Chapter 3
Remus apparates into the forest, wandless and alone, and thinks that this is what prisoners must feel during their last meal.
Here he is, a living breathing reminder of everything these wolves hate.
Fresh red meat.
A last meal, one that consists of himself and nothing more.
He takes strength from the mark on his arm that reminds him that Sirius is alive and alright, if not happy at the moment.
Into the wolves den, he thinks, and laughs humorlessly.
Indeed.
Time passes, for this, in the strangest of ways.
From the moment he leaves Sirius and reaches the encampment to the moment the first of the wolves turns on him with a snarl, it all passes in snapshots.
One, tears brimming in Sirius’ wide eyes.
Two, the nauseating push-pull of apparition, the shock of the landing buckling his knees.
Three, the yellow glint of the leader as he pretends to listen to what Remus is saying.
…
Four, the turnabout.
…
Five, the moment when the first wolf turns on him.
…
He arches in pain, transformation half over, and is too late to dodge away from the claws that rip into his body.
Remus screams, a mangled half animal sound, and crumples to the unforgiving ground.
Agony explodes through him.
The other wolves set upon him with fury.
The last he knows is the moon, harsh light on his trembling body.
From there, it’s remarkably easy to give in to the pull of oblivion.
…
“Easy, love. You’ll tear your wounds open again.”
…
Delirium sets in.
For the longest while, he drifts.
He thinks there’s someone with him, someone with callused hands and a low voice.
Someone who lifts his head to spill cool water in his mouth, and eases his parched throat with every drop.
Someone who brushes cold fingers over his burning forehead, and sings in a language he doesn’t know.
The world seems far and away, glimpse and flashes here and there.
Through slitted eyelids, he watches as flames dance through the darkness.
He’s burning alive, breath rasping from his throat, and then he’s freezing, ice spreading to the very tips of his fingers.
Pain, searing pain that roars through his body like a tidal wave.
Relief, after a thick liquid is poured down his throat.
The cold hands are back, smoothing his hair away from his forehead.
“Shh, love. You’re all right then.”
His mouth shapes the name of… someone.
Ssssss… someone.
He wants, desperately.
Somewhere in the deepest echoes of his mind, he knows that this person would make it all better.
He chokes on fluid, thick and viscous liquid that overflows from his aching mouth, and it tastes like iron.
His body trembles, and his body breaks again.
“It’s alright, I know it hurts. There’s a good lad. Just a bit more.”
Remus aches, and he sobs, and he misses them.
…
Morning light spills over the backs of his eyelids, and Remus wakes to a tranquil room.
The bedspread smells like lemon, and the walls are bright green, scrubbed within an inch of their lives.
His body aches, but in the distant way of a healing wound.
Long sleeves hang over the tips of his fingers, and the shirt he’s wearing is so large it practically swallows him up.
One deep breath, and another, and he sits carefully.
Bandages span the length of his midsection, and around both of his arms.
His leg aches, down to the bone, and the thigh is wrapped thickly with more of the clean bandages.
Someone’s been taking care of me.
He should be more alarmed by the circumstances, but something innate tells him he’s safe.
…
“Are you awake?”
Remus stirs, clawing his way through the layers of fog that blanket his mind, and opens his eyes just enough to see who’s speaking.
It’s a girl, young and fresh faced, peering around the doorframe.
At his low hum of assent, she comes closer. “Mum says you got am-bushed.”
The word is ugly coming from the mouth of a child, and he hates the sound of it.
He can’t speak, his throat raw and pained, but he nods ever so faintly.
“That’s bad,” she says solemnly. “Mum gave you potions to make you feel better. Is it working?”
Remus closes his eyes and turns away in lieu of answering.
He thinks that maybe that answers the question just fine.
“I’m Sammy,” she says confidentially. “Sam. Mum says I’m nosy. Why were you hurt?”
And he just-
Thinking is too hard right now, so he just breathes, and tries not to let her see the pain in his features.
She’s undeterred, and keeps talking without heeding his silence.
She reminds him of-
Lily.
He exhales sharply, and it comes out as a ragged sob.
Sam goes quiet. “Are you hurting?”
Always.
“Mum?” Sam scrambles to the door of the bedroom, calling into the hallway. “He’s awake, and he’s crying.”
Pain takes his breath away, both physical and not, and he’s almost grateful for the darkness that steals over his vision.
As he slips away, the door opens and there’s a motherly voice and gentle hands, pouring something down his throat that eases the pain and sends him to sleep.
…
“You’re awake.”
Remus stirs slowly, eyes still closed as he mentally scans his body for injuries and pain.
Surprisingly, he’s… alive.
Not hurting, at least not nearly as much as he should be.
The last thing he remembers is being attacked by the werewolves, and then waking up.
“I know you can hear me, love.” The voice is low and calm. “You don’t have to speak, just nod yes or no. Are you in pain?”
Yes.
“Right. It’s time for another potion then. Will it help if I lower the lights?”
Yes.
The stabbing pain behind his eyelids softens as she does so, and he blinks slowly to ease himself into the waking world.
