Every man for himself, all against you, and God against all
*He’s known fear before, of course, known two-in-the-morning panic: when the professor’s just around the corner and you’re sunk up to your knee in the trick stair, the feeling that you are caught, that it’s over and you’d better give up and hope it isn’t too bad. But he’s known nothing like this. He can’t seem to sit in one place for long, and he’s been pacing around his apartment with his hands in clammy fists, at turns drawn to the newspaper and repelled by it, becoming more and more convinced that those few dry little lines hidden in the back of the paper will be all that’s left of him, that and an empty flat. A few books, a painting of a bridge he bought at a Muggle flea market, a spotted yellow kettle--is that all that’ll be left of him? Who will have the thankless task of going through his things, once he’s gone? And he lives alone--will they notice? He’s here alone now--couldn’t he be dead already, for all anyone can tell?
He knows, then, that he can’t stay here for another minute--he feels like he’s about to fly apart at the seams, hurt something, hurt himself, and he has never needed to see another friendly face as badly as he does right now. His first and automatic thought is to go to James. In fact, he’s sure that’s what he’s going to do even as he’s pulling on his jacket. But once he’s thought it all the way through, once he’s seen himself Apparating to the little walk outside the house, ringing the doorbell, hoping they're awake, being let in, keeping his voice down because Harry is asleep, and James’ wife will make him tea and he will sit at their kitchen table and tell them how he is so afraid he can’t be in his flat alone, tell the brave young marrieds that he is a coward-
By the time he’s zipped up his jacket he knows he isn’t going to James, and he checks the pocket for his keys and thinks he’s going to visit Sirius and Remus--but that, he knows in the next instant, is ludicrous. They’re married too, in their own queer little way, and they’ve kept that secret from the rest of them for so long, been in their own private world for years now, and he suddenly can’t imagine himself knocking at the door of their flat at two in the morning, being let in by a bleary-eyed Marauder in pajamas. He can't imagine patiently explaining it to Sirius, who has always scared him a little, and Remus, who if he’s to be perfectly honest with himself he has never liked as much as the others. Explaining how afraid he is, how certain they’re all going to go the way of the McKinnons, explain that he can’t do this anymore, and Sirius will scoff and Remus’ mouth will get that wry little twist it gets when he’s obviously too disgusted with Peter to smile but too politic, too fucking nice to say anything about it-
And maybe he’s known all along where he’d end up, and the rest has only been an extended exercise in self-deception. He knows where to go when the night is dark and full of monsters, who to run to, who will make it better. He Apparates there with a sound like a thunderclap, Splinches himself just a little in his panic, and waits there on the doorstep, ashen with wide-staring eyes and a bleeding forehead and hair that’s standing up where he’s been running his hands through it, waiting, waiting for her to come to the door.*
He knows, then, that he can’t stay here for another minute--he feels like he’s about to fly apart at the seams, hurt something, hurt himself, and he has never needed to see another friendly face as badly as he does right now. His first and automatic thought is to go to James. In fact, he’s sure that’s what he’s going to do even as he’s pulling on his jacket. But once he’s thought it all the way through, once he’s seen himself Apparating to the little walk outside the house, ringing the doorbell, hoping they're awake, being let in, keeping his voice down because Harry is asleep, and James’ wife will make him tea and he will sit at their kitchen table and tell them how he is so afraid he can’t be in his flat alone, tell the brave young marrieds that he is a coward-
By the time he’s zipped up his jacket he knows he isn’t going to James, and he checks the pocket for his keys and thinks he’s going to visit Sirius and Remus--but that, he knows in the next instant, is ludicrous. They’re married too, in their own queer little way, and they’ve kept that secret from the rest of them for so long, been in their own private world for years now, and he suddenly can’t imagine himself knocking at the door of their flat at two in the morning, being let in by a bleary-eyed Marauder in pajamas. He can't imagine patiently explaining it to Sirius, who has always scared him a little, and Remus, who if he’s to be perfectly honest with himself he has never liked as much as the others. Explaining how afraid he is, how certain they’re all going to go the way of the McKinnons, explain that he can’t do this anymore, and Sirius will scoff and Remus’ mouth will get that wry little twist it gets when he’s obviously too disgusted with Peter to smile but too politic, too fucking nice to say anything about it-
And maybe he’s known all along where he’d end up, and the rest has only been an extended exercise in self-deception. He knows where to go when the night is dark and full of monsters, who to run to, who will make it better. He Apparates there with a sound like a thunderclap, Splinches himself just a little in his panic, and waits there on the doorstep, ashen with wide-staring eyes and a bleeding forehead and hair that’s standing up where he’s been running his hands through it, waiting, waiting for her to come to the door.*