If the Heavens Ever Did Speak, She’s the Last True Mouthpiece
“Mr. Lupin, this is… an exceptional piece of literature,” Professor McGonagall annunciated. “It’s written with so much depth and raw emotion, and it’s extraordinarily advanced for a seventeen-year-old.”
Remus blushed as the woman handed him his paper. “Thank you, professor,”
“I still have the contact of that publisher in London if you’re ever interested in publishing your works. It should be published, you’re writing is exceptional.”
At the end of the school week, every Friday afternoon, Remus met Professor McGonagall in her office for a cup of tea. During this sacred time, the two of them would go over Remus’s latest works and discuss the environment that was built upon Remus’s writing. James would tease him for it, calling it a date, but Remus truly cherished this time with his professor.
“I don’t know if I want to publish it,” Remus stood out of his chair, “I don’t even know what compositions I’d choose, it’s all too much to worry about,”
The woman nodded but gave a warm smile. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then? At the picnic?”
Remus laughed lightly. “Yes, I’ll be there. And, please, bring those brownies, Peter almost converted to another religion when they weren’t there last Sunday,”
The woman grinned, raising her teacup. “I plan on it. Have a good night, Mr. Lupin,”
“You as well, Professor,” Remus tightened the grip on his messenger bag and walked out of the room.
Remus walked through the corridors in the darkness of his school. The lights were dimmed and the sun was beginning to set, no longer glimmering through the windows, prepared to be replaced by the waxing crescent moon. Remus’s worn-out converse squeaked against the floor tile, dragging his body through the old building. He looked down at the paper, rereading his paper and searching for improvements he could make, thinking of some of the refinements McGonagall had mentioned, tracing over those certain words.
He opened the door to the car park, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and turned his car on. Once inside the vehicle, he pulled a fag out of his pocket, lighting it with a lighter he found at the bottom of his glove department. Once the smoke fell through his lungs, Remus sighed, hitting his head against the headrest of his car, and closing his eyes. The night was soon to rise, and Remus didn’t want the panorama of the moon replacing the sun in the night sky to ruin his vision of their town’s scenery.
He enhanced the volume of his favourite station, a station dedicated to The Beatles, and allowed himself to get lost in the lyrics of Doctor Robert. He had nowhere to be. Dinner wasn’t for hours, James was at the cinema with Lily, Peter was out with his chess club. It was just him and the plain sailing voice of John Lennon as he added annotations to his writing. He had the fag balancing between his teeth, his feet were tapping along to the rhythm, and the orange sky filling his windows.
“It was the twisted malevolence of his own philosophy that had the man so entrapped with the forceful reckoning of this new rhetoric…” Remus murmured, scribbling out certain words. “Forceful reckoning? What in the bloody hell was going through my head?”
He continued to go over the piece of authorship, scoffing or feeling a momentary period of pride at certain quotes and the overall theme of the short story. He was so overwhelmed as the song faded into Run For Your Life, and as he reached the second page that he hadn’t even noticed a knock on the window of his truck until he heard his name being shouted at through the glass.
“Remus?”
Remus looked up startled, the pen cap dropping from his lips. James and Lily were grinning at him, Lily laughing as James pulled on the handle of Remus’s locked car door. Remus sighed, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and placing his paperback in his bag. He unlocked the door, allowing James and Lily to climb in through the back seats.
“My balls are going to freeze off,” James hissed, wincing as he ran his hands over his bare arms
Lily, who was donning James’s rugby jacket, scoffed. “It’s only October, don’t be so frail,”
Remus snorted. “It’s James, Lily. James Fleamont Potter. That boy acts harsh but I watched him cry when he accidentally stepped on an ant hill,”
James hit Remus on the shoulder, “Oi! That was supposed to stay between us,”
Lily giggled lightly, placing her head on James’s shoulder. “Well, now I know all of your deepest, dirtiest secrets,”
“Oh, I bet you know all of his dirty secrets,” Remus emphasized.
“Shut it, Lupin,” James said, wrapping an arm around Lily. “Do you mind driving us home, we walked to the cinema but it’s too cold to walk back to my house,”
Remus nodded, “How’d the film end so fast? I swear we just got out of school an hour or two ago.”
“You were too busy on your date with Minnie to notice!” James snorted, slapping the back of Remus’s seat. “No, but the movie was shite, pure and utter shite. We ditched,”
“Ah, the beauty of being rich,” Remus sighed in wonder, earning a kick at his seat this time. “Alright, Alright, I’m going to drive now, no kicking,”
James huffed in response.
