writers_muses: 19.5C. Smoking.
Prompt: smoking. The backstory of it fits with any version of Remus, but the other part belongs to the hpsixwords 'verse. For mun knowledge only, unless it's Sirius, James, Harry and Sev (...and whoever else he has smoked in front of) and they would know of his little habit.
The first drag is always the best one. It's the one that makes his lungs burn the most, and in some odd way he loves that feeling. The need for it always makes him take a deep, long drag whenever he lights up a cigarette; he needs to enjoy it as much as he can so he can just get lost in it for a moment.
Remus had been sixteen when he had smoked his first cigarette. It had been out of curiosity, and that night he hadn't even liked how it felt to inhale the smoke and have it lingering in his lungs and clothes. In fact, his distaste had been enough to convince himself that he would never smoke again.
There's a reason, however, why that certain phrase exists. 'Never say never.'
When he and his friends had joined the war as soon as they left Hogwarts, lighting up at the end of a duel was sometimes the only thing that could ease his nerves. One thing was dueling at school, where there were rules and guidelines, and another things - a very different thing - was to face Death Eaters who only wanted to take as many casualties as they could. There were no rules. There were no guidelines. There were just things Remus had only heard and read about, but nothing he had seen first-hand.
An eighteen year old, fresh out of school, could have never anticipated the chaos he had thrown himself into, after all.
Smoking subdued his heart and stopped it from beating wildly, because it would thump so hard that sometimes he thought it would burst out of his chest. It made it easier for him to keep the patience he sometimes felt slipping away, it was easier for him to keep calm, and he found in nicotine something that his beloved chocolate couldn't bring him. The chocolate could take away the bitter taste that transformations, battles and war left behind, but smoking cleared his head enough to move on and do whatever it was that he needed to do.
After the first war ended and he wandered for twelve years, smoking had been among the few easy things he could do so he didn't bother to quit. If anything, his casual habit became an addiction, but it was simple. Easy. Best of all, it suppressed his appetite when he had no money for food - which was rather often - so he could ignore the pit in his stomach a lot easier this way. Strangers weren't so kind when it came to asking for money or food. Not that he would have asked, anyway, but bumming a cigarette from someone was easy whenever he didn't even have money for that.
He still remembers that afternoon in late June of 1993 when he decided to quit. Dumbledore had sent him an owl requesting to please consider the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, and he had dropped the cigarette as soon as his eyes registered the words. He didn't send his response to Dumbledore for days, but instead of smoking more how his body craved he forced himself to think on his own. No cigarettes to clear his head, nothing to ease his nerves; deep down, he now realizes as takes another drag and continues his walk, he had already known the answer to the request and he refused to be a professor at Hogwarts with a smoking habit.
In the rest of the second war his habit hadn't been rekindled. Not how it had been before, at least, because he had been able to smoke a cigarette or two every once in a while. When one loses their best friend and someone they love for the second time in their life, after all, a cigarette or two is an act of mercy to try and numb the mess of feelings that are left behind.
That's what war leaves behind, he thinks as he sits under a tree to finish smoking in peace. It leaves chaos. Messes. His cigarette count is proof of it. Not that it exists, really, but his battles are counted in cigarettes. His losses and grief are counted in packs. Scars, they don't count when it comes to something like that. Wounds heal, skin closes up and there are marks, but not all of the ones that run along his skin are from the wars. Most of them are self-inflected from his uncontrolled transformations, and recently from his battle with Fenrir Greyback.
But cigarettes, those are easier to hide. They don't leave visible marks that disgust him in the mornings when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He can charm away the smell of nicotine from his breath and clothes and, even if he cannot take away whatever effect they are having in his lungs and body, no one else gets to see them. Everything is internal. It's buried under layers of skin, just how his feelings are buried under layers and layers of facades and masks that keeps everyone safe. If he's stressed he can go off for a walk, like now, or lock himself in his study; after a cigarette or two he's as good as new.
The thought makes a wry smile appear on his face, and he stubs out the cigarette on the ground. Earlier he had passed by the infirmary at Hogwarts and flashbacks from the third war hit him like a ton of bricks. Memories of Harry being hurt flashed a little too clearly, along with those of his son, Sirius, James, and everyone else that had been hurt. But before anyone could notice the change in him he had apparated off to go on a walk and spend some time with his thoughts before he would go back home.
No one would see how deeply three wars have affected him. They could try and guess, but no one would know. No one could know. They had each suffered their own hells, and for Remus three times had been the charm. Three wars have managed to leave him on the edge of a cliff where the precipice is far too dark, and where he could easily get lost in.
It is with that thought that he picks up the half-empty pack that hides in the pocket of his cloak (and that he has charmed so that no one else can find it) so he can light up a new cigarette and take that glorious first drag. Smoking manages to bring him a step or two back from that edge he sometimes feels he's on, and in order for others to see the calm and normal Remus then he needs it. It sounds like some pathetic excuse, but it's the truth and at least he's not addicted like before. He now only smokes when he's stressed, because sometimes it feels he's so close to falling off that, if he lets something actually push him down, he's not sure he'll ever be able to climb back out again.
