Bonus Fic: MCMLXXXI for sea_shtick
Title: MCMLXXXI
Author: emilyia
Recipient: sea_shtick
Rating: PG-13
Highlight for Warnings: *angst, alcohol abuse, mourning!Remus*
Word Count: 2284 (I'm sorry! D:)
Summary: The only thing he notices, really, is the recurrent figure of Mundungus Fletcher, who brings him cases of Firewhiskey and takes the gold pocket watch Sirius bought him last Christmas in payment.
Author's notes: Written for the prompt 'Remus. Christmas, 1981'. Un-beta'd, so any mistakes are mine. It got out of hand as I wrote it and I did try to cut it down. I'm sorry for failing D:
October had died on the day Lily and James did. Days blurred, unknown, aided by firewhiskey and regret, from that day. People arrived at his doorstep, offering food, condolences, apologies, hope for the future. He doesn't really take any of it in; life is fuzzy around the edges and devoid of colour, all sense of liveliness absent. The only thing he notices, really, is the recurrent figure of Mundungus Fletcher, who brings him cases of Firewhiskey and takes the gold pocket watch Sirius bought him last Christmas in payment. He offers a smile, which is really more like a grimace, each time Dung floos in, but rarely can he bring himself to rise from the spot he has taken up on the lounge. Any other person would notice the spring that digs into the flesh of his left thigh, the lack of padding beneath his back, but Remus Lupin didn't notice much any more. If he noticed, it would hurt. If he thought about the good times, it would hurt. If he thought about the fights, the lack of trust which tinged his last days with his friends... it would hurt.
So he drank. Drinking didn't hurt.
- - -
On the day which he doesn't realise that is the twenty-fourth of December, Remus runs out of food. He needs more coffee and, possibly, something with vitamins and minerals. He cannot think because of the pounding in his head, so he simply wraps himself in a long coat and jumper, and picks up a hat off the rack. He considers a scarf, but the only one he can see is the one Mrs Potter knitted him for the Christmas of seventh year; it is black and has a silver crescent moon embroidered on each end. He stares at it, silently, before deciding against the scarf, despite the blizzard which rages outside his flat. When he apparates into the unnamed street which runs between Great Russell and Bainbridge Streets, he wonders, muzzily, what would happen if he had spliced himself, and if it was possible to do so in such a way that one might end up dead.
The sound of carols assaults his ears, and he remembers that it might be getting close to Christmas.
“That's unfortunate,” he murmurs, and realises it is the first time he has spoken in two weeks, since he awoke from his transformation and thanked Dumbledore for keeping him safe. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he hurries down the street towards Tesco, where he has every intention of buying a single serve meal - for now he is one of those sad sacks who is spending Christmas alone - and some coffee and getting back to the comfort that was his flat.
How he ended up in the muggle book shop on Christmas Eve, he could not rightly say. His intentions did not waver, but somehow he had slipped inside the shabbily decorated store. It probably had something to do with the Father Christmas who had accosted him with tales of African orphans, waving a pamphlet in such a way hurt his head.
Inside, there were no decorations, no hint that the next day would be a holiday. The bells over the door made a dull clunking sound and the place smelled of menthol and musty lavender. Remus, certainly, was grateful, though he was not grateful to see the desk calendar on the front counter with the falsely cheery “Christmas Eve!” in bold, black print. He considered this; he had no one, really, to buy presents for, so he didn't feel altogether guilty for forgetting it was Christmas. Dumbledore, perhaps, but that present would be better to be bought at Honeydukes than a dingy muggle book store.
He'd been caught up in those thoughts and didn't hear the shopkeeper speak to him at first. It was on her third "Love?" that he shook himself from his reverie, his eyes still far away.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately, offering a cracked smile. "What was it you were saying?"
"I have to close up in fifteen, luv, so just keep that in mind," she repeated. He nodded, and had he not glanced behind the counter, would have left immediately. Just behind the woman's head was a cloth covered edition of The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter.
"Harry," he breathed, horrified to have put the boy out of his mind.
"What was that, dear?"
"Can I... May I look at that Beatrix Potter book, please?" he asked haltingly. He got a smile in return as the book was placed delicately on the counter. Remus ran his fingers over the pale blue cover, the pages delicate as he turned through them. He only managed to get to the first story, though, before traitorous tears filled his eyes. In copperplate script, the title The Tale of Peter Rabbit seemed to taunt him.