゜✧*̣̩☽⋆゜
The chill of the wind ached Remus’s bones, and his skin felt glacial. He dug his shoes into the dirt, snorting as James and Peter picked at the grass, conversing about Peter and Mary’s upcoming date. His sleeves, which had originally been rolled up to his elbows, were now hanging over his wrists, and his dress pants were surely ruined now that he had decided to lay in the grass.
Remus looked up at the gray sky, running a hand through his disorderly hair. He thought of the layout for the next piece that he had been writing. He had been up for hours after he dropped James off, writing in his notebook until his mother called for dinner and his hands twinged. Then, he continued to write until the moon was replaced by the sun, the words filling his notebook before his brain could even express them thoroughly. He got two hours of sleep before his father pulled him out of bed, murmuring something about the church and a brunch.
“Moony,” James drawled, “Are you there?”
Remus looked down from the sky, bowing his head. “Yeah, I’m here,”
“Christ, what time did you go to bed last night?” Peter asked, “You eyelids are black,”
“Eight,” Remus replied, shrugging. “In the morning,”
James shook his head, “Writing again?”
“What else would it be?” Peter replied.
Remus turned away from his friends, looking out at the misery that was occurring before him. There were children running around, giggling and chasing each other in innocent games of tag. He noticed his mother, speaking to McGonagall, smiling and glancing at Remus. Remus assumed they were speaking of his writing and blushed. Several adults were speaking, their voices toppling over the others to prove their ascendancy to others.
Christ’s head shed blood for every individual who chose to follow him, yet, all of Remus’s parish seemed to care for was whose pearls shined the brightest. Remus didn’t know where he stood on his beliefs in his religion, the Church of England being built off of immorality. But, he wanted to worship God, to pray for a forthcoming with him for eternity. He didn’t know if the spirit was real or not, but Remus needed something to believe in. Because what writer wasn’t a believer or imaginative?
Growing up, the thought of living in Heaven after dying seemed like such a serene idea. Remus wasn’t even sure if he’d make it to Heaven if he’d ever get to crawl into the arms of the lord or see Christ in a way where he wasn’t pinned to a cross. To see him free. Remus got sick at the notion. He didn’t want a bashful life where his skin burnt against the flames God despised so deeply. But he would, all because of his brain, his foolish, queer brain.
“Remus,” James nudged him, “Your mum’s calling you,”
Remus gazed across the field in which the brunch was being arranged. His mother was smiling at him, her honey blond hair swaying as the wind hit her face, and across from her, stood a stern-faced Walburga Black. Remus arched an eyebrow, his mother mouthing something indecipherable, and he sighed. He bid his goodbyes to James and Peter, standing up, and brushed the dirt off his pants.
He pushed past several members of his church, smiling politely at old women and shaking firm hands with a few familiar faces he saw once a week. He walked past Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy’s (far older) fiance, earning a scowl when he accidentally grazed his shoulder with the man.
Walburga Black was almost a foot shorter than Remus, yet she did not fail to intimidate Remus. Her slicked-back black hair, not one fragment falling before her face, and her sharp dark eyes, which looked nothing like her elder son’s, all added to this contribution of Remus’s fear. She stood on an invisible pedestal, proving her greatness to others, frightening them to silence. She looked up at Remus, staring sharply into him with a look, one that not even the greatest scholars could decipher.
“Good morning, Mrs. Black,” Remus said, pressing a light kiss to his mother’s cheek in a form of greeting.
“Mr. Lupin,” She nodded in response. “Your mother was just telling me about your plans for college, and I must admit– I did not reckon you were capable of attending such phenomenal schools,”
Remus and his mother shared a look, a quick, irritated glance. Hope spoke first. “Well, Remus has always been– brilliant. He got an almost perfect score on his A-levels for English literature last year, and his other classes are just as great. His strong suit has been English for years, he plans on focusing on it in the future, isn’t that right, Rem?”
“Um, yes,” Remus chuckled awkwardly. “I’m not great, but McGonagall said–”
“Oh, he’s trying to diminish his talent!” Hope exclaimed. “Mrs. McGonagall said that he’s genuinely the best writer she’s ever had of a student and that it will go extremely far one day!”
Walburga nodded, a forced smile on her face. “You’re a writer then?”
“Yes,” Remus said. “I’m planning on publishing my works forthcomingly,”
“In actuality?” The woman asked. “What makes you so different from other writers? What distinguishes you from Charles Dickens? Or Lewis Carroll?”
The words spoke to Remus like a bite to his skin. What did make him different? Could he flourish higher than renowned writers? Could his writing even make it farther than London? He was no Aristotle or Plato. He’d read all of their works, he’d annotated The Symposium until there was no paper left, his writing covering the entirety of every page. His proficiency would never reach the aptitude that Steinback had reached, or be as notable as Mark Twain. But he kept on writing because it was all his body could do, he needed a pencil and paper as much as he needed water and air.