And for his sake, but most of all that of his family's, he cannot afford to take a stumble like that.
The first drag is always the best one. It's the one that makes his lungs burn the most, and in some odd way he loves that feeling. The need for it always makes him take a deep, long drag whenever he lights up a cigarette; he needs to enjoy it as much as he can so he can just get lost in it for a moment.
Remus had been sixteen when he had smoked his first cigarette. It had been out of curiosity, and that night he hadn't even liked how it felt to inhale the smoke and have it lingering in his lungs and clothes. In fact, his distaste had been enough to convince himself that he would never smoke again.
There's a reason, however, why that certain phrase exists. 'Never say never.'
When he and his friends had joined the war as soon as they left Hogwarts, lighting up at the end of a duel was sometimes the only thing that could ease his nerves. One thing was dueling at school, where there were rules and guidelines, and another things - a very different thing - was to face Death Eaters who only wanted to take as many casualties as they could. There were no rules. There were no guidelines. There were just things Remus had only heard and read about, but nothing he had seen first-hand.
An eighteen year old, fresh out of school, could have never anticipated the chaos he had thrown himself into, after all.
Smoking subdued his heart and stopped it from beating wildly, because it would thump so hard that sometimes he thought it would burst out of his chest. It made it easier for him to keep the patience he sometimes felt slipping away, it was easier for him to keep calm, and he found in nicotine something that his beloved chocolate couldn't bring him. The chocolate could take away the bitter taste that transformations, battles and war left behind, but smoking cleared his head enough to move on and do whatever it was that he needed to do.
After the first war ended and he wandered for twelve years, smoking had been among the few easy things he could do so he didn't bother to quit. If anything, his casual habit became an addiction, but it was simple. Easy. Best of all, it suppressed his appetite when he had no money for food - which was rather often - so he could ignore the pit in his stomach a lot easier this way. Strangers weren't so kind when it came to asking for money or food. Not that he would have asked, anyway, but bumming a cigarette from someone was easy whenever he didn't even have money for that.
He still remembers that afternoon in late June of 1993 when he decided to quit. Dumbledore had sent him an owl requesting to please consider the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, and he had dropped the cigarette as soon as his eyes registered the words. He didn't send his response to Dumbledore for days, but instead of smoking more how his body craved he forced himself to think on his own. No cigarettes to clear his head, nothing to ease his nerves; deep down, he now realizes as takes another drag and continues his walk, he had already known the answer to the request and he refused to be a professor at Hogwarts with a smoking habit.
In the rest of the second war his habit hadn't been rekindled. Not how it had been before, at least, because he had been able to smoke a cigarette or two every once in a while. When one loses their best friend and someone they love for the second time in their life, after all, a cigarette or two is an act of mercy to try and numb the mess of feelings that are left behind.
That's what war leaves behind, he thinks as he sits under a tree to finish smoking in peace. It leaves chaos. Messes. His cigarette count is proof of it. Not that it exists, really, but his battles are counted in cigarettes. His losses and grief are counted in packs. Scars, they don't count when it comes to something like that. Wounds heal, skin closes up and there are marks, but not all of the ones that run along his skin are from the wars. Most of them are self-inflected from his uncontrolled transformations, and recently from his battle with Fenrir Greyback.
But cigarettes, those are easier to hide. They don't leave visible marks that disgust him in the mornings when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He can charm away the smell of nicotine from his breath and clothes and, even if he cannot take away whatever effect they are having in his lungs and body, no one else gets to see them. Everything is internal. It's buried under layers of skin, just how his feelings are buried under layers and layers of facades and masks that keeps everyone safe. If he's stressed he can go off for a walk, like now, or lock himself in his study; after a cigarette or two he's as good as new.
The thought makes a wry smile appear on his face, and he stubs out the cigarette on the ground. Earlier he had passed by the infirmary at Hogwarts and flashbacks from the third war hit him like a ton of bricks. Memories of Harry being hurt flashed a little too clearly, along with those of his son, Sirius, James, and everyone else that had been hurt. But before anyone could notice the change in him he had apparated off to go on a walk and spend some time with his thoughts before he would go back home.
No one would see how deeply three wars have affected him. They could try and guess, but no one would know. No one could know. They had each suffered their own hells, and for Remus three times had been the charm. Three wars have managed to leave him on the edge of a cliff where the precipice is far too dark, and where he could easily get lost in.
It is with that thought that he picks up the half-empty pack that hides in the pocket of his cloak (and that he has charmed so that no one else can find it) so he can light up a new cigarette and take that glorious first drag. Smoking manages to bring him a step or two back from that edge he sometimes feels he's on, and in order for others to see the calm and normal Remus then he needs it. It sounds like some pathetic excuse, but it's the truth and at least he's not addicted like before. He now only smokes when he's stressed, because sometimes it feels he's so close to falling off that, if he lets something actually push him down, he's not sure he'll ever be able to climb back out again.
And for his sake, but most of all that of his family's, he cannot afford to take a stumble like that.