"I'll take it," he said, closing it with a snap. If the woman took notice of the tears which were perilously close to falling down his cheeks, she didn't acknowledge them, wrapping the book in brown paper and taking payment without a word. It was only when Remus was at the door that she spoke again.
"Merry Christmas, luv."
He paused for a second and, for the first time that year, replied. "Merry Christmas."
- - -
Coffee and dinner forgotten, he ducked into the nearby alley once more to disapparate. He appeared at the end of Privet Drive, suddenly grateful he had asked Dumbledore where Harry was living. Dusting himself off, he straightened his coat and set off down the road to Number 4. Lights twinkled in the shape of elves with curly shoes and bobby hats in the windows, and somewhere inside he could hear the sound of carols sung off key. It made his head ache horribly. Swallowing hard, he knocked at the door, his long-fingered hand gripping the package tightly.
The door opened just as far as the chain would allow. "We've given to quite enough charities this year, thank you," Petunia trilled, moving to close the gap once more.
"No! Er, Petunia," he said, the desperation evident in his tone. He could understand her mistake; he was dressed shabbily, at best, his eyes ringed with black and reddened unnervingly.
Her eyes narrowed but she didn't close the door. "Yes?"
"I, er. I am, well, was a friend of Lily's," he thought, in a fit of lucidity, it was prudent not to bring up James' name.
She seemed disinclined to open the door any further. "And?"
"Oh," he said despondently. "I brought a present for Harry."
She thought this over for what seemed like an eternity. "Very well. Would you like to see the child, then?"
"No," he yelped. The idea of seeing his best friends' child brought those angry tears back to his eyes. "I mean, I don't think he'd like to see me. I just. Can you give this to him?"
He thrust the book towards her like a shield. It was another few uncomfortable moments before she sighed and opened the door, taking the brown paper package from his hands. The momentary flash of kindness he saw in the woman's eyes reminded him achingly of Lily. Blinking back tears, he turned almost violently on his heel to walk away.
"Remus?" Petunia's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder. She smiled sadly and offered a soft "Merry Christmas."
Remus nodded, once, before the stinging in his eyes was too much to bear. “Merry Christmas, Petunia.”
- - -
He apparated back to his flat, not caring even if a muggle saw him. Regarding the half finished bottle of Firewhiskey on the side table, his jaw clenched as his hands balled into fists. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he hurled it against the wall, the shattering sound breaking through the fuzziness Remus had wrapped himself in. Sinking to his knees, he buried his head in his hands, angry tears slipping down his cheeks, hot and filled with shame. He clawed at his cheeks, unable to put into words the anger and grief and injury he felt and what came instead was a primeval, animalistic scream which bubbled from his very core. He lay, broken, on the faded, tattered carpet, for seconds, minutes, hours, he didn't know; time is irrelevant when there is no one to spend it with.
Only a sharp knock at the door awoke him from his reverie. His landlady, a Squib by the name of Mrs Berraby is waiting when he opens it, wringing her hands underneath her pink flowered dressing gown.
“Are you alright, dear? I'm sure I heard screaming from your flat is all,” she said nervously. She knows he is a werewolf, but accepted him as a tenant anyway; she knows, too, that the full moon was on the 11th and he is technically at his most human right now.
“It must have been my telly,” he offered after a pause, his voice ragged and empty. “I turned it on and it was. You know. One of those horror things. Girls yelling and whatnot.”
She blinked quickly but seemed to allow it. “Very well then. Merry Christmas, Mr Lupin.”
He wondered why people kept saying that. Christmas is merry for those who have someone to spend it with.
- - -
He slept for longer than he had in two months that night.
He came to a decision that night.
He conjures three white candles; after a pause, a fourth. Placing them above the fire, he lights them each with a match, the smell of phosphorus filling the air as he murmurs each of his friends' names as a benediction. He has come to the decision it is easier to act as if Sirius is dead; he was, essentially so, and he will be able to deal with each day better with that outlook than with recognising that the Sirius Black he knew had started to die the day of James and Lily's wedding.
When all four candles are lit, he stepped back to survey the mantle which, a year ago, was groaning under the weight of dancing imps. Pushing that thought to the side, he transfigured two cushions into wreaths of holly, and disapparated from the flat.
He appeared half a mile or so outside of Godric's Hollow; wrapping his jacket closer to his skin, he hurried towards the newly dug graves of two of his best friends. The snow still fell about him, cloaking the land as he had cloaked himself for two months; he had to squint to see any distance in front of him. When he arrived, though, he was not alone; Minerva McGonagall stood, rigid, staring at the graves before her.