“I don’t know,” Remus replied strongly. “But, I do know that several teachers have called my writing remarkable, that each word was perfection. So, these outside opinions have let me know, I’m not an abominable writer, I’m quite good, actually.”
Silence filled between the three, a smirk appearing on Hope’s face while Walburga stood, dismayed. Her mouth opened and closed several times, and chuckling nervously. “Well then, I might have a job that is perfect for you. Sirius!”
Remus winced as the woman glared at her son, who was stacking leaves on Regulus’s head, the younger boy not noticing. She called him over, and Sirius scowled once he noticed Remus, covertly flipping him off as he approached them. Remus rolled his eyes, placing his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to wrap his hands around Sirius’s neck.
“Yes, mother,” His tone was filled with mockery.
“I’ve been speaking with Mr. Lupin here, and I discovered he was a writer. And I know, just the other day I was speaking of writing the biography for the church– and maybe you two could–”
“No!” They both replied.
“I– I can’t,” Remus said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I work at Millerds part-time and on top of studying, I don’t know if I’d be able to–”
“Oh, that’s not necessary!” The woman replied. “We’d pay you. 600 quid. And we’re great friends with some of the higher ends of Oxford. I’d love to put in a good word.”
“Well, I’m not,” Sirius scorned. “I–”
“We’ll speak of this later, Sirius,” The woman’s voice darkened and Sirius’s expression changed. “The other night Orion and I were discussing the possibility of writing a biography on Saint Dwynwen, but neither of us have the time to. Regulus can’t either, he’s just so busy with practicing his violin, and Sirius would– let’s say he has a passion for being indolent. But, now that I’ve heard so much about your– your interest, you two could work together, and maybe, you could help Sirius get into shape.”
“Wow, that's–” Hope started.
“Please take your time to consider it,” Walburga smiled, a smile all too counterfeit. “But, this could really be good for the church– and Mr. Lupin, of course,”
The concept had its advantages and drawbacks. Remus needed it, yet the idea of working with Sirius Black for hours at a time, had Remus curling his fingers into a fist at the thought. It was like being held in front of a window, being forced to watch a full moon rise.
Before Remus could have even a minute to consider the opportunity, his mother spoke for him. “Oh, he’d love to!”
Remus wanted to argue, but he just stood there, seething. Sirius was yet to speak again, he was silent. Remus wondered what had driven the sociable boy to muteness. Sirius Black was a curiosity, he ultimately decided.
゜✧*̣̩☽⋆゜
“Are you fucking serious, mum?” Remus cried once he shut their front door.
“Watch it!” His father shouted from the kitchen, unfastening his tie.
Remus followed the woman as she huffed, walking into the same vicinity as her husband, and placing her hands on the counter. He’d spent the entireness of the brunch holding back his rage, biting his tongue, and glaring at his mother from across the field. The car ride had been tranquil, his father playing The Beatles station Remus adored as the boy stared out the window. When they pulled into their street, his infuriation rose again.
“No, mum, are you fucking serious?” Remus said, throwing his hands in the air. “You know I abhor the entirety of the Black family! Why would I willingly help them get more Christian commendations? All this biography is going to do is get the blacks back on their chart in the silver spoon dynasty, and make me miserable! I mean– did you not even think for one second, what this could do to me? It’s going to drive me mad!”
“Don’t speak to your mother like that!” Lyall lectured, pointing a finger in Remus’s face. “Of course, she considered this. Do you think she just did this for a laugh? This is an amazing opportunity, just take a breath. A deep one.”
“Amazing opportunity?” Remus yelled. “They’re corrupt! Fucking immoral!”
“That’s enough!” Lyall’s voice boomed within the kitchen. “Don’t you dare raise your voice like that! This is excellent for you, Remus. The money could go a long way, help you get started, and the shite with Oxford? You know we don’t have the money, Remus. If it takes a dishonest family, I think it’s worth it.”
Remus sighed, running his hand over his eyes. “I– I just wish you would have considered my opinion first,”
“I’m sorry I didn’t, cariad,” his mother spoke. “At the moment all I could think of was how the world would finally read your writing, not just us or your teachers. You deserve it,”
Remus shrugged. “I’m not sure– It’s just… I really don’t want to deal with Black family bullshit for months,”
“We can decline the request tomorrow, if that’s what you truly want,” His mother rested a hand on his upper arm. “But, I know your talent, and if the Black family’s posh friends will read it, it might get to the fucking queen. Darling, I can’t think of one person in the world who deserves this chance more than you.”
