He can’t
Stilted air, hung with a lingering healing-magic trace sifts through the entire wing of the building - The constellation of rooms, Remus knows like the back of his hand locked in the dark, robbed of all his senses. It’s mere muscle memory, when he climbs the stairs, takes instinctive turns on the third floor and follows the shortcut through the storage floor on a middle level separating two main floors with hidden efficiency.
Remus moves faster than his aching back would allow him under normal circumstances. His feet position themselves in front of each other in urgency - carry him over the thresholds of secret doors and through the darkness of enchanted corridors. He barely registers his surroundings, is driven by a single task in his mind - one simple goal - however impulsive it might be.
He pushes through yet another set of heavy doors and brushes past a pair of confused house elves with cleaning supplies gripped tightly in their tiny hands - strides over buckets of soap infused water and dives into a painful jog, when he sees a distinctly bottle green coloured hem of a robe disappear behind a familiar corner.
McGonagall’s voice sounds in an echo through the halls and mixes with Remus’ own thundering footsteps to a strange hoarse whisper underlined with a thumping beat. His steps impossibly pick up their pace - making his strained muscles ache and his back hunch over in a painful stretch.
Conjuring the last strands of energy left in his repertoire to beat the closing window of opportunity laying ahead, Remus sprints down the corridor. Pulling the massive wooden door open by its brazen handles, he rushes into the room panting and exhausted - too distracted with his search for the bulk of teachers to pay attention to the halfway closed gate of the infirmary behind him.
Fast steps carry him past empty beds and ruffled curtains, through the door leading to the private quarters and right into the middle of a heated debate:
Black hair and indignantly raised eye brows catch his attention first - as they always do: framing an ocean of disturbed phanto blue on a face of eerily beautiful features pulled into an uncharacteristically ugly grimace. Sirius sits casually draped on the ruffled covers of a standard hospital bed with Poppy examining the side of his face with a focussed expression. The boy is fuming, Remus can tell as much from experience, even over the considerable distance - agitated beyond the ability to remember the endless lessons of his childhood on how to properly deal with authority figures, gesticulating wildly in his fit - cutting off the inquiry from the teachers’ party with loud arguments.
“NO! I did nothing to offend that lunatic-” He exclaims indignantly, obviously interrupting an argument that seems to have gone on for a while.
”Mister Black, would you-” The plumb figure of their magical beast’s teacher tries to reason, but the dark haired boy only picks up his pace of rapidly fired arguments.
”I don’t know how often you expect me to repeat myself - It’s not my fault that you have never realised the animalistic qualities of that particular Slytherin before he physically attacked me - but in all honesty, you should have - its your job, after all, to keep the students of this school safe - that imbecile could have broken my neck before any of you had the decency to intervene! You’re lucky that he is just too incompetent to use his magic instead of his hands!”
”Mister Rosier’s usual behaviour never called to particular attention regarding violence, Mister-” Dumbledore reasons now, his voice level and posture relaxed, but Sirius interrupts even him in his agitated rant - blind and deaf to the man’s authority.
”We are talking about a Slytherin, Sir - with all due respect, what exactly do you expect from the lot of them?”
”Mister Black, this generalising approach leaves no room for-” Dumbledore tries again, extending a comforting hand towards Sirius’ tense frame, but the other boy only scoffs at the old man in untameable disdain.
”What do you want to hear from me?! That feral - lunatic - attacked me in the middle of a civilised conversation-”
”What exactly was the occasion that called for you to approach the Slytherin table during-” McGonagall tries to intercept the unstoppable rant, but is brushed off with just as much of a dismissive scoff as Dumbledore had been just a minute ago.
”I have a brother in Slytherin house? What else would I be up to in the break of morning? I wanted to have a conversation with my brother. Is that a crime all of a sudden?” Sirius exclaims indignantly raising his chin at the teachers crowded around his bed. He is burning with agitation, alight with fire of defiant stubbornness, throwing glances like daggers until one of the cutting projectiles land directly on Remus’ frozen fame.
The eye contact burns with an uncomfortable intensity, as Sirius’ eyes widen slightly and his torso leans forward on the bed in an almost unconscious movement - as if he is physically pulled in from the gravity in Remus’ immediate vicinity.
