Ephemeral

Remus had sent the last eight owls away, the rattling at the window panes had upset his headache. He begged the dark night for peace. Just a few hours kip would set him right again. He had never been good at sleeping through a night, not since the age of five did he have a whole night of peaceful dreaming. He used to watch the other boys sleep and was fascinated, so stirring or jolting awake. The other boys slept like the dead. Sometimes it was his restlessness that restrained him but more often than not it was the nightmares, the terror would awake him. Tonight his head was pounding, he could do nothing but try and rest. No such luck. 


The new owl burst through the rickety bedroom window and flapped around, lost in the curtains before perching on Remus’s headboard. Remus began kicking and flailing his duvet, he suffocated his screams in his browning pillow, he couldn't remember the last time it had been washed he just flipped it every once in a while. Just a moment of peace, that’s all he’d wanted. He clapped and shouted at the frightened creature but still it remained hooting softly, staring with its wide orange eyes. The owl was brown with dark speckles, she was much nicer than the others: no nipping, screeching or scratching the furniture with talons. He always thought owls were beautiful they flew so majestically. Unfortunately, he was in no mood. The owl remained, nonplussed to his strongly-worded grievances. She waited nearly ten minutes for him to calm himself while hooting softly, for him to breathe slow and deep, before dropping the letter on his pillow and flying out into the night. Remus felt a little more at peace watching the bird soar over the tall grass. The moon had always unsettled him but tonight it served as a satisfactory backdrop.


Remus knew immediately why the owls were coming. Dumbledore. Whenever that silly old man wanted his way he got it; that night his best friends died, Dumbledore had gotten his way. Not how he’d planned it, but the dark lord was dead. His resentment had only grown stronger for Dumbledore as he had forbade Remus to see or even write to the little boy he'd once loved. He once cried at the realisation that he’d never hear another ‘Uncle Moony’. To Dumbledore it didn’t matter if there was anybody left for Remus or Harry.

Harry. Remus had many nightmares, but his very worst was the image he had created of the baby screaming and wailing for his mother. And how Harry must have watched her lifeless corpse hit the ground in his nursery. Remus could remember the day he came around to paint it. James had argued endlessly for red, “Tell her moony, it’s Gryffindor colours got to start him young with house pride” he whined. James was always adamant that Harry would be a Gryffindor. But he didn’t get his way he always folded when it came to Lily. He could have sworn he had a picture of the nursery somewhere.


He was up now, it wasn’t worth the effort of trying to fall asleep again, so he got up. His bare feet felt cold against the wooden floorboards, the wood had begun to rot in the corner where the damp was. The moisture had created a waterfall effect right down the wall in the far corner, it pooled at the bottom and created a rippled effect where the flooring had begun to lift. He winced at the first touch, but by the time he was in the kitchen he had gotten used to the cold feeling. The kitchen was small, very small, but that suited him fine. Remus had never learned to cook, it felt as though in recent years he’d forgotten how to eat as well. Nevertheless, a cup of tea and some biscuits could usually settle him. He popped the kettle on and checked the cupboard for biscuits. No such luck. The stale crackers stared back at him on the highest shelf. He reached out and grabbed a couple before continuing with his mission. Despite remus being a very tall man at 6’5, he still decided to climb up on the counter so that he could properly see what was on top. He was only thirty-one but to a passerby he appeared much older, his illness had ravaged his body and weak and aching. His knees buckled on the way up, he clutched down on the top. He felt the dust, it was thick like a woolly blanket, he rubbed it between his fingers until it was just a little fluffy round ball, then he flicked it into the dark abyss on the floor. Remus had struck gold. He quickly spotted what he had been searching for. It was a thickly coated tin of Scottish shortbread that Lily had bought for him, he blew the top layer off and the tartan pattern underneath suddenly became clear. He had received that tin on this 17th birthday and though she had never meant for the wrapping to be the present, Remus treasured it and felt a flicker of pride that he had never been careless enough to throw it away, he didn’t have much left to remind him of her. The biscuits inside were scoffed that same day, but what was now left inside was much more precious.


There wasn’t much of Remus’ fingernails. After 10 years of biting at them, they were reduced to ten stubs. He recalled how James used to pick at his nails when he was young. Eventually, they stopped growing back. It was for this reason that Remus everyday vowed to stop. He tried to dig his fingers under the lid, this was becoming increasingly difficult as he sweated in anticipation. Finally, he cracked the lid. Inside was a thick stack of loose photographs, he pulled them out gently and began to flick through.

Remus didn't want to remember. But he did.