“Remus?”
His voice was broken, choppy, as if every ounce of air had left his body. It was high-pitched, and helpless, and ended in a choked breath. It was unrecognizable.
But Remus recognized it. Of course he recognized it.
He wished he didn’t. He wished he couldn’t.
And as soon as he'd heard the familiar inhale, he wished he could hang up.
But here he is, unable to pull the phone from his ear, as Sirius Black sobs into the other end.
“Remus, are—are you there?”
Remus says nothing. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He couldn’t if he tried. His jaw is glued together, his throat full of cotton. In the back of his mind he wonders if he’s been confunded. It feels that way—he can’t sort through his own thoughts. There is too much. Too many questions, too many horrors, too many waking nightmares that have somehow occurred over the past twenty-four hours.
Or perhaps someone has hit him with an Immobulus. Perhaps that is why he can’t put the phone down from his ear, why he can’t relax back into his bed, why he can’t seem to speak or catch his breath.
Is that a side effect of being immobilized? He can’t remember.
“Remus, I…” Sirius trails off, and Remus is forced to hear another half-sob. “I know how it looks. I know. Please, please, don’t…Remus, please.”
But Remus can only blink. He thinks tears are running down his cheeks. But he can’t lift his hand to wipe them away.
When Remus had explained what a telephone was, a few years ago, James had immediately decided each of the Marauders must have one. In case Sirius or James lost their matching mirrors, or in case Remus’ fireplace stopped working, or in case Peter got lost without his wand again. Everyone had laughed, and enjoyed exchanging numbers. They’d really only used them once or twice, after the novelty had worn off. Why wouldn’t they pop through the floo, or send a patronus? Every once in a while, James would call, doing a funny voice or pretending to be Dumbledore. Once, he’d asked Remus if his refrigerator was running. A few minutes later he got another call, from an exasperated Peter, complaining about a refrigerator-related joke.
Now he regretted ever explaining the muggle technology to his Marauders.
Oh, God, the Marauders.
They’re all dead now.
Everyone is.
Except two. The Murderer and the Werewolf.
Remus might as well be dead. He feels dead.
“I didn’t kill anyone, Re, please, you have to believe me.” Sirius begged on the line. Remus swallowed at the sound of the nickname. He hated it. He hates it. He hates this.
Remus had always been able to easily identify the worst day of his life. It occurred when he was only five. He thought that that was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. The worst thing that could ever happen to anyone.
He was wrong.
For the past year, there had been a spy in the Order, feeding information to Voldemort. They tried to figure out who it was, just as much as they all tried not to think about it. Sirius had pulled away from him, more than anyone, in this last month. He never said as much, but Remus could tell. He’d thought then, heartbreakingly, that Sirius had thought him the spy. But now he understood—Sirius was preparing his final betrayal. He was letting Remus go first, as if to solidify his awful plans. Remus should have realized, should have said something. But he had been so sick and saddened at the idea that Sirius had believed him to be the traitor.
Sirius had been the one to find the bodies. It should have been obvious, then, shouldn’t it? But he’d given his bike to Hagrid, and he’d been so upset, and his call had been so frantic…
Like this one. Except he wasn’t pleading to Remus in that one. He was pleading to Merlin, begging his brother to come back to life. And Sirius had cried, and Remus had cried, and then Remus had asked aloud how could they have been found? There was a beat of silence. And then Sirius hung up.
And now Peter is dead too. Remus found out only minutes before receiving this call. He doesn’t even know how Sirius is calling him, having already been taken into custody. Distantly Remus wonders if there is someone he should tell.
He hears a heavy sigh in the receiver.
“Okay. Okay. It’s okay. You don’t have to believe me now. But, but he’s still alive, so when you see he’s alive, you’ll come get me, yeah? You’ll realize then?”
They’d said he was laughing when they found him. Laughing.
It’s strange how he could go from charming to alarming in seconds. Remus supposes that’s always been a talent of his. His eerie calm, and then the snap of his wand. His smile at his friends, and then the scream at his brother behind them in the hallways.
He didn’t even really grieve Regulus. And anytime it was mentioned, he’d only lash out.
