Summary: Moony's reaction on Padfoot's death… actually, Remus' reaction to Sirius' death
This was inspired by Alone in the water, a Sherlock fanfic.
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
I close the door behind me and sit on the bed. His bed, or at least what had once been his bed. I want to cry, sob, scream bloody murder, and take revenge at the world; I want to let the animal inside me take control and just destroy everything, but I don't. Because I can't afford it. There are people out there depending on me, of my unique position. Screw them. And then there's Harry.
I try to control myself. I try to conjure the strong calm façade that came so naturally immediately after it, but I can't because every time I try, I hear his voice; he's mocking me, in the same sing-song voice he used the first time we met, the same voice he used to taunt me for studying so hard, the same voice that made fun of me when I became prefect in a unique way of congratulating, the same voice that teased me for getting seven Outstandings (even after he got eight), the same voice that begged me to tell him what was his Christmas present, that same voice was now telling me how ridiculous it was of me to keep pretending I wasn't just every bit as wild as they had been. I know what everybody out there is thinking, what they are assuming; what they've been assuming since we were fifteen. I don't mind.
I need to get out of here for I'm feeling claustrophobic, I thought it would help, coming here; that I would feel closer to him, but I guess I should've realised: this was never home to him. I had never had a problem with this house and it is not as if anything here reminds me of him, it reminds me of what he suffer, it reminds me that he's probably happier where he is now; it angers me. Because now I'm alone, now I've lost my brother, my best friend and my… what?...soul-mate my best friend had said once, a long time ago. Yes, whatever that meant. I hadn't understood then, none of us had, not even her; we were too young, but she knew that whatever else we were, we were soul-mates.
We weren't meant to be separated, as simple as that.
I have nowhere to go. Literally. I could go anywhere, I just have no place to go; he is nowhere. So I go to the last place I saw him. I apparate just outside the door; the door looks new, barely months old. I listen intently for any sounds; I hear nothing so I let myself in. A quick alohomora does the trick, I enter the flat and the feeling that there was something very wrong with the world heightens on me as it has never before. I am familiar with this feeling for I have felt it all my life, or at least since I can remember. I was four the first time I felt it; the day I was told about the monster I would become every month. It made small appearances through my first life; when my parents died, when I was rejected and turn down in every job, when half of my friends were being brutally murdered while the rest were forced into a war we had not caused. The feeling never died, it was just dulled by the years and soothed by family, although it came back with a vengeance the day my brother and best friend died, the day my sister was murdered for loving too much, the day my baby brother sold out my family and blamed my soul-mate, the day I thought my soul-mate had betrayed us, the day I lost faith in the world. It had been too much. I left thinking that my only remaining family would be safer away from me, I thought I could protect the last thing I had; yet, I managed to fail once again. But this feeling was worse, or maybe it had always been this terrible and I just had never realised.
The furniture was wrong, the floor was wrong, the ceiling was wrong, the whole bloody apartment was wrong. There had once been an enormous couch that could fit four grown boys and a petite woman, there had been a dirty carpet with a story behind every stain, there had been a fireplace; for emergencies only, the counter had been older, brought in from a cheap store for the owners of the flat refused to touch any money that hadn't been earned by their own hands, and there had been laughter; tons of it.
I finally stepped in, memories assaulting me just as I expected. The room transformed in front of me, suddenly matching the one in my memory. I can hear the sound of cooking as my sister slash best friend prepared enough food to feed an army, or two athletes, one glutton, and one werewolf. I could almost feel the small temblor of the floor that indicated that another fight or 'Marauder Contest' as we liked to call it had broken out. I breathe in carefully; savouring the moment for I don't know when, somebody will brave up and come looking for me, or worse, when will the new owners return.
I walk into the hallway and a new memory flashes in front of my eyes as if I was a spectator rather than a participant; I think it fits: I am no longer the same boy. It's Christmas and there's mistletoe that my brother put up as an excuse to kiss my sister. It disturbs me to think of my siblings as a couple so I think of her as my best friend to keep myself sane. I see Padfoot coming from his room while Moony stands awkwardly at the end of the hallway. I laugh when I am reminded of the time when we tried to put a label to it, to us, but I sober up as I watch Padfoot approaching Moony, like one would in the crucial scene of a romantic movie. After exchanging some flirty lines and awkward smiles he kisses the boy, finally giving in after years of doubt and self-consciousness; it looks right, meant to be. But both boys are scared. I smile sadly as the scene disappears and is replaced by another one.