Remus looked down at his feet, biting his lip again, so hard until it drew blood. The clock hanging over their archway ticked. His fury grew from many things: The moon, his hands cramping, children staring at his scars in the supermarket, Sirius Black. This instant of fury was constructed off of, like many things, Sirius Black. Remus wondered if anything he despised wouldn’t be built from the root of Sirius. He didn’t reflect on the thought for too long.
“Fuck it,” He said, withdrawing his teeth from the flesh of his lip.
゜✧*̣̩☽⋆゜
It was the next day when Remus received the first letter.
The piece of crumbled paper was exchanged through a sly sliding of bodies after Sunday mass. Remus was leaving the church with James and Peter, passing Sirius and Regulus when he felt his back pocket broaden. He turned to look back at Sirius, but by the time his head had turned, the boy was gone, abandoning Remus in his disarray.
Remus looked through the pane glass, separating the external and internal sides of the church. He couldn’t see Sirius, it was as if he had faded with the light breeze, hitting against Remus’s cheek. He shook his head, sliding his hand into his pocket. A piece of torn paper was placed in his pocket. He sat down on the front step of the church, unfolding the paper, ignoring James and Peter’s disgruntled expressions.
Lupin,
I detest you, utterly and barrenly. Why must you be so bothersome? I don’t want to write this with you, it’s the last thing I would ever wish for. You make me feel like a child. I feel helpless when I’m near you, naive if you will. Everyone speaks of you as if you’re the next Kafka, and they speak of me like a stupid boy. You’re not smart, you’re not witty, you’re not creative. You’re just a faded bruise.
“Pas besoin de gril : l'enfer, c'est les Autres.” - Jean-Paul Sarte
Sirius O. Black
What an egotistic individual, Remus thought. He ripped the letter in two, standing up, and reaching for the keys that sat in his other pocket. He let the now split letter, float with the wind, throwing them into the sky, and watched how they blew like a leaf. He watched it until he could no longer see it until it had vanished with the wind, just as Sirius had.
“We’re picking up Lily, right?” He asked, patting James on the back, and approaching his truck.
James nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble. Did Black write you a love confession or something?”
Remus snorted. “Quite the opposite actually, now let’s forget about it, pick up Evans, and get pissed,”
“I’m not going to get this pissed as much as last time!” Peter declared.
“I doubt it,” James replied.
Three hours later, Peter had distinguished himself incorrectly. Remus was giggling into James’s shoulder as Peter drunkenly retold the story of the time he’d accidentally walked into the teacher lounge at school and how he hadn’t even noticed until Slughorn had nudged him. Lily was laughing into her hand while her friends, Mary and Marlene, rummaged through Mr. Potter’s liquor cellar.
“And! And then Dumbledore walked in and, I was just mortified!” The boy cried. “It– don’t laugh, Moony! This is no laughing matter, it was truly the worst day of my life!”
“Christ, Peter,” Remus snorted, lifting an almost-vacant bottle of liquor. “You truly are a fascinating man,”
“You know what is fascinating?” James drawled. “The fact that our Moony here is going to spend almost every waking day with Sirius Black starting this Wednesday! Sirius Black!”
“Don’t tell me that, I may just break into tears again,” Remus said.
“Sometimes,” Peter burped. “I feel bad for him. He’s just a– a pretentious arsehole, like if he doesn’t get the attention he’ll just… die. He quivers before the fact that he’s not being observed at all times. He’s a coward and I can’t help but feel his sorrow.”
“That was…” James huffed. “Fucking shite, Pete. When did you get so lyrical?”
Remus thought of the letter Sirius had given him. The piece of rage had been so replete with Sirius’s thoughts, that it was probably the farthest Remus had ever gotten to know him. Why had he been so engrossed with the idea of giving Remus that letter? Remus’s head ran, he was far too intoxicated to even think of the purpose.
A faded bruise. Sirius Black thought of Remus like a faded mark of skin. Sure, Remus was a faded bruise, but Sirius was a faded existence. Sirius’s narcissistic craving for attention had never drawn Remus to the focus of Sirius’s mind, but now, it was all he could think of.
When Remus lifted another bottle of liquor to his lips, he thought of standing in the middle of Saint Dwynwen's recreational room. When he ran his fingers along the needle of Mrs. Potter’s record player, he thought of looking across the room. When he danced along with the lyrical hum of Elvis’s voice, he thought of seeing a young boy with long hair for the first time. When his eyes fluttered, his head dulling, he noticed the slight curve of the moon, peaking through the blinds. He closed his eyes.