Now
"You listen and you know you could live a better life than you do, be softer, kinder. And maybe this year you will be able to do it." boymiffy
He’s never sure what Maria’s neighbors think of him.
They watch him sometimes from inside their homes and porches. Their eyes linger, the whispering audible to his ears as they take in his worn coat, the scuffed boots, the scars on his face. Maybe they think he’s a deadbeat, a man without roots or purpose, who drifts out of their quiet, close-knit community.
And maybe they’re not wrong. Remus is a traveler by necessity, someone who, in his childhood, got used to packing up and leaving. There were no safe places for werewolves, especially not ones as young as him. His family would settle in, only to pack up and move once the rumors of hauntings got to be too much.
(He still thinks that the constant stress is why his mother got sick. He doesn’t know if he can forgive himself for that.)
Hogwarts was the first place where he could stay. But every season of his life after has been punctuated by the changing seasons and different towns.
He’s not. Upset with this. He knows his illness makes it necessary. He can’t slow down enough to let people suspect, and that makes for a rough existence.
But it gnaws on him the same.
They can’t really understand the choices he’s made or see how far the scars from torture and war go. They can’t see the burns or his hyper-vigilance, the weight of a life spent fighting and running.
Mostly, though, they can’t understand that his distance is the best protection he can offer–he’s lived through too much to risk staying, no matter how comfortable it would be. And if anyone he would defend unconditionally, it’s Maria.
He adjusts his grip on this beat-up suitcase as he climbs up the short flight of steps to her front door. The house is painted bright yellow, with a hand-painted sign above the door reading Bienvenidos, though he’s never been entirely sure how welcome he is here. It so domestic and sweet.
He knocks twice, the sound loud and uneven against the carved wooden door. A moment later, it creaks open a few inches, the chain latch still in place. Elena’s green eyes meet his through the gap, narrowing with instant displeasure.
Her lips curl into a sneer. “You,” she says, her voice flat with disdain. “What are you doing here?”
Elena has never been fond of him.
“Elena,” he replies evenly, dipping his head in what might’ve passed for a polite nod. “I need to speak with Maria.”
“More trouble?” she snaps. “Is that why you’re here? Haven’t you done enough already?”
He exhales, patience already fraying. He’s far too old to let Elena’s hostility bother him and far too tired to waste energy on defending himself to her. They’ve had this same conversation a dozen times before, and it always ends the same way. She hurls insults; he lets them slide off him like water.
“Please,” he says, his tone steady. “It’s important.”
Before she can fire back, Maria’s voice calls out from somewhere inside the house, melodic and warm. “¿Hay alguien en la puerta?”
Elena’s jaw tightens. She undoes the chain with visible reluctance and swings the door open, stepping aside with a sharp, annoyed huff. “Come in,” she mutters, though the words are anything but inviting.
He slips off his boots in the narrow entryway, careful not to track dirt onto the woven rug beneath his feet.
The house is a riot of colors. Maria’s tapestries line the walls, scenes from myth and legend coming to life. They shift as he walks by, capturing figures from her homeland and her personal history, woven in vibrant blues, reds, and deep, earthy tones. The threads shimmer, rippling as the embroidered figures act out their legends.
One tapestry, woven in deep greys and silvers, catches his attention—a scene he knows all too well. Una oda a la luna. The young man beneath the storm-dark sky, his wand raised against the heavens, is unmistakably him. Behind him is a woman clutching a gilded book, peering out from a hidden alcove. The crescent moon above them bathes the scene in ghostly light.
Maria’s threadwork has made him seem noble and heroic. In reality, he was still clawing his way out of cocaine addiction back then, hardly the romantic figure depicted. He can’t decide if the transformation is flattering...or cruel.
The house is like a living museum to Maria’s own playful sensibility. Little creatures of woven fabric, stitched in bright colors, scamper across the shelves and around the potted plants. A bright-red alebrije fox blinks and yawns while miniature ceramic figures of gods and goddesses line the windowsill, watching over the room with painted eyes. The chairs and couches are mismatched but comfortable, each buried in vibrant cushions. An incense holder smokes faintly on the low wooden coffee table, filling the room with the scent of copal.
Even after all this time, it feels strange to be here.
Elena storms off without another word, her irritation trailing behind her like a storm cloud. He doesn’t watch her go. Instead, his eyes wander to the kitchen, where he finds Maria.