“Better?”
He lets his gaze roam over the room before lighting on the woman, who gives him an easy smile. “Better?” She repeats?”
Yes.
“My name is Irene,” she says gently. “Don’t worry if you can’t speak yet, your throat took extensive damage.”
Irene lifts a glass vial to his lips, and he opens his mouth as best he’s able.
It’s strange, the trust he feels for this woman he doesn’t know, but something feels- smells safe.
…
“The war’s over,” Sam says quietly. “It’s been over for weeks now.”
Remus takes this in silently, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. “How?”
The girl hugs her knees, resting her chin on folded arms. “There was a battle. People died, but… Albus Dumbledore battled You-Know-Who, and… he won. Some of the werewolf packs joined in, fighting for us. They’re being rewarded by the Ministry.”
Remus drops his head back against the pillow, blinking rapidly to quell the burning in his eyes.
It worked.
He’d done it.
“I need to go home,” he says quietly.
Sam shakes her head. “You’re in no state to go anywhere. Mum says that if you stand up, all of your insides will fall out.”
A laugh pushes out of his throat, and he curls in on himself at the pain. “Ah, fuck.”
“See?”
“I need to go,” he mumbles. “I need to go home. I have to let them know I’m okay.”
“We can owl,” Sam says quickly. “Whoever they are. But you need to stay still. Mum was joking, I think, but it’s still really bad.”
“I heal fast,” he says stubbornly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bloody well not, Remus,” Irene chimes in from the doorway, stepping around a basket to the bed. “Don’t you think about stepping foot out of bed.”
“Mum!” Sam spins to look at her. “He needs to tell his friends that he’s okay. Can we use Pidge?”
Irene presses the back of her hand against his forehead, fingers cold to the touch, and tsks. “You’re still so warm. Yes, lovey, we’ll use Pidge. You, however,” she points to Remus, “aren’t to move. I’ll write it down for you.”
…
S,
As expected, the mission went sideways. Rest assured, though, I'm alive. The marks show that you are as well, but it's in the strangest shade of gray. I'm worried about you, as always. I'm recovering, and can't write this letter myself, so I'm dictating to someone trusted to pen it for me. No idea when I can travel, but I will come home.
As always, I'm up to no good.
Yours,
R.J.L
…
Letter sent, there's not much more he can do in the way of being useful.
He's too injured still to be of help around the cottage, not that Irene or Sam would let him try, and still can't be out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time.
Irene's stock of healing potions are in sad repair, and she's unable to get more, which leaves him healing very slowly.
Despite that, he's better rested than he has been in years.
At least since Hogwarts, if not longer than that.
A lot of time is spent tracing the tiny star on his wrist, examining the color of it, and hoping it doesn't disappear.
Hoping to every god out there.
Please don’t disappear.
His wand is nowhere to be found, presumably destroyed in the fight.
Best case, it’s just lost, still out in the forests.
Either way, he’s unable to cast any of the healing spells he knows.
Unable to send a Patronus message, and Pidge hasn’t yet returned, so he’s just… stuck.
He’s grateful for Irene’s help, really he is, but he’s stuck running over worst case scenarios in his head, and they won’t let him out of the fucking bed, so pardon him for being a little snappy.
Sam starts avoiding him, and he really can’t blame her.
If he could, he’d avoid himself.
Worry for his friends takes over every other thought, and he’s just… stuck.
Not knowing what happened, unable to tell what Sirius is feeling, eons away, because the tattoo is still fucking gray.
Please, Merlin, let him be okay.
Let James and Lily be okay, let them all be safe.
Please.
Irene grows tired of his restlessness eventually, and lets him go outside for the first time in weeks.
The sun on his skin is a benediction in itself.
Warmth infuses his very bones, and he breathes in the smell of dried leaves, and revels in the crunch of them under his bare feet.
He finds Sam curled under a tree, book in hand, and he approaches warily.
“Relax, Remus,” she says tiredly, not looking up from the pages. “I don’t bite.”
Wincing at the hardness in her tone, he sinks into a crouch by her side. “I’m sorry. I’ve been… sort of unbearable.”
“You have,” she agrees flatly.
The honesty stings, but he deserves it.
“I am sorry,” he says again. “I’ve just been so fucking worried about my friends, and cooped up in the bedroom, and it’s made me feel all prickly, and tired, and angry, and… I’m sorry. I took it out on you, and it’s not fair.”
“It isn’t,” she agrees, again. Her tone has softened though, and she bookmarks her spot before closing the book and turning her attention to him. “I understand, though.”
…
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Irene says sharply. “You’ll be splinched to high heaven, mark my words.”
“Consider them marked,” Remus says dryly. “I’ve imposed on your home for long enough.”
“Remus Lupin,” she says, tone sharpening even more. “If you’re leaving because-”
“I’m not,” he hurries to assure her. “I’ve been gone for entirely too long, and I need to see my family. I need to. It’s- I have to, Irene.”
…
He lands in Hogsmeade.
