November 2rd, 1981
Knows how to forget!
But could It teach it?
Easiest of Arts, they say
When one learn how
Dull Hearts have died
In the Acquisition
Sacrificed for Science
Is common, though, now —
I went to School
But was not wiser
Globe did not teach it
Nor Logarithm Show
"How to forget"!
Say — some — Philosopher!
Ah, to be erudite
Enough to know!
Is it in a Book?
So, I could buy it —
Is it like a Planet?
Telescopes would know —
If it be invention
It must have a Patent.
Rabbi of the Wise Book
Don't you know?
-Emily Dickenson
~~~
November 2rd, 1981, 7:27pm
The slamming of fists against the door disturbed Remus from his drunken stupor.
Merlin, his head was pounding.
Remus scrubbed a hand across his face, as if to wipe the grief and alcohol away, and let his head fall back against the couch.
Oh, yeah, he thought to himself, I’m on the floor.
Nothing felt right, if he was being honest with himself. His skin felt tight over his bones, his head might as well have been filled with hammers and his stomach churned like curtailing milk. But nothing stood a chance against the stabbing weight in his chest that threatened to turn him inside out with its pressure right beneath his ribs.
The banging on the door continued and Remus shifted. A bottle of what he believed to have once been gin rolled away from his leg.
“Remus, damnit! Open up!”
Oh. He knew that voice. He swore to himself before deciding he couldn’t leave her alone in the hall. It didn’t matter if all he wanted was to curl up and die. He owed it to Mary to at least open the door.
“I’m comin’.” He called back, heaving himself to his feet.
By the time he reached the door, he fully expected his legs to give out. He muttered the charms and protections to unlock the door, and the second the last charm was out of his mouth, the door slammed open, pushing him out of the way.
Mary Macdonald barged across the threshold, into his and- his apartment.
“Where’s Sirius?” She demanded, whirling around to face Remus.
“Mary-” He began but he was cut off by her storming out of the living room and the sound of her ripping open the door to his bedroom.
“Dumbledore’s not listening to me, the damn bloody bastard. I need Sirius.”
Sirius. She was looking for Sirius.
“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?” Remus demanded. His headache was getting worse every time she burst through something, and he wanted nothing more than her to calm the hell down so he could get a drink to sooth the rasping quality he could hear in his own voice. Well, almost nothing more.
She stormed back into the living room, fists clenched. Her hair was wild and her coat was undone, exposing her calf-length nightgown underneath. Her eyes had dark circles underneath, the final piece of evidence that she’d been up for days.
“How dare you suggest that.” She spit, stalking towards him until she was right in Remus’ face.
“What?” She demanded, “You want me to fucking dance on Lily’s grave? The dirt hasn’t settled but hey, I’ve never minded a bit of mud. Huh!?”
God he was an idiot. Even through his muddled brain, he could see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.
“Mary, I’m sorry, I-”
“You’re drunk. Now?” Despite the bite in her tone, Mary grabbed Remus’ hand and pulled him down to sit on the couch before heading towards the kitchen. He heard her open and shut a cabinet, and the sound of the sink, before she returned with a glass of water.
Mary knelt down and handed him the glass with the simple instruction; “Drink.”
Remus did as he was told, and when he was done, he looked back at her, begging for his mind to clear as he asked her, “How is Dumbledore not listening to you?”
She sighed, stood, and began pacing again.
“He has Harry, Remus. He has Harry and he won’t tell me where he is and-” She turned back to him.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Remus,” Her voice cracked and, Merlin, how he felt that. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be young and wild. They were supposed to have years left of taking Harry to the park on the weekends, of lazy mornings spent curled up on the couch, of nights dancing like nothing else mattered in some shitty muggle club.
“I’m that kid’s Godmother, if something- if something like this happened, Harry was supposed to be my responsibility. He’s my Godson, but Dumbledore-” She fists clenched tight enough for her knuckles to go pale.
“Dumbledore took him, to fuck knows where, and he said it’s for the best. But that’s not what Lily wants. She-” Mary swallowed. “I’m his Godmother, and he won’t listen to me but Sirius- Sirius doesn’t take no for an answer, and he’s is his Godfather. If Sirius goes with me to Dumbledore, he’ll have no choice but listen to us, I know it. But alone- alone I have no power here so please, Remus, tell me where Sirius is so we can go get Harry and-”
“Sirius is in prison.”
Mary blinked, clearly dumbfounded.
“What?”
“It’s all over the papers.”
“You know I don’t read that shit- Why? Remus, what’s going on?”
Instead of answering, he pointed across the room, to the crumpled up copy of the Daily Prophet he knew he’d thrown there.
“What- Remus, why is Sirius in fucking prison? Tell me what’s going on.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t voice what had happened, what Sirius had done.
He dropped his head down into his hands. Merlin, he was tired. He could hear Mary’s steps as she crossed the room, far softer than before, and the sound of the paper being unfurled. Then nothing. Dead silence so loud his eardrums rang.
“Remus…?” Her voice trailed off, as though she didn’t have the strength to finish the thought.
Remus couldn’t tell you how long she stood there, or what she asked him, something about Sirius being James’ and Lily’s secret keeper, but he wasn’t quite sure. He couldn’t process anything beyond his wo
rn out socks on his feet and the vile twists of betrayal and despair in his stomach. And then the twists weren’t in his stomach anymore.
Mary made a noise, but quickly grabbed him by the waist and hauled him off to the bathroom.
His second external twist made it into the toilet, and Mary lowered them both down to the tiled floor.
The cold felt nice beneath him, even as everything around him seemed to blur and spin. He was vaguely aware of Mary cleaning off his chin and how she kept him upright against the side of the bathtub. But then the fog was descending and nothing seemed real.
She kissed his forehead before she left, he could feel it, and it was like they were kids again, back when Mary’s habit of kissing people’s cheeks first started, and he could feel her permanently chapped lips, from before she started wearing lipstick and leaving sticky red marks he always wiped off.
She said something, too, in a soft, soothing tone, but he didn’t quite catch what she said before he drifted off to sleep.
Maybe he would have tried harder to hear her, or would’ve asked her to repeat herself, if he had known this would be the last time he ever saw her. But he didn’t know that, not yet.
He would hold on to hope that he’d see her again until the day he died. But part of him knew the truth the second he woke up and she wasn’t seated criss-cross on the couch, that Mary was gone, and he’d never find out what it was she said.