to shave soon, or he’ll end up looking like Dumbledore.
How did the old bastard finally get it over with, anyways? What made this duel different to all the others? Some new killing curse, maybe. Or perhaps he just got lucky. Doesn’t matter, does it? Either way, it’s over now.
Who should he tell? That’s what you do when you get good news, isn’t it? Share it? Remus hasn’t had good news in a long while, so he can’t really remember. There was Harry, last July, but that had to be kept under wraps for obvious, nose-less reasons. James and Lily are technically part of the order still, so they’ll be in the loop. Dorcas, too, although she doesn’t want to see anybody right now anyways. Remus won’t judge. Can’t, really.
He could go tell Sirius but it’s always felt wrong to speak to stone and pretend it’s his best friend. Graveyards have never been a sentimental place for him- just grey and gritty. Solid, unresponsive. Awkward. Stupid. The rock means nothing. There’s no body beneath it, anyways. There’s no body at all.
Remus hates the stone and Sirius would have too. They should have given him a monument. They should have given him a temple, a forest, build a fucking city in his honour. Sirius Black deserved it. Fuck, he deserved it all. All the wreathes and roses his ash-stained, weeping arms could carry.
(His name still hurts, hurts, hurts).
Remus gasps, once, quietly, and then pulls himself together. Look at him, not even crying. Remus takes another cigarette, lights it, and slides it between his lips in the same motion that he uses to flick away the dead one. Is this grief? Is this euphoria?
It’s heavy, whatever it is.
We won, Sirius, he tells the dead moths in the porch light. It’s over. You can come out now.