The village looks the same as ever, and he- he’d expected it to be changed.
Something to show that war had come and gone.
Nothing.
Not a hair out of place.
It’s quiet, but not strangely so.
After all, it’s not a school weekend.
The walk to the castle is long and painful.
He… may have been hasty in leaving.
No matter, he can stop at the infirmary for pain potions after, if need be.
The important thing is going home.
Home.
He’s so close.
Climbing back through the tunnel is worse, mainly because the willow is furious as always, whipping at him with cuttingly sharp branches.
Somehow he remains mostly unscathed, and he’s so close.
Just a bit more, and then… and then…
…
Professor McGonagall stares at him, face impassive save for the uncharacteristic shake in her hands. “Mr Lupin.”
He flinches, because her tone is… hard. “Hello, Professor.”
It comes out weakly, unsurprisingly.
He’s never been good at dealing with her ire.
“What was the first thing I ever said to you?” Her eyes glance over him, and he feels intrinsically small.
“I was called to the office to talk with you and the headmaster,” he says softly, wracking his brain for the exact phrasing. “You said that… You saw me as a student, first and foremost. Not… not what I am, but who I could be.”
…
“Mr Lupin,” Dumbledore says gently. “It’s very good to see you. I must confess, I’d given you up for dead.”
Remus sinks into a chair by the fire, grimacing as it tugs at his side. “Yeah. You hadn’t really thought that far ahead in your plan, did you?”
“My dear boy-”
“Sorry, sir, but I’m really not in the mood for apologies that don’t fix shit.” Remus meets his eyes defiantly. “Your plans did this to me, and kept me away from my family, so I’m not exactly enamored with you right now.”
Usually he'd be horrified if he spoke to Dumbledore like this, but right now he just… doesn’t care.
Can’t find it in himself to care even the slightest bit.
“... understandable,” Dumbledore says eventually. “I would like to hear what happened.”
“I’m sure you would,” Remus laughs humorlessly. “Answer my questions first. Sirius, James, Lily, Peter… are they all alive?”
“Yes.”
The answer barely does anything to assuage his worry.
“They’re all okay, right?”
Dumbledore looks over the top of his glasses, brows creasing. “I’m afraid they’re not. Physically, yes, but your death- or news of such- has greatly devastated them.”
“But they knew-” Remus snaps his mouth shut, realizing he’d just given himself away.
“Yes,” Dumbledore muses, eyes twinkling. “I presumed as much. No, however much they knew, it was not myself who brought them this news.”
“Then what happened?”
“Show me your mark, Remus. The bond between yourself and Mr Black.”
Remus stares at him for a moment before raising his sleeve.
The small star shifts over the skin, still that empty gray color.
“Just as I presumed,” he says again.
“What did you presume,” Remus grits.
This man.
“Did you know, Mr Lupin, that the magic of these bonds is fickle?” The headmaster leans back, gaze fixed still on the mark. “For instance, the emotion that Mr Black is feeling, well… it’s grief. For you, specifically.”
Remus flinches, gaze darting down.
Gray.
Empty, soulless gray.
Grief.
“But why…?”
“Tell me, Remus.” Dumbledore’s use of his first name draws Remus’ attention. “Did your heart happen to stop, however briefly, when your injuries occurred?”
“I only just managed to stop the bleeding,” Andrea said softly. “Your heart was a stubborn one, didn’t want to keep beating, but we kept at it until it took the hint.”
“Yes…” Remus clutches the arms of the chair, dread pooling low in his stomach. “Merlin. Did that-?”
“To the magic of the bond, that counts as death.” Now Dumbledore looks away from the arm, meeting Remus’ eyes. “I’m afraid the mark on Mr Black’s arm is long gone.”
“So they think-” Remus covers his mouth, stomach roiling. “Oh god. They think-”
“Yes.”
“But I wrote,” he says desperately, past the surging nausea. “I wrote, and I sent a letter by owl, did they-?”
“Yes, I’m… I’m afraid that after an influx of condolence letters, they’ve set up a monitoring ward on incoming mail,” Dumbledore winces. “No unknown owls would have been able to get through.”
Oh god.
“After all that I-” Remus chokes on his words, bile rising hot and fast. “They still-”
A pot appears in front of him, no doubt magicked by Dumbledore, and he empties his stomach.
He clutches at it with nerveless fingers, gasping and retching until it’s finished, until there’s nothing more to come up.
They think I’m dead.
“This is your fault,” he wheezes, unable to even look at the headmaster. “This is- this is all your fault. You sent me on this mission, you made me- you- you have to fix it. Fix it.”
Dumbledore looks at him, and it’s pitying.
Just a wave of his wand, and a patronus swirls into being.
It’s a phoenix, of course.
Dimly, Remus realizes he’s never seen Dumbledore’s patronus before.
It hardly matters.
“Remus Lupin is alive,” Dumbledore says calmly. “I’ve opened the floo to my office. Please come at once.”
It splits into two, both swooping through the walls
“Now,” he says heavily. “We wait.”
…
They don’t wait long.