How long has he been sitting, head in hands, his limbs now frozen? The coldness of the house has seized him and he can barely move. It hurts to raise his head and stare at the wallpaper once more. He had meant to boil the kettle; he had meant to repair the cup that he had smashed. Yet as he looks he sees the shards of blue and white china still lying on the floor. With a grim sense of satisfaction he imagines what Kreacher’s reaction would have been if he had been here to witness this; a precious Black possession broken; its fragments disregarded. Remus can almost feel his lips giving way to a smile; a smile that he cannot allow himself to express as he presses his back into the chair before, very slowly, rising to his feet.
As he stands, the blood rushes to his head too quickly and for a moment Remus feels dizzy. He grasps the back of the chair to steady himself as he waits for the world to stop spinning. He waits for the black clouds to clear from his eyes. A thought occurs: does he need to sleep, he suddenly thinks. The yawns that rise in his lungs would suggest so. When was the last time he slept? Remus thinks, but cannot remember. He remembers lying on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling for hours, trying to make sense of the shadows and the peeling plaster – but he cannot remember his eyes closing; he doesn’t know the last time he allowed himself to slip off and away from the waking world. It has seemed wrong to even pretend to be at peace for long enough to sleep; every dream would be a lie. When it had first happened he had slept for weeks, allowing his mind to indulge in the subconscious desires of dreaming, seeking solace in the things he could will his mind to see in the night. It had comforted him to know that all he had to do was close his eyes and everything could be forgotten; the suspicion, the arguments, the final confrontation could mean nothing. The twelve years in Azkaban simply slipped by. There was no pain in these dreams. Sometimes he would see a glance, feel a smile, and his heart would trip over itself knowing that he could still conjure these images so clearly, even after the man who had bestowed them was gone. He liked these dreams the best; the ones where images would melt into one another, and leave him feeling soft and satisfied as he gave way to the gentle peace of the night.
Yet sometimes these nights were feverish; sometimes he could feel the full moon drawing close and soft dreams would turn to nightmares. He urged himself to wake, but his mind would not let him. Instead he would witness those grey eyes growing distant as his friend turned away, laughing mercilessly at Remus’ pain and guilt. It didn’t mean anything. He would hear him speak; hear his breath rasp over the words he had never spoken. How could it mean anything to me? These nights seemed endless, fitful, and as Remus struggled beneath the moth-eaten sheets he felt the monster within crawling under his flesh, and he would bite the pillow in his sleep to stifle the howls of pain. It was after this that the pleasant dreams had stopped, and he then had forsaken sleep entirely.
Remus’ eyes are clearer, becoming focused once more as he turns to leave the kitchen, switching off the humming lights that make everything faded and brown. He should be here, he thinks as he opens the door, his feet heavy as he drags himself along the hallway towards the staircase. He should be here to help make sense of it all. As he walks his eyes alight on the velvet curtain which is pulled across Sirius’ mother’s portrait and somewhere inside he hopes she’ll speak; that she will shout insults about Remus and about the son she has finally lost. He wants to be able to turn his uncertain hatred on her. Yet the portrait remains silent; she has been quiet since the day he died, and Remus wonders what Sirius would say if he knew that his mother had finally been silenced.
As he reaches the bottom of the staircase he pauses, allowing his hand to grasp the banister firmly. Why does he have to remember now? He blinks up into the blackness that waits for him above. What good does it do to dwell on things that until now have seemed so insignificant, have been lost within memories? He knows it is pointless; yet ever since he had left Harry on the hills outside Hogsmeade he has been consumed in the past - unable to remember clearly, yet unable to forget. And as he whispers, “Lumos” gently in the night he struggles to make sense of what he remembers. He begins to climb the stairs, shrouded in the pale blue light.
Without you, I'm nothing by Clare Mansfield
Chapter Notes: Thank you to those who are reading this and enjoying. Remember to review and let me know what you think!
We return to the present now as Remus tries to make sense of the things he is remembering.