Remus had convinced himself that anger was a form of grief. Now he wonders if Sirius had ever been able to grieve at all. To feel at all.
Remus can’t feel anything now. He has gone numb.
“I’ll try to hold out in here. Maybe it won’t be so bad, yeah?” Sirius sniffles, his voice shaky, but suddenly has the tone of someone trying to be brave. It sounds as though he’s repeating a mantra, convincing himself more than he’s trying to convince Remus. “It’s not so bad…I’m not…I’ll be okay…while I wait. Cause you’ll be coming for me, yeah?”
Remus blinks, staring at nothing.
“He turned into a rat, so keep an eye out, alright? Harry’s still alive, and that’s who Voldemort wants, so he’ll be back. Peter will be back.”
Remus wants to scream.
Peter is dead. You killed him.
You killed everyone we have ever loved!
But Remus still can’t speak.
“Just, just, just protect Harry, alright? Protect my Godson. Please, Re.”
Remus gives a stiff nod that Sirius can’t see. He’s surprised he could move at all. He’s surprised he’s promising a murderer to look after the child of the parents he killed.
It’s more a promise to himself, Remus tries to pretend. A promise that he’ll make sure Harry grows up all right.
“This isn’t your fault, Remus. I know why you can’t believe me. I know how it looks. But I’m not…It’s not…It’s…” Sirius stutters for a while, then shakily breathes in. “And then you’ll come get me, when you know for sure. I…I…I’m sure I can hold out ‘till then. Just got to think happy, remember the good times…I’ll just count the days and you’ll be here in a flash. I’ll be alright. I’ll…I’ll…”
Sirius sobs again. Remus wants to throw up.
“I love you, Moony.” Sirius says in a broken whisper. “Always have. Always will. You know that, yeah? You are loved. You are still loved. I—”
Sirius is cut off, and Remus can hear a shuffling in the background, and then shouting.
“No, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO, YOU CAN’T TAKE IT, NOT YET, PLEASE, NO—” Sirius’ voice is getting further from the phone, but his voice is getting louder. “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE, MOONS, PLEASE! PLEASE, WHEN HE COMES OUT—”
And then the phone cuts off.
Remus doesn’t know how long he sits there, holding the phone to his ear. Hearing the dial tone and pretending that it’s James making a joke about a refrigerator. The dial tone is all he has.
At some point, Remus stands. He chucks his phone against the wall with a scream, and watches as it breaks to pieces on the floor. He wishes he could have done it before that call came.
And now what?
There is nothing left for him.
There is nothing left of him.
The world has gone black and white, and blurry, and Remus is sobbing, and at some point he realizes he is on his knees on the floor, screaming to let out the grief that he knows will never really go away.
He would have died for any of them, always. Always.
What a sick twist of fate to be the only one left. The last Marauder. Except he’s not. Because there are no Marauders. There are no more nights in the woods, saving him from himself. There are no more pranks in the hallways, where he pretends not to notice or attempts to scold them. There are no more weddings, smiling and laughing and dancing with the best man. There are no more hot cocoa nights, no more friendly duels, no more guessing which house their children will be in. There is nothing now.
There is only this.
Remus slumps against a wall as he sits on the floor, his head in his hands. How does he keep living after this? How does he move on from this?
Why had Sirius bothered to say that he loved him?
He hadn’t said it in a month. He had barely looked at Remus at all. They’d still slept together in their bed, but the sheets between them felt like oceans, and it was as if they had never been in love at all.
It’s a strange lie to pick back up on, when he’s already rotting with all the burnouts in the cell.
It doesn’t matter, Remus supposes.
He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it.
He doesn’t know why he’s doing this to himself.
He knows that eventually he will have to move. To get up. To acknowledge this half-life that he’ll be forced to lead. But for now, he just sits on his cold wooden floor, in a house that used to be home. Used to be Moony and Padfoot’s.
Remus leans his head back, against the wall, staring ahead but not really seeing anything.
And quietly, horribly, he thanks every God he no longer believes in that the only people who knew how much he loved Sirius Black are already dead.