Lions Among Wolves

Mary wakes up to an incessant tapping at the window. Suddenly alert, she digs around the sofa for her wand and prays that almost two months of minimal use haven't rendered it completely useless, that it hasn't become as disconnected from magic as its owner.  She carefully makes her way towards the living room window and narrows her eyes at the culprit. It is Remus’ tawny owl, Heledd, who seems decidedly displeased that she has been greeted by Mary instead of her owner. Even so, Heledd enters through the window when Mary pulls it open, and, after some coercion with owl pellets, the bird surrenders the letter to her. 

It is from Dumbledore, and details, in as few words as Mary feels is humanly possible, that Lily and James’ son is safe and under the highest of protection. Bitterly, Mary recalls a similar promise being made when her friends went into hiding and suppresses a shiver. She tries not to think about her friends in the mornings, which instead have become a time for optimal productivity. 

As such, she has developed a rigid routine. Each day, she begins by making breakfast; enough that there is leftovers to place at Remus’ perpetually shut door and then makes a start on drafting letters. They had started as a sort of proof of life to the rest of the wizarding community, but she is now beginning to suspect that they are also proof to herself. She has built up a habitual correspondence with Mrs. Pettigrew, who has been left to an empty home, as well as Madame Pomfrey, who also sends potions for Remus. At her own parents’ insistence, she has also taken up quilting and gardening, skills that they insist “busy the hands and heal the soul.” After lunch, she occupies herself with an exercise tape, courtesy of her auntie Mariam, allowing herself to escape into the bright colours and repetitive beats. Mary operates on busywork and generic disco tracks, never letting her grief take centre stage. 

Thoughts of her friends are reserved for the evening when she's curled up in blankets in the makeshift “bed” she’s created out of Remus’ sofa. The idea had been for them to stay together for a little while. They're the only ones left, after all. It just makes sense to stick close. As it turns out, Mary has hardly seen the man conscious at all since the day she’d had to break the news to him. Aside from the two full moons that he’d had to pass through the living room to apparate outside the building, Remus has resigned himself to his bedroom, opting to suffer in silence. Some evenings, after yet another day of mindless tasks and pondering how long she could stretch Marlene’s savings (which Mary felt absolutely awful for having to resort to in the first place), she almost resents him. They were meant to maintain a united front, but Remus has left her stranded. 

She has thought about leaving a couple of times; with most of her friends gone and Remus as good as, there really isn't much left for her in London. She knows an invite would always stand for her to return to her childhood home in Bristol, maybe take up a till job at her dad’s shop, but she never can bring herself to actually go. Maybe it's a hesitance to put Remus in the same position he’d, albeit unintentionally, placed her in; forced to soldier on through mundane tasks or die trying. More likely, it's because she knows Lily would have stayed. Lily Evans, Mary thinks, was goodness personified. Lily who had taken first-year muggle-borns under her wing so they’d never have to feel the same isolation she and Mary had bonded over. Lily who never wanted to resort to violence, who had stood the bravest of them all in her silent strength. Lily who had been a friend to all, even at the end when it seemed that trust was impossible. Lily was gentle smiles and kind eyes and careful reassurances that transcended words. Mary stayed to prove to Lily that she was good too, and when she finally succumbs to sleep, she dreams in red and gold.

The unanticipated arrival of Heledd on this particular day, however, has thrown a wrench in her routine. The owl has also brought a copy of the Daily Prophet, a paper Mary hasn't even thought to read in months; a naive attempt to avoid obituaries that only grew longer and closer to home as the war developed. Despite the fact that the war was now over, she is still hesitant to look at it. Anything truly important would get relayed to her somehow, she reasons. What does cause her to stop in her tracks is the date that sits stridently in the top left corner: 25th of December 1981. No. That can't be right. She reads it again, wincing as the familiar ache returned to her limbs. Sure enough, it's Christmas day. 

As a young child, the gap between Halloween and Christmas had felt unbearably long. Mary had often found herself appalled that she’d have to wait so long for more festivities. How have the last two months gone so quickly? She tries to think of a time since Remus’ return that she’s diverged from her ritual of chores. Guilt rises in her throat and burns like bile as she thinks of what James and Marlene would think of her living her life so passively. Come on Mary , imaginary Marlene taunts, weren’t you meant to be the bold one?  Mary shivers slightly and moves to shut the still-open window as imaginary Marlene continues her spiel, there was a reason you were the Gryffindor, wasn’t there?

Truthfully, it wasn’t until Halloween that Mary had ever doubted her bravery, that she’d ever doubted Remus’. They were Gryffindors, after all, that had to count for something. Mary never really bought into the idea that an old hat could determine exactly how eleven-year-olds would turn out, but she has never been able to deny that her friends had nerve. Whether by nature or nurture, they’d all developed a certain boldness, and Mary would be damned if she relinquished that legacy now. 

Consumed by a newfound determination and long-bubbling anger, Mary makes her way up the dingy hallway to the first door on her left and knocks on it. Hard. She keeps hitting it until it becomes clear that the man on the other side isn't going to open it, at which point she pulls it open herself. Remus’ eyes are open but he seems far from awake. Mary has been wholeheartedly understanding of his mental state up until now, has cooked his meals, and left him be, but today his trance just aggravates her. 

She looks at him and feels tears begin to well up in her eyes. She blinks them back, “You know what, Lupin, fuck you.”

Mary braces herself for backlash, for one of the heated arguments the two of them were once known for, but she is merely left with silence, with passivity. 