She’s stirring a large clay pot on the stove. Her dark hair is intricately braided and woven with small golden charms that catch the light and add a full two inches to her height. She’s humming softly to herself, and the melody halts when she sees him.
She whirls around as he steps inside, alarmed. Then, her eyes widened in surprise.
“Remy,” she says, her voice warm, eyes widening in surprise. She sets down her wooden spoon and wipes her hands on her apron, gesturing for him to come closer.
“Elena giving you trouble?” she asks, smirking.
“Always,” he replies, his lips quirking in a rare, fleeting grin.
For a moment, everything felt simple again—like they were just old friends catching up over a quiet afternoon. The tension between him and Elena fades in the comfort of Maria’s kitchen, the smell of her cooking, the warmth that fills the space.
But the letter burns in his pocket, and he can’t hold onto the illusion for long. Time is ticking.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he says, his tone quieter now, more serious. Maria’s smirk fades, replaced by a look of silent understanding. She nods once and leads him out of the kitchen toward the small craft room at the back of the house.
It’s a lovely room– he’s always thought so, with the comfortable seating, warm, earthen walls, and, of course, Maria’s loom. It’s a hulking wooden contraption used by her family for decades, and it loomed above him, draped in a half-finished tapestry with tangled threads of crimson, gold, and night blue.
The loom is their only witness. He is under no illusions that Maria won’t eventually tell Elena since it involves their current arrangements. Still, he doesn’t want her self-righteous judgment here, especially when she was a) never involved in any war, British or otherwise, or b) doesn’t have Remus or Maria’s complex history of making desperate choices because, really, there was nothing else that could be done.
He hands her the letter.
Maria raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She gestured for him to sit on the worn settee against the wall, soft from years of use. She unfolded the parchment and scanned its contents. With each line, her expression grew darker, her grip on the letter tightening as her shoulders tensed.
When she finishes, she sets the letter down on the small side table beside her, her fingers trembling against the polished wood.
For a moment, silence stretched between them like the threads of her loom, taut and ready to snap. Oh boy.
And then Maria exploded.
Her words came rapid-fire, a torrent of Spanish spilling out like a dam had broken, curses and expletives mixed with sharp invectives directed squarely at the man who had sent the letter. Her hands tugged at her intricately braided hair, half in fury and half in disbelief.
The words come so fast that even Remy, used to her temper, barely catches them all, but the sentiment is unmistakable. Her voice is fierce, a mix of hurt and fury, each syllable dripping with the weight of her outrage.
He simply sat and let her rage wash over him. He didn’t flinch at her volume or words, though he barely caught them all. She was pacing now, her steps frantic, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet.
“That—that pendejo! Manipulative bastard!” Maria spat, waving her hand at the letter like it had personally spit on her. “Does he think you owe him more? After everything? After everything, Remy! Does he even care what he’s asking of you? What he’s already taken from you?” She hurls another string of insults, her voice vibrating with raw emotion. “Filthy whoreson, that brujo in his ivory tower!”
Her hands gestured wildly, tugging at the threads of her braid again, her anger vibrating in the small room. “What, he sends a letter, and you’re just supposed to—what? March back to him? Because he needs you?” She snorted, sharp and derisive. “He thinks you’re still that boy, doesn’t he? The one who thought the sun rose and set on his every word?”
Maria’s fury was righteous and fierce, and as always, Remus felt both soothed and hollowed out by it. Her anger burned where his had long since cooled to embers, buried too deep to be useful. For him, bitterness had been a survival mechanism, but Maria wielded hers like a weapon, sharp and unapologetic.
“He’s asking too much,” she said finally, her voice raw. She stopped pacing and turned to him, her dark eyes blazing. “You have a life here, Remy. We have a life here. We have Essie.” Her tone softened just slightly, the name trembling on her lips. “You’re not going back. I won’t let you.”
Her words pressed down on him, but he didn’t respond immediately. How could he explain the war inside him—the weight of the letter against the life they’d built? His gaze dropped to his hands, rough and calloused from years of work and war. He thought of Essie’s tiny fingers, weaving the bracelet still tied around his wrist, its mismatched colors starkly contrasting his scarred skin.
“I had to tell you,” he said quietly, finally meeting her eyes. “I couldn’t not tell you.”
“Why now?” she asked, her voice sharper again. “Why, after all this time?”