He could not think of an appropriate way to start a conversation; instead, he stepped past her, not seeing how she jumped at the unexpected movement. He was laying a wreath on James' grave when she spoke.
“Good morning, Remus.”
He straightened and turned back to look at his former professor; noting the greeting was not a Merry Christmas with a sad smile. “Morning Minerva,” he replied, her first name still tasting odd in his mouth. They stood in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts of the Potters, before she spoke once more.
“You should come to Hogwarts. The Defence professor is leaving this year, taking a research position within the Ministry,” she offered, her eyes now squared on the younger man.
He let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Dumbledore has to work hard enough to have me attend as a student; returning as a professor would be impossible.”
“We still have the Shack, Remus, and you are always welcome at Hogwarts,” she said insistently.
He didn't respond that his last two transformations had been as painful as he had ever remembered; that two weeks after James and Lily and Peter died the wolf nearly tore himself apart with rage; that if Dumbledore hadn't come to check on him he, too, would have died; that sometimes he wishes he did. These are things that have no place to be said on Christmas, so instead he shakes his head and gives her a sad, crooked smile.
“I'll consider it if the Wolfsbane Potion is ever perfected to a point where it does not poison the imbiber,” he promised, and was surprised when she reached out to take one of his hands between her own.
“Come back to Hogwarts today, then. Spend the day with Albus and I,” she pleaded.
“Thank you, but I should take today to clean out my flat,” what he meant was methodically remove any sign that Sirius ever stayed there, and Minerva knew, so simply squeezed his hand and nodded.
“Very well. Merry Christmas,”
He looked over the white before him, the grey headstones and the few remaining patches of colour, bright in the landscape bled of tone. Waving his wand, he swept the snow from the graves and looked to Minerva for a final time.
“Merry Christmas.”
She watched as he disapparated and, with a sigh, pushed her glasses up her nose. She didn't realise it, but this conversation would be one they would repeat, with some minor differences, for the next eleven years, until it would be Dumbledore who convinced him to take the post they all wished he could occupy. With a flick of her wand, she altered James' headstone to include the word “Marauder” and then she, too, disapparated, leaving Godric's Hollow for a year.
Author: emilyia
Recipient: sea_shtick
Rating: PG-13
Highlight for Warnings: *angst, alcohol abuse, mourning!Remus*
Word Count: 2284 (I'm sorry! D:)
Summary: The only thing he notices, really, is the recurrent figure of Mundungus Fletcher, who brings him cases of Firewhiskey and takes the gold pocket watch Sirius bought him last Christmas in payment.
Author's notes: Written for the prompt 'Remus. Christmas, 1981'. Un-beta'd, so any mistakes are mine. It got out of hand as I wrote it and I did try to cut it down. I'm sorry for failing D:
October had died on the day Lily and James did. Days blurred, unknown, aided by firewhiskey and regret, from that day. People arrived at his doorstep, offering food, condolences, apologies, hope for the future. He doesn't really take any of it in; life is fuzzy around the edges and devoid of colour, all sense of liveliness absent. The only thing he notices, really, is the recurrent figure of Mundungus Fletcher, who brings him cases of Firewhiskey and takes the gold pocket watch Sirius bought him last Christmas in payment. He offers a smile, which is really more like a grimace, each time Dung floos in, but rarely can he bring himself to rise from the spot he has taken up on the lounge. Any other person would notice the spring that digs into the flesh of his left thigh, the lack of padding beneath his back, but Remus Lupin didn't notice much any more. If he noticed, it would hurt. If he thought about the good times, it would hurt. If he thought about the fights, the lack of trust which tinged his last days with his friends... it would hurt.
So he drank. Drinking didn't hurt.
- - -
On the day which he doesn't realise that is the twenty-fourth of December, Remus runs out of food. He needs more coffee and, possibly, something with vitamins and minerals. He cannot think because of the pounding in his head, so he simply wraps himself in a long coat and jumper, and picks up a hat off the rack. He considers a scarf, but the only one he can see is the one Mrs Potter knitted him for the Christmas of seventh year; it is black and has a silver crescent moon embroidered on each end. He stares at it, silently, before deciding against the scarf, despite the blizzard which rages outside his flat. When he apparates into the unnamed street which runs between Great Russell and Bainbridge Streets, he wonders, muzzily, what would happen if he had spliced himself, and if it was possible to do so in such a way that one might end up dead.