Just as the dark haired boy leans in, Remus jerks back, though - as if burned by the attention and entirely too overwhelmed, focusing on everything but the boy in the middle of the room, perched on a hospital bed like its his rightfully claimed throne.
A still figure inhabitating a different bed in the secluded room raises his attention then - makes him focussed on unmoving limbs placed on top of off white covers - a ghostly scene, when Remus recognises tousled dark curls and wire frame glasses on the counter next to the hospital bed. James’ skin is the colour of an afterthought of his usual vibrant golden skin - an ashen tone overlaying the soft freckles on the boy’s exposed arms.
Remus is in shock over the scene unfolded before him, overwhelmed with the questioning glances of his teachers that hit him from the side now, as he can’t bring himself to avert his own from the unmoving frame of his friend laid out like a corpse on the lonely hospital bed in the corner of the secluded room.
His mind is running wild, when a gentle hand settles on his shoulder and makes him jump in surprise. Mcgonagall is at his side now, looking up to Remus with mild concern mixed into her stern features. “Would you mind coming with me for a short conversation, Mister Lupin?”
Her voice is nowhere near soft, when her hand on his shoulder begins to transform from a light comforting weight to a slight pull on his sleeve, but her eyes hold compassion, as she throws a glance to James’ bed on the other side of the room. “Come, Mister Lupin.”
Remus lets himself be pulled away from her then, caught in shock and still staring at the unmoving figure of his too pale friend. Just when they pass the threshold of the door leading to the main room of the infirmary, his eyes land on Sirius again. The other boy seems frozen, perched on his own hospital bed, a bruise blooming on his high sitting cheekbones - deaf to the arguing that continues around him - his eyes solely trained on Remus, as if his gaze is attached to him with an unbreakable sticking charm.
The beautiful boy disappears from Remus’ sight as soon as McGonagall closes the door behind them and drags him down the hallway to the bed he usually occupies during his monthly visits. It’s a familiar sight - comforting, yet laced with memories of agony and burning pain. How many days he has spent in this very bed already, how many mornings when the boys came over after breakfast, carrying bundles of wrapped food and an abundance of board- and card games, determined to cheer him up after the especially rough moons: Peter, equipped with writing utensils and Remus’ favourite sweets; James’ arms full of stacks of parchment and books, reliably bringing Remus his wand after every full moon; Sirius carrying all the wrappers filled with warm breakfast dishes - balancing the slices of differently smeared toast.
He has to shake the memories, when he sits down on the freshly made bed, facing McGonagall on her designated chair next to the narrow hospital bed. It’s a familiar sight: her with her guarded expression, facing him with a straight back that doesn’t quite dare to touch the backrest of the chair. They look at each other silently, McGonagall patiently holding Remus the room he needs to adjust to his shock, and Remus himself; overwhelmed but stoically fighting through the swell of his emotions to regain control over his thought process to return to his original intention.
“Mister Lupin, I take it, it was a shock to see mister Potter in such a state - I can assure you, though, that his condition is stable and that there will be consequences for the one who inflicted these injuries on your two friends-” She explains to him in a calm voice, keeping her tone neutral but her face compassionate.
Remus interrupts her though, once the confirmation of James’ ensured recovery reaches his distressed brain and calms his nerves.
”That is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about - Why I came as soon as I could, actually - You have not, by any chance spoken to Evan yet, have you?” He asks, chewing on his bottom lip, pulling his piercing between his teeth - biting down hard on the durable metal. He already knows the answer to his question, knows that the teachers had their hands quite full, when they dragged both an unconscious James and a wildly thrashing Sirius up the stairs to the infirmary. Evan is probably in his first class now, undisturbed and unscathed. Remus is determined to keep that up, as he leans forward on his arms now, holding the gaze of his head of house with unwavering intent.
She seems to struggle at his implication, scrunches up her brows when she begins to speak again, “Not quite yet. But I can assure you that this matter will be settled as soon as we finish our conversation here. Violence in any form is not tolerated at this school and I will personally make sure that a letter will be sent to Mister Rosier’s parents as well-” The elderly teacher continues, nodding at Remus with a stern expression on her wrinkled face, before she is cut off by him again.