A black haired boy is running towards Padfoot's room and I follow him. He opens the door and shouts "PADFOOT! PADFOOT! SHE SAID YES! I'M MARRYING LIL- AAH! MY EYES! MY EYES! THEY BURN!" and he collapses. The boy goes from ecstatic to martyred in 0.2 seconds. I smirk, Prongs, always the drama queen. A fourth player arrives on scene, a red haired girl; my best friend. "James are you o- oh… You owe me ten galleons." The scene is blurry and imperfect, as if I needed glasses; probably because my recorder is currently hiding his head under the sheets while his partner laughs like a madman. Then I am reminded of the Untouchable Days; exactly eleven months two weeks and three days (starting that same day) when the little family had everything.
Unfortunately the room expands and transforms again, this time into an unwanted one. It's old and neglected, fitting. This time it's me who makes an entrance; we stare at each other as if the other had resurrected from the death; there are so many things I want to say and do; but there are three pairs of eyes looking expectantly at us. So I lift up the walls again. This time forever. Or until tonight. I refocus on the scene as I blurt out the doubt that had been eating me up inside for twelve years. I embrace him and he feels the same, regardless of the lack of health; but when I look into his eyes, he isn't the same person. Padfoot is death. Again, fitting, for Moony is death too. The rest doesn't matter, it rushes and blurs together until it unravels into the next memory.
I'm back to that horrible place, sitting in front of the fireplace with him at my side. Or me at his side. He looks at the clock and then at me. "It's late, isn't it?" He asks with a small voice. It is exactly twelve o'clock, the bells of the clock still ringing; it is certainly late. "Indeed" I answer. He nods and I wish he hadn't; I wish I hadn't; and I wish it hadn't. The room disappears just as a drop reaches my shirt.
I am not distraught by the memories. They act like alcohol on a wound; they sting, the pain sharp and latent, but they purify so the wound can heal. I hear his voice again; this time saying that muggle medicine is barbaric. I agree. I am not upset; nonetheless, I feel warm water on my face. It's time to leave the flat; there is nothing else to collect. I have nowhere to go so I return to that hellhole. Curious, Grimmauld Place had never troubled me before. Nimphadora is waiting for me.
She cries and hugs me and I hold her. I can tell she is more distraught for me than for herself. Good. At least she tries even if she doesn't understand. No one had. A sharp pain stabs me as if I had uttered a blasphemy. I had. There had been the red haired girl with the green eyes that came up with the word to address it. And more importantly there had been the raven haired boy with hazel eyes and spectacles that had said "Who cares?" Nobody who mattered "Does it really matter?" Not to those who we cared about.
I feel different. Hugging her had always felt wrong, but now, it still feels wrong, only lesser, less enough that I could ignore it. I try not to think that, to think of the reasons why it feels this way, to remember why I feel so utterly broken. But the voice comes back, this time as the devil's advocate. What if she's your last chance? What if there is no other chance to be happy again? To be Moony again? And I look at her, I look at her distinct nose and her pale colouring, at her face's sharp features and full lips; I look at her eyes, her grey eyes. They looked familiar. They were the same dark shade that I had stared endlessly at, just lighter; they had the same mischievous twinkle in them, only more childlike; they held the same sadness that had placed itself in them by the loss of a loved one except younger; and for a moment I let go of myself, I let the strong walls around me crumble for I cannot lie to those eyes.
She sights relief, at least I don't pretend anymore. But she is wrong to be relieved. Because if I don't pretend, if I don't delude myself into thinking that only one person died tonight, I will let the last tiny bit of my family alone. And I cannot fail again. So I sew myself together and puppet myself like the hollow vessel I've been for fourteen years.
Time passes and I fall into the familiar, comfortable disguise of the impassible professor yet it's still just a shadow of what I was once. When I return, I finally acknowledge the voice's desires and decide to marry her.
I had never believed that people should marry the love of their lives; they should marry someone they were comfortable and compatible with. He had disagreed. He had always said that there was absolutely no point in marrying someone if it wasn't the love of your life. We had bickered about it since third year and five years later I was proven wrong. But sixteen years later, today, he will be proven wrong.
I take a moment to myself before entering the small elegant room. I know what everybody in there is thinking, what they are assuming; what they've been assuming since I was fifteen. I don't mind. Because he is death and I don't mind anymore.