The sound of carols assaults his ears, and he remembers that it might be getting close to Christmas.
“That's unfortunate,” he murmurs, and realises it is the first time he has spoken in two weeks, since he awoke from his transformation and thanked Dumbledore for keeping him safe. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he hurries down the street towards Tesco, where he has every intention of buying a single serve meal - for now he is one of those sad sacks who is spending Christmas alone - and some coffee and getting back to the comfort that was his flat.
How he ended up in the muggle book shop on Christmas Eve, he could not rightly say. His intentions did not waver, but somehow he had slipped inside the shabbily decorated store. It probably had something to do with the Father Christmas who had accosted him with tales of African orphans, waving a pamphlet in such a way hurt his head.
Inside, there were no decorations, no hint that the next day would be a holiday. The bells over the door made a dull clunking sound and the place smelled of menthol and musty lavender. Remus, certainly, was grateful, though he was not grateful to see the desk calendar on the front counter with the falsely cheery “Christmas Eve!” in bold, black print. He considered this; he had no one, really, to buy presents for, so he didn't feel altogether guilty for forgetting it was Christmas. Dumbledore, perhaps, but that present would be better to be bought at Honeydukes than a dingy muggle book store.
He'd been caught up in those thoughts and didn't hear the shopkeeper speak to him at first. It was on her third "Love?" that he shook himself from his reverie, his eyes still far away.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately, offering a cracked smile. "What was it you were saying?"
"I have to close up in fifteen, luv, so just keep that in mind," she repeated. He nodded, and had he not glanced behind the counter, would have left immediately. Just behind the woman's head was a cloth covered edition of The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter.
"Harry," he breathed, horrified to have put the boy out of his mind.
"What was that, dear?"
"Can I... May I look at that Beatrix Potter book, please?" he asked haltingly. He got a smile in return as the book was placed delicately on the counter. Remus ran his fingers over the pale blue cover, the pages delicate as he turned through them. He only managed to get to the first story, though, before traitorous tears filled his eyes. In copperplate script, the title The Tale of Peter Rabbit seemed to taunt him.
"I'll take it," he said, closing it with a snap. If the woman took notice of the tears which were perilously close to falling down his cheeks, she didn't acknowledge them, wrapping the book in brown paper and taking payment without a word. It was only when Remus was at the door that she spoke again.
"Merry Christmas, luv."
He paused for a second and, for the first time that year, replied. "Merry Christmas."
- - -
Coffee and dinner forgotten, he ducked into the nearby alley once more to disapparate. He appeared at the end of Privet Drive, suddenly grateful he had asked Dumbledore where Harry was living. Dusting himself off, he straightened his coat and set off down the road to Number 4. Lights twinkled in the shape of elves with curly shoes and bobby hats in the windows, and somewhere inside he could hear the sound of carols sung off key. It made his head ache horribly. Swallowing hard, he knocked at the door, his long-fingered hand gripping the package tightly.
The door opened just as far as the chain would allow. "We've given to quite enough charities this year, thank you," Petunia trilled, moving to close the gap once more.
"No! Er, Petunia," he said, the desperation evident in his tone. He could understand her mistake; he was dressed shabbily, at best, his eyes ringed with black and reddened unnervingly.
Her eyes narrowed but she didn't close the door. "Yes?"
"I, er. I am, well, was a friend of Lily's," he thought, in a fit of lucidity, it was prudent not to bring up James' name.
She seemed disinclined to open the door any further. "And?"
"Oh," he said despondently. "I brought a present for Harry."
She thought this over for what seemed like an eternity. "Very well. Would you like to see the child, then?"
"No," he yelped. The idea of seeing his best friends' child brought those angry tears back to his eyes. "I mean, I don't think he'd like to see me. I just. Can you give this to him?"
He thrust the book towards her like a shield. It was another few uncomfortable moments before she sighed and opened the door, taking the brown paper package from his hands. The momentary flash of kindness he saw in the woman's eyes reminded him achingly of Lily. Blinking back tears, he turned almost violently on his heel to walk away.
"Remus?" Petunia's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder. She smiled sadly and offered a soft "Merry Christmas."
Remus nodded, once, before the stinging in his eyes was too much to bear. “Merry Christmas, Petunia.”