“I don’t really think that this would be wise, Professor. You see, I believe Sirius provoked that fight and James was not really helping to de-escalate it as well. I think it started yesterday in the library, because Evan was handing me a book I was looking for then and got attacked by Sirius out of nowhere - He shoved him against a shelve with a brutal tackle - didn’t apologise and has expressed his dislike towards Evan since - Evan - Rosier, I mean, hasn’t even said or done anything afterwards - he just left after I helped him up - and today - today I kept a closer eye on Sirius because he hasn’t stopped complaining about Ev - Rosier and even talked about teaching him a lesson - so I was a bit concerned - but it must have slipped my attention when he and James went over to the Slytherin table, when I was talking with Lily - And before I could get up to intervene, he already started speaking to Rosier. I couldn’t hear what he said, of course, I was still sitting at the other end of the room - but from the distance it looked like Sirius was taunting him. And I know how Sirius can be sometimes…” Remus pauses, pressing the palms of his hands tightly together in his lap, avoiding the professor’s eyes pointedly now. He allows himself a short moment to rethink the rest of his story through - thinks about the hopeful glance Sirius’ has thrown him just a few minutes ago - as if he was expecting Remus to finally return to them - as if he expected him to have sorted his priorities after the fight and decided to keep the both of them company now, in the hospital wing. Remus has no such intentions, if anything it makes his anger grow - only adds to the confidence he felt earlier when he climbed the steps to the infirmary. And with a determined inhale, Remus swallows his reluctance and faces McGonagall again, ready to continue his report.
“Anyway, I - I don’t want to put all the blame on Sirius, or James - They’re my friends - But Professor - I - I know Evan from the prefect meetings - and he never gave me the impression of a particularly hotheaded person, who would just start a fight with an older student - Evan - Rosier didn’t even start the fight - Sirius threw himself at him first - Rosier was really just defending himself - at least, that is my impression - And, for what its worth, I don’t think that Rosier should be punished for defending himself against two older students who had it out for him like that.” Remus finishes with as much of an honest expression as he can muster at the thought of James laying unmoving on a hospital bed and Sirius’ cheek covered in a fresh bruise. But all he can think in his confusion is: They had it coming.
It’s an ugly thought - twisted and out of place. It makes Remus shiver despite the warmth of the room. But in all its wrongness - it holds an awful truth. Even when Sirius’ face is covered with a mark of violence now - he had been the only one who was responsible for the escalation. Evan had only reacted. Late at that, as well. He has given Sirius every opportunity to stop his bullshit and walk away from his past missteps. But of course Sirius had misinterpreted Evan’s calm nature for weakness. He has overstepped a line and payed the price afterwards. He has made the mistake to underestimate the Slytherin in the first place - had been too vain, too confident to see what lay right in front of him: Evan Rosier - A dangerous force, obscured by intentional calmness. Quick witted and apparently practised in physical fighting as well.
The boy is an intriguing mystery of unraveled layers - has the air of an unpredictable individual with much more facets than Remus has originally given him credit for - not that he had not expected the unexpected from the younger boy since he had held his gaze so unflinchingly on the train - By then Remus had acknowledged the miscalculation he had made over the summer - had corrected his thoughts - reevaluated his opinion on the blonde and accepted his own growing interest: the pulsating feeling in his chest, that didn’t seem to go away anytime soon.
And Evan has handled both of the trained quidditch players with such grace - as if it took him nothing to put them in their place - has held his ground with a wand to his throat without drawing his own, without retreating a single step - effortless, fearless - raw. Evan had practically glowed at the breakfast table - radiating power and defiance as if it was his birthright - as if he has always been just as radiant as he appeared then, with his angular features illuminated by the sunlight from above - his light eyes meeting Sirius’ feral ones with unwavering determination - his posture entirely relaxed despite the clashing contrast of the older boy’s fighting stance - his mouth pulled into a tight line, as Sirius started to scream insults at him - as they carried through the entire hall - audible for everyone to hear. He had faced the harsh insults with just as much grace, as he has pinned the older boy to the table earlier - his responses way quieter than the provocations Sirius threw at him.
