Prologue
Sure, the bomb alarms are loud. But Remus Lupin’s need for a break will always be louder. He just wants to sleep. So it takes him admittedly far longer to drag himself out of bed than it should and to stumble over to his window where it’s completely, strangely, dark outside. Before the war, London was never dark, too many street lights and houses and people and lives. But the war has killed that too and the city looks like a shadow of itself at night now, holding its breath for moments just like this. The night is only punctuated by the loud overwhelming sound of a bomb landing and reds and oranges and the small dots of lights of the planes streaking the sky. He finds it strangely comforting to see light in the London sky once more before the fear hits him.
“Mum?”
Their house is small, which means it doesn’t take him long to wrench open his door and sprint into his parents room where Hope stands in the middle of the room, a far off look in her eyes, clutching her nightgown around herself. “Mum?” She doesn’t look up at his arrival. He doesn’t think about it before grabbing her and dragging her out to the garden.
The wet grass his cold under his bare feet and loud whistling fills his ears alongside the siren sounds which means they’re far, far too close. He yanks his mother faster, desperate to reach the shelter now, cursing himself for hesitating so long. He’s heaving the goddamn thing open – why did they ever even close it? Surely that was a huge mistake – and so, has dropped Hope’s arm for a second, which is apparently a second huge mistake because it seems to be the thing that wakes her up and she mumbles something incomprehensible before sprinting back into the house.
For a second Remus is too shocked to do anything but stare after her in incomprehension and then he’s racing after her cursing “fuck, fuck, fuck,” as he goes.
“Mum!” He doesn’t think his heart has ever banged so hard in his chest. This level of stress probably isn’t healthy, is it? What really definitely isn’t healthy is getting blown up into little pieces which they both definitely will be if Hope keeps running through the house instead of getting back into the fucking shelter. How is she even that fast?
He reaches her just as the whole house is shaken and they’re both thrown to the floor with the force of it. He thinks it’s probably the first time his mother doesn’t give out to him for cursing. When he looks over at her she’s holding something in her hands and with a sick feeling in his stomach he recognises it.
The window broke, he realises, looking down at himself, his pyjama shirt sprinkled with glass. It’s enough to wake him up and drag him back to his feet, once again grabbing his mother, and this time she provides no resistance when he drags her out to the shelter and shoves her inside.
The noise doesn’t stop but it does immediately muffle enough to be shocking when he slams the door shut behind them. He leans back gasping, heart thumping and realises he’s shaking. When he finally makes himself look up, Hope is curled up against the opposite wall, as far from him as possible in the small space though its hard to tell if that’s on purpose, quietly sobbing and cradling the cracked portrait of his father, apparently worth risking both of their lives, that she’d retrieved, to her chest.
“You could have got us killed!” he says before he can stop himself “You – “ He swallows and looks down at the glass on his shirt.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t leave him-“ Hope does not look sorry. Hope is staring down at the portrait on her lap with more love than she has ever given Remus.
“What-“ it feels like there is glass in his mouth, like he swallowed the window. “What about me?”
Hope doesn’t answer just sobs and repeats, “I couldn’t leave him, I couldn’t leave him, it’s all I have to remember his face,” so he sits down and waits and waits and waits and though neither of them sleep, they don’t talk until morning.
Their house survives the night. Unlike the one opposite them, alongside its next door neighbours. Lucky, they had been lucky. Remus spends the day doing the best he can to help clear the rubble away from everything worth saving – including people - and put out the fires. Partly out of the goodness of his heart or whatever, partly because he can’t imagine staying home and looking his mother in the eyes. When he comes back home in the evening, Hope is sat at the kitchen table, the fading light making her look even more grey and drawn than usual. Drab and tired. She mirrors the exhaustion he can feel anywhere he goes in the city nowadays. Her expression turns guilty the moment he steps inside and he can’t help but feel a bolt of anger.
Good. Good, be guilty. You are guilty. How am I less important than a photograph? You’re my mum, you should have been the one dragging me out of danger, not the other way around. You’re my mum.
She pushes a bowl at him. Soup. Remus is so sick of soup. It’s not even good soup. But there’s a war going on and stricter and stricter rations, so it’s not really her fault. He breathes out. In. Out. He’s hungry and its warm and filling (ish) so it should be enough. Their house is standing and he has soup and he should be happy with that. Satisfied. Less angry. Less cold.
He thinks he would be if he hadn’t been so angry before the war even began. If the house hadn’t felt drab and grey and tired since before it could be blamed on any outside reason.
“Thanks.”
His mother doesn’t say anything until he starts eating. It tastes the same as it always does.
“I got you a train ticket.”
He freezes. Looks up. A train ticket can only really mean one thing these days, although it’s not like they could ever really afford a holiday.
“I thought that was for little kids?” Hope’s mouth forms a thin line.
“It’s for children,” she says, “You’re – you’re still a child.” Barely, he wants to say but he doesn’t. She’s only buying him a few months of safety before he’s eighteen and old enough for the army. He wonders if she knows that, if she’s forgotten his age. Remus stares at his soup. “An old friends of your… of your dad’s has agreed to take you in. She’s a professor but she has a big house. You’re to be very well behaved, alright Remus?”
When aren’t I? he wants to ask, but she probably has too many examples to use against him so he just nods. He’s – it’s not that he wants to stay in London, not really. He doesn’t want to see her bombed but it’s not like this city has ever really felt like home to him. He’s not even particularly attached to the house. He just – it feels like running away, like cowardice or something. Like he should argue with his mum, make her let him stay. But it feels a little too much like she doesn’t want him to. And like maybe this is an apology for something.
And Remus is so sick of soup.