Shadow of Death
Remus Lupin let himself in the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place, a dirty and worn old mansion in a formerly affluent area of London. This had been his home for some months now, shared with the previous (and very recently deceased) owner, Sirius Black.
Uncharacteristically, there was no disturbance originating from the curtained portrait in the entrance hall. The house was quiet -- deathly quiet. Remus made his way down the steps to the kitchen. He ignored the dirty plates and the unconsumed food, making his way to the stove to put some water on for tea.
For a moment, he considered the bottle of firewhiskey sitting on the shelf off to the corner of the room, but decided that no good would come of that -- not now, at least. Instead, when the kettle whistled, he made up the tea pot and carried it and a mug over to the battered old table. The table where he and Sirius had been only hours ago, talking and laughing like there was all the time in the world.
As the tea steeped, he put his arms on the table and settled his head into them, tears leaking slowly out of eyes which were now shut painfully tight. His shoulders shook slightly as unvoiced sobs raked through his body.
He was alone. Again.
It hurt like hell when he'd lost his brother Marauders a first time, and it hurt now, even more, that Sirius was gone. Each had been so overjoyed at finding one another and at the prospect of a life ahead, a friendship rekindled, a bond strengthened through trial and adversity.
Gone.
Raising his head, Remus took a shaking, shuttering breathe and poured himself some of the tea. He drank it straight and black, reveling in the bitterness that so matched his mood.
He rose and moved aimlessly toward the stairs. His thoughts turned to his best friend's godson, Harry, who had to be hurting as much as he, Remus, was. The young man had seen so much, borne so much sorrow and pain, and yet he always moved on, and in Harry's strength, Lupin found some of his own.
He thought of how he had traveled this road, alone, before, as he wandered into the ground floor sitting room and sat on the worn couch facing the dark, fireless grate. Staring into its nothingness, he remembered those horrible, pain-filled days after James and Lily had been murdered, when he thought Peter dead and Sirius a traitor. And Harry, as close to a child of his own as he'd ever known, was whisked off and away from his life.
How had he made it through those days?
At first, he hadn't. Truly, he had been despondent and hadn't eaten or slept well for many days. The lubricating qualities of firewhiskey had seemingly helped for a while, but he had awoken once after a fair binge, and, spying himself in the mirror, had been ashamed. Ashamed not only for himself, though, but for James and Lily and Harry; he had known that this dishonored them -- their memories and their lives and their purposes.
For the first time since seeing Sirius fall through the veil, and so soon after his death, Remus smiled, just a little at the corner of his mouth. He had cleaned himself up that morning and done something he'd never considered before. It was Sunday, and he found a church in the muggle neighborhood where he lived, and he had learned some things about himself and his place in the world. Most importantly, that he was not truly alone.
He had found some semblance of peace in thinking from a different perspective. He had found a renewed meaning in his life, and as he considered it, he realized that his friend's still-fresh death hadn't altered that.
Remus stood, and made his way to the staircase, moving up to Sirius' room, lost in his thoughts. Before, he had decided to get on with his life. He had found solace in the thought that his journey through this world was not purposeless.
Entering Sirius' room, he couldn't help but chuckle. The room was, politely put, a disaster area. He thought that, had the muggles seen it, they might pronounce it a toxic waste site and try encasing it in concrete to protect future generations. In so many ways, Sirius hadn't had a chance to grow up, and it had shown not only in his sometimes childish flights of temper, but also in his disregard for the norms of "adult" behavior.
Remus leaned against the frame of the door, and sniffed deeply to take in the aroma of his oldest friend. To most people, the stench would have been that of dirty socks, damp dog and whatever he had carried in with him from Buckbeak's room. To Remus, though, and his werewolf's senses, there was much more -- the essence of his brother in arms.
He moved into the room and thought about how and why Sirius had died. i "Fighting the good fight," /i he would have called it. "With a bark and not a whimper," Remus thought to himself, and smirked.
Sitting at the desk, Remus brushed his hands over the papers scattered about. At the top, a letter to Dumbledore, half finished, protesting again his "imprisonment" in the old homestead of the "Most Noble and Ancient House of Black."
"Well, old dog, you have your freedom at last," he thought to himself, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.
Shaking his head, he moved his hand idly, seeing letters from Harry, bundled together with all the love Remus knew Sirius had felt for his godson.
Harry. Sirius' reason for living. The future.
Remus' thoughts turned again to the son he'd never had, and he drew strength again, knowing that Harry, too, was a survivor. Harry would get over this, and would be there marching forward into the uncertain future; of this he was sure. That fifteen year old boy -- no, man -- could bear so much again and again and still carry on to fight the good fight. From that knowledge, Remus felt new-found courage to face his own future.
Pondering that future, he wondered where it would all lead. He laughed a little, then, at himself, realizing that no man knows the future, but can only act to affect it as best he can. He had strength in his friends and his purpose and his convictions, and that would see him through.
He lay down on Sirius' disheveled bed and curled himself into a tight ball, secure in his knowledge that he would rise come morning, ready as able to face life, with determination to fight so that Good would prevail over Evil. He wouldn't be alone; he would have friends and colleagues and especially Harry here on this Earth, and the comfort of the one true Lord in the face of the false lord Voldemort, blessed by those around him and those passed on, and with a certitude that whatever life would bring, he could face. He would mourn, true, but he would carry on, because there was nothing else he could or should do.
But tonight, he would cry.
The Lord is my
Shepherd, I shall not want,
He makes me lie down in
green pastures,
He leads me beside
still waters,
He restores my soul.
He guides me in paths
of righteousness for His name's sake.
Even though I walk
through the valley of
the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are
with me;
your rod and your staff
they comfort
me.
You prepare a table
before me
in the presence of my
enemies.
You anoint my head with
oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and
love will follow me
all the days of my
life,
and I will dwell in the
House of the Lord forever.
Psalm 23