She continues, “You left me all alone, you know that? I know this is shit, I know the world has fallen apart at your feet. But it was my world too, can’t you see that?”.

Her shoulders wrack with a sob, months of suppressed pain angrily swimming its way to the surface. She looks Remus dead in the eye, daring him to respond, to give up any sign that he's still there. But still, nothing.

She sighs, and turns back out the door. “They were my friends too.”

Whilst infuriatingly unsatisfying, Mary’s confrontation with Remus allows her to release enough pent-up anger that it didn’t trickle into her phone call home. She warmly greets her parents and aunties, tells them she misses them and that she regrets that her friend is still ill, so she can't justify a visit just yet. She laughs at her cousin Abigail’s lighthearted theories that she’s merely hiding a pregnancy up in London and brushes away the aching nostalgia she feels at her dad’s customer stories. It is about 5 pm when she wraps up all of her obligatory Christmas day phone calls and letters. She curls up on the sofa and picks up her fabrics. Just as she's about to cut up her next fabric square, she flinches ever so slightly at a tentative knock on the wall, and a hastily mumbled “sorry.” 

She turns to see Remus, whose amber eyes seem forlorn and apologetic. It appears to Mary that he has tried to make himself look a little more presentable for this uncharacteristic apology; his hair, which has grown longer and matted over the past months has been combed slightly and he’s switched his usual plaid pajama bottoms for a pair of brown cords. In his hands, he is playing with a bit of paper. Mary hopes to God he hasn’t written out some sort of apology, she isn't sure she could take that. It would seem like a fad if he’d had to write it all down - like he was only trying to appease her. 

She gives him a solemn nod of acknowledgment and gestures to the slip of paper. He has begun to fiddle at the edges causing them to tear slightly - a reaction to nerves, she supposes.

“What’s that then?”

“It’s a shopping list, actually,” Remus begins quietly, presumably feeling a bit guilty after Mary’s outburst that morning, “I was thinking of going down to the shops, attempt to make us up a Hope Lupin Special? We might be a bit shit at it but I hear it’s Christmas or something.” 

Mary looks at him properly then, fully taking in the quiet desperation in his eyes. If he wanted to start living again, of course , she wouldn’t stand in his way. Really, it's all she’d wanted when she’d stormed into his room. The shopping list is a peace offering, a promise of re-alliance. Mary smiles back at him, her heart warming as relief flickers over her friend’s face. 

“Get your coat on then, Lupin. Christmas is almost over.”

Remus was in fact accurate in his assessment of their cooking skills. By evening, pots are strewn about the kitchen, a small fortune has been spent on a chicken, and yet any plans to recreate Remus’ mother’s famous roast dinner have been abandoned. Instead, Mary nurses a bowl of cookie dough as Remus tries to magic his old radio back to life. Despite the change of plans, Mary feels lighter than she has in a long time. Over the afternoon, they had been able to regain some semblance of their old dynamic. For a moment, it's like they're seventeen again, sneaking into the kitchens to bribe the house elves for party food. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear Marlene and Lily laughing at whatever antics James and Sirius are getting up to. If she really focused, she can see Dorcas and Peter setting up an impromptu game of chess. 

“Wait a second,” Remus pipes up, breaking Mary from her thoughts, “I think I’ve fixed it.”

Sure enough, the brazen voice of a Wizard radio presenter booms through the stereo, “And so, as we celebrate this happiest of times, and soon ring in the new year, I feel it prudent that we take a moment to think of the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter.”

At the mention of the name, Mary’s head shot up. She feels a lurch of discomfort at how trivially they’d brought it up, which is quickly followed by an aching sympathy for this baby that seemed to have the weight of the whole wizarding world placed forcefully on his shoulders. It's just all so unfair. One look at Remus tells her that he is experiencing a similar thought process, and, remembering her earlier promise to herself, she springs into action, quickly fiddling with the dials on the radio. 

“Ok, no. This is bullshit, I’m playing something Muggle.” 

She turns onto a station that appears to be playing Muggle Christmas songs, and almost gets whiplash from the irony of the DJ’s first choice. 

“So this is Christmas,” John Lennon croons in a nasal voice through the stereo, “and what have we done?”

As the choir joined in with “war is over”, Remus stifles a laugh, “I don’t think the radio gods are feeling that sympathetic towards us this evening.” 

“Well,” Mary giggles, spooning cookie dough into her mouth, “I don’t blame them, I don’t feel very sympathetic towards any sort of God at the moment.” 

“No, I don’t suppose I’ve ever been, myself,” Remus replies, “not with all that’s happened.” 

Aware of the sombre tone the conversation was beginning to take, Mary looks out the window and lets out a tiny gasp, “Well, would you look at that? Snow, in London, on Christmas of all days.” Indeed, the street below is uncharacteristically dusted with a blanket of white. By morning, it will be like it didn’t even exist, stamped away by eager shoppers ready to conquer the boxing day sales. By morning, Remus and Mary will go back to being survivors, left alone in a world that appears nothing but cruel. But this evening, cottony snowflakes cascade into view and they are merely alive. 

“Maz,” Mary smiles slightly at the old nickname.

“Hmm?”

“I think it’s time to go back to their houses, sort through everything. I think it would be good for us to have some sort of closure, you know?”

Mary hesitates. It does sound nice, a way to move on without moving away from her friends, from the imprint on her that she is certain would never fade away, “Okay, let’s do it.”