- - -
He apparated back to his flat, not caring even if a muggle saw him. Regarding the half finished bottle of Firewhiskey on the side table, his jaw clenched as his hands balled into fists. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he hurled it against the wall, the shattering sound breaking through the fuzziness Remus had wrapped himself in. Sinking to his knees, he buried his head in his hands, angry tears slipping down his cheeks, hot and filled with shame. He clawed at his cheeks, unable to put into words the anger and grief and injury he felt and what came instead was a primeval, animalistic scream which bubbled from his very core. He lay, broken, on the faded, tattered carpet, for seconds, minutes, hours, he didn't know; time is irrelevant when there is no one to spend it with.
Only a sharp knock at the door awoke him from his reverie. His landlady, a Squib by the name of Mrs Berraby is waiting when he opens it, wringing her hands underneath her pink flowered dressing gown.
“Are you alright, dear? I'm sure I heard screaming from your flat is all,” she said nervously. She knows he is a werewolf, but accepted him as a tenant anyway; she knows, too, that the full moon was on the 11th and he is technically at his most human right now.
“It must have been my telly,” he offered after a pause, his voice ragged and empty. “I turned it on and it was. You know. One of those horror things. Girls yelling and whatnot.”
She blinked quickly but seemed to allow it. “Very well then. Merry Christmas, Mr Lupin.”
He wondered why people kept saying that. Christmas is merry for those who have someone to spend it with.
- - -
He slept for longer than he had in two months that night.
He came to a decision that night.
He conjures three white candles; after a pause, a fourth. Placing them above the fire, he lights them each with a match, the smell of phosphorus filling the air as he murmurs each of his friends' names as a benediction. He has come to the decision it is easier to act as if Sirius is dead; he was, essentially so, and he will be able to deal with each day better with that outlook than with recognising that the Sirius Black he knew had started to die the day of James and Lily's wedding.
When all four candles are lit, he stepped back to survey the mantle which, a year ago, was groaning under the weight of dancing imps. Pushing that thought to the side, he transfigured two cushions into wreaths of holly, and disapparated from the flat.
He appeared half a mile or so outside of Godric's Hollow; wrapping his jacket closer to his skin, he hurried towards the newly dug graves of two of his best friends. The snow still fell about him, cloaking the land as he had cloaked himself for two months; he had to squint to see any distance in front of him. When he arrived, though, he was not alone; Minerva McGonagall stood, rigid, staring at the graves before her.
He could not think of an appropriate way to start a conversation; instead, he stepped past her, not seeing how she jumped at the unexpected movement. He was laying a wreath on James' grave when she spoke.
“Good morning, Remus.”
He straightened and turned back to look at his former professor; noting the greeting was not a Merry Christmas with a sad smile. “Morning Minerva,” he replied, her first name still tasting odd in his mouth. They stood in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts of the Potters, before she spoke once more.
“You should come to Hogwarts. The Defence professor is leaving this year, taking a research position within the Ministry,” she offered, her eyes now squared on the younger man.
He let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Dumbledore has to work hard enough to have me attend as a student; returning as a professor would be impossible.”
“We still have the Shack, Remus, and you are always welcome at Hogwarts,” she said insistently.
He didn't respond that his last two transformations had been as painful as he had ever remembered; that two weeks after James and Lily and Peter died the wolf nearly tore himself apart with rage; that if Dumbledore hadn't come to check on him he, too, would have died; that sometimes he wishes he did. These are things that have no place to be said on Christmas, so instead he shakes his head and gives her a sad, crooked smile.
“I'll consider it if the Wolfsbane Potion is ever perfected to a point where it does not poison the imbiber,” he promised, and was surprised when she reached out to take one of his hands between her own.
“Come back to Hogwarts today, then. Spend the day with Albus and I,” she pleaded.
“Thank you, but I should take today to clean out my flat,” what he meant was methodically remove any sign that Sirius ever stayed there, and Minerva knew, so simply squeezed his hand and nodded.
“Very well. Merry Christmas,”
He looked over the white before him, the grey headstones and the few remaining patches of colour, bright in the landscape bled of tone. Waving his wand, he swept the snow from the graves and looked to Minerva for a final time.
“Merry Christmas.”
She watched as he disapparated and, with a sigh, pushed her glasses up her nose. She didn't realise it, but this conversation would be one they would repeat, with some minor differences, for the next eleven years, until it would be Dumbledore who convinced him to take the post they all wished he could occupy. With a flick of her wand, she altered James' headstone to include the word “Marauder” and then she, too, disapparated, leaving Godric's Hollow for a year.