Something warm had curled in Remus chest when he watched them - the two of those polar opposites: Black hair, cold eyes, harsh lines of violence - and pure gold - light eyes trained on deep blue with courage, instead of the fear the boy had described to Remus in vivid detail in his letter, his poem - holding his ground in the sunlight - facing his poor odds with the kind of bravery Gryffindor house is so famous for.
A painfully beautiful contrast - so conflicted and laced with countless impossibilities.
Shaken in his very core, Remus had felt the immediate urge to fight the obvious bias of his teachers, then. He had left his spot at the Gryffindor table as soon as McGonagall had overcome her passive stance and went into action. By then, Evan had already turned, pulled down by the sleeve by the dark haired boy to his right and disappeared out of Remus’ sight. The upflaring annoyance was soon drowned out by his own breathing though, as he struggled to keep up the pace in which he hurried down the corridors to catch up with the leaving teachers.
McGonagall’s thoughtful stare pulls Remus from the memory, as he meets her pale green eyes with as much sincerity he can muster at the conflicting feelings swelling up in his chest.
“Mister Lupin, are you sure about this information? It is of utmost importance, that you are honest with me now - these - details are quite the allegation and I have to be sure, that you are not saying such things out of vengeance - And don’t mistake my caution as a questioning of your character, for I can assure you, it is not. I trust your judgement here, Remus. With that being said: is there anything about the information in your report you want to change? A detail that you’d like to add, perhaps, that would paint a clearer picture?” The professor asks carefully, assessing him through the glasses resting on the bridge of her nose.
Remus is in the middle of formulating a clear thought, when a soft sound across the room rises to his attention and makes his head turn on instinct. It’s a girl in the door - clad in Ravenclaw robes, wearing her long blonde hair in various braids and a cautious expression lining her soft features. She halts in her retreat, as Remus’ eyes land on her, shivers when McGonagall leans forward in her chair to follow Remus’ line of sight as well.
Silence rings between the three of them, stretches to an uncomfortable sequence, until the professor rises from her chair eventually, taking long strides to the middle of the room and clasps her hands on her back, as she surveys the girl in her frozen state across the room.
“Miss Rosier, is there anything that I can help you with? Perhaps you could wait just a minute outside the infirmary - I will be with you then, Mister Lupin and I have a conversation to finish first.” Her voice is a carefully arranged mixture of gentleness and firmness and accomplishes to make the girl lingering in the door move quietly with a nod. The door clicks to a final shut as a result.
Remus is hung up on the name though - Rosier - Just like Evan. This can’t be a coincidence.
His mind is whirling, when McGonagall settles in the chair opposed him once again and nods as if to urge him to continue their previous conversation. Remus is distracted though - How much did the girl hear? What are her intentions? Why did Evan never mention her before?
“Mister Lupin?” The teacher’s voice is like blaring siren in Remus’ mind and he shakes his head immediately to focus on his task ahead - but the tables have turned, haven’t they? He doesn’t know how to proceed - how he will navigate the possible aftermath of him being overheard by the strange Ravenclaw girl that is very possibly linked to Evan by blood?
“Right, yes.” he stalls, desperately trying to regain his focus.
“Right - I do not have anything to add or change bout my statement, professor. I am well aware of the negative implications, but I see myself responsible to deliver this message to you. I am a prefect after all and I intend to report the information I have truthfully to you - now if you don’t mind, I have classes to attend to.”
Remus moves off the bed before McGonagall can even respond to his answer and nods to her in a manner of dismissing himself. He doesn’t wait for a response afterwards, simply hurries down the corridor past the unoccupied hospital beds and pushes through the infirmary door in a rush to put as much space between himself and the betraying nature of his report.
Outside the girl waits, standing close to the door. Her golden hair reflecting just like Evan’s in the sunlit corridor. Remus averts his gaze quickly in his retreat, sprints past her down the corridor as if he is actively trying to outrun the incredibly messy aftermath of his own impulsivity.
Whatever she heard - whatever she didn’t - she has seen him now. And he can’t change that - will have to deal with whatever comes out of the conversation she’ll have with McGonagall now.