Instead of answering, he reached for the suitcase at his feet, flipping the clasps and pulling out a folded newspaper. He handed it to her without a word.
Maria’s brows knit together as she took it, her gaze flicking to the headline: “SIRIUS BLACK SIGHTED.” The text below spoke of panic and chaos, of his escape from the inescapable Azkaban.
She swore under her breath. “Mierda,” she said, her eyes darting back to him. “Is this why? Does he want you to hunt him?”
Remus shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him. “No. Dumbledore doesn’t want a killer. He wants a guard dog.” The bitterness in his voice startled even him, the words heavier than he’d intended. Ah. Was he insulted that the man was underestimating him...or insulted because he was demanding something Remy didn't want to offer?
Maria frowned. “And Harry?”
“He doesn’t trust me to do more than protect him,” Remus said, his voice quieter now. “But I owe him that much. I owe James and Lily that much.”
Her expression softened, but her eyes still burned with defiance. “You owe them nothing, Remy. They left you behind, just like everyone else.”
He flinched but said nothing. It wasn’t quite what happened, but then again, the dead couldn’t really argue otherwise. Maria's defense of him was based on everything he'd admitted, but he could never tell if she was seeing the reality of things or if she was so biased in his favor that she unabashedly hated anyone who wounded him.
The silence stretched between them. Remus fidgeted with his hands, before finally speaking.
"I was halfway across the continent when they needed me. I wasn’t there when it really mattered.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes stung. “I wasn’t there for Harry when he needed someone, wasn’t allowed to be there. But now! Now I can! Even if it’s not enough, even if it doesn’t fix anything…I can make sure he has someone. Something. To keep him safe.”
Maria studied him carefully. This was something about her he’d always loved. Underneath her reactive exterior was a woman with truly incredible amounts of caution who would endlessly analyze things to understand every angle.
“And what if it’s not enough? What if the boy gets caught in the same fight, the same war? What if he dies, Remy?” The thought felt like a sucker punch to the gut.
“I-,” he began before looking away. “Then. Then, at least, I’ll know I tried. At least he’ll know someone gave a shit to try to prepare him for the worst of it.” His hands clenched, knuckles white. “We can’t undo the past, Maria, but I don’t want him to be a weapon. A sacrifice. Just a survivor, with nothing else.”
His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, but it was steady. Sure. It wasn’t purely guilt anymore, but instead, a way forward. He’d failed. He’d failed, and he’d continue to fail in new and horrible ways, but he wasn’t going to stop trying.
It was easy, he knew, to look away. To ignore. To think someone else will help. And Remus knows he can’t win every fight, but this isn’t some stranger’s kid. This was Harry Potter, whose parents were so dear to him in life that their deaths nearly killed him. This was a little boy who was told he would have to save them all, and he knew nothing else. He hadn't been allowed to know anything else.
Maria exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, you know that?” she muttered her tone a mix of exasperation and reluctant understanding. “You think you can fix the world by bleeding for it.”
He gave her a wry smile, the faintest hint of self-awareness in his tired eyes. “I’m not trying to fix the world. Just one little boy.”
She huffed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re still a fucking idiot.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice soft but firm. “But what else can I do?”
Maria rubbed her face.
“Fine. You owe that boy, alright. But-”
Before Maria could continue, the faint sound of laughter carried from the other room—light and sweet, giggling that tugged at the corners of Remus’s mouth despite the heaviness of their conversation. He glanced toward the door. Maria noticed, her gaze softening even as her jaw stayed tight.
“You owe her more than anyone else,” she said quietly, her voice steady and low. “Whatever you’re thinking, remember that.”
Before he could respond, the laughter grew louder, accompanied by the sound of small, quick footsteps. A moment later, the door burst open, and a small figure darted inside.
“Papi!”
The figure launched herself at him, her curls bouncing with the force of her momentum. Remus caught her easily, his arms steady despite the weight pressing on his chest.
Maria’s eyes stayed on them, her expression unreadable. The argument wasn’t over, he knew that. But for now, he gave his attention to his daughter.
“Essie,” he murmured, his voice softening. “How would you like a story?”
“Yes!” she said, her face lighting up with excitement. “A big one!”
He smiled, though his thoughts drifted back to the letter waiting on Maria’s table. He held Essie close, her warmth grounding him even as the anxiety grew.