Remus sprints down the corridor, takes a sharp left turn to the moving staircases and leans on the bannister in an effort to catch his breath, after he barely makes the jump on a turning spiral of one of the staircases leading up to the fifth floor.
It was such an untypical stupid thing for him to do - defending a Slytherin - betraying his friends. But as Remus makes his way towards the charms classroom down the fifth floor hallway, he can only make out a feeling of warmth spreading through his aching limbs. Perhaps it has been an impulsive thing to do - maybe very idiotic as well - but as he mumbles a string of excuses to his frowning teacher and settles on a seat next to a surprised Lily, Remus has to fight the urge to smile with adamant determination.
McGonagall has said, that she trusts his judgement, now, didn’t she - and maybe - just maybe, that could be enough for the teachers to reconsider their intended punishment. Maybe - just maybe that could be enough of a reason to give Evan a mild lecture instead of a layered, multidimensional string of punishments. Maybe, just maybe that girl in the corridor hasn’t heard as much as he believed her too.
And as Remus pulls out the required books for the lesson from his battered bag, he finally allows himself to smile a bit - at the memory of the boy illuminated by sunlight - fearlessly facing the immediate threat of a raised wand against his throat.
The worry about that strange girl takes a secondary place on Remus’ conscious list of problems, as he imagines the talk the teachers would have. Because the word of a prefect carries meaning - and maybe, just maybe - his word would carry enough meaning to make the professors reconsider. Maybe, just maybe he might have just repayed Evan the favour of rekindling the spark in his chest. And maybe, just maybe - a note of messily scribbled cursive would find its way to Remus. And maybe - just maybe the boy of unrevealed depths will grant Remus with another opportunity to speak to him again.
And as Remus turns the pages of his book in his search for the lesson’s topic, the feeling in his chest swells up again, making him stop short in his intention to follow the teacher’s monologue - drowns out his surroundings in a burning clarity all of a sudden - an intense knowing - the impossible to ignore realisation, that he just broke all of the established friendship rules in his friend group to rush to a stranger’s aid, flood to his mind with the crushing impact of the brutal current reigning Scotlands shores.
That he had just prioritised a Slytherin’s well being of his own friends.
And in the middle of that charms lesson, while Lily shoots questioning glances at him, Remus realises the form of that feeling inside his chest - the crushing intensity of the urge that has made him leave his seat at the breakfast table in such a hurried manner.
And with the rise of his joy quickly comes the fall of his features as the knowledge of his volition’s origin sinks like a dead weight in his soul.
Two conversations, a few notes and a single poem. A single poem - and yet - yet he knows that feeling - has spent years of torture under its oppression - has survived its harsh blows, its futile promises - the lies of an unravelled truth underneath - the impossibility of his own happiness in the aftermath - Of course Remus recognises that feeling. He recognises it with the same certainty a scholar recognises his own handwriting - undeniable and crushing - an idea so brilliant, yet terrefying in its physical form - a blow that only waits to be delivered - a fall he won’t survive a second time.
And how could this even be possible? How could the colours of his own soul’s direction change so incredibly fast? How is it possible - Remus pushes the thought down violently, presses the palms of his sweaty hands against the fabric of his trousers in a brutal squeeze. This can’t be - this - this cannot be. He won’t let it. He can’t. He can’t - he can’t.
He can’t, under any circumstances, start to fall in love with Evan Rosier. He thinks, desperately trying to focus on the lesson, instead of that drowning sensation in his chest. But it is heavy - pulling him in like the moon pulls in the waves of the oceans - in an unshakable grip - an undeniable physical law. A truth - clear as daylight - breaking through his defences - an image of freshly thawed weeds on a mountain’s trail in the greatest heights of the Scottish highlands. The image of light eyes illuminated by moonlight - sunlight - all the same. Mesmerising beyond comprehension.
Nausea rises in Remus stomach then and before the teacher can decline his request to leave the room, he already flees down the corridor - leaving all of his things behind - desperately thrashing his way through the bathroom doors, before collapsing on the closed toilet seat, shivering and restless - contemplating all of his previous life choices.