It was as much as Lupin could do to stand as he clutched the wound in his stomach, fighting to keep the gaping cut together as blood poured over his fingers. His hand was already covered in blood, none of it had been his own; he had attempted to save the life of Nymphadora but he had failed. Her blood now stained that failure across his arm. Other wounds covered him. None quite as serious as this. Cuts and scrapes across his arms and back, a nasty looking scrape across his face that bled heavily but was thankfully shallow. He fought his way through the smoke, barely able to see more than a foot in front of him. The sickening crunch of bones under his feet meant that he had stood on yet another corpse. Friend or foe, he could not tell. He wasn't sure if it made much difference. He could barely tell the fighters around him apart. If they were young, barely older than 17, some not even that, it was a good bet that they were fighting against the Death Eaters. Children had come onto the battlefield straight from school, those who refused to be evacuated, often they were those who died first. Some he could not tell. Any piece of clothing that told one side from the other had long been discarded or was so covered in blood and filth that it was impossible to tell.
Every curse he threw was at people he recognised, members of old pureblood families, people that looked at him as if he was dirt on their shoe. Not that that was the way to tell if they were on the other side or not, most people looked down on a poor werewolf, even fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix had looked down at him, questioned his motives. There had been whispers that The Werewolves, as if they were all one group, had joined Voldemort. Order members had wondered why he hadn't joined them, on the fringes of society, creating more wolves, living in dark forests away from the rest of the Wizarding World. Truly he didn't know, other than he wouldn't wish this curse upon anybody. It wasn't like society had done anything for him. He was just as oppressed, looked down upon, and unemployable as any other werewolf. He wasn't as bitter as others though. The promises of equality and hope from Voldemort had not swayed Remus as much as it had other werewolves. He didn't particularly blame them, he just wished they could see through the lies. They would be just as oppressed as before, only used as foot soldiers now. They were disposable. Who cared if a werewolf was dead? He could only presume that he was not swayed was due to having had friends that did not care what he was, and that there were a few wizards, very few but enough, who had given him a chance. He had been employed for a whole year in Britain's most important institution. He still had hope that there was a better future for him and those like him, without persecuting muggleborns, without the deaths of anyone who disagreed with authority.
That hope was the only thing that made him go on. Leaning against the castle wall, he struggled to stay upright. He pressed the tip of his wand into the wound of his stomach, whispering a few words that made the skin painfully knit together. He was no healer and the wound was deep and certainly not clean after hours on the battlefield. All he could do was hope that it would not get infected. Now was no time to rest, even if his battered body begged him to. Although he could barely see, smoke and blood, his own or someone else's he did not know, making his eyes sting, he ran back into the fray. He dodged curses and hexes as they came his way, some meant for him others missing their intended mark. A Death Eater he did not recognise, one of the few to keep hold of their masks baited him into a duel, flinging curses and hexes of increasing illegality and cruelty. He blocked most, dodging others. Remus gave as good as he got, silently sending back curse after curse, not thinking about how this was a fellow human being, someone who lived and breathed, had hopes and dreams, a family they loved. He couldn't. If he had he wouldn't have been able to send the killing curse that struck the Death Eater in the chest. The person who had just been trying to kill him was now dead themselves, just a corpse lying prone on the blood soaked ground.
He walked over to the corpse, and pulled off the mask. Blood clung to it, both dried and fresh, some of his curses had obviously hit their target. The fresh blood dripped across Remus's hand mingling with the rest of the blood there, dripping off onto the ground next to where Remus had dropped the mask. It was the least he could do; see the face of the person he had murdered. He did not know if it was a kindness that he did not recognise the face. A woman, perhaps a few years younger than himself. Blonde hair in mattes of blood and dirt stuck to her face. A look of fear, with tear tracks marked on what was once a rather pretty face, marked her face. The look that would last an eternity, no chance to be happy again. It was a harsh reminder that the other side did not want to be here either. No one wanted to die like this.
"I'm sorry." Remus whispered. His voice was lost in the sound of war around him. Cries of agony from the wounded and grieving, bangs and shouts from curses that flew past him, somehow not touching him despite his lack of defence.
He ran a hand through his hair, once more back into the fray as he sent a curse towards a man he recognised as Dolohov, trying to tempt him away from a young student. It was too late for the student, one he himself had taught just four short years ago, as green light burst from Dolohov's wand and struck the child dead. It was unbelievable to Remus that the ground that he now fought on was once a safe haven for him. The ground his feet now pounded on as he fought for his life once held his feet as he chased his friends in the moonlight. He had been so young and carefree then, learning the mysteries of the old school, unaware that every one of the boys he played with would die. He would be the one left. Fighting for a freedom that he doubted he would live to see. They were so outnumbered. The side of the light was made up of Order members, a handful of students, and anyone they could get the word out to. Voldemort's side was so much bigger, Death Eaters, members of the ministry, anyone who could be blackmailed or bribed into fighting for a side that did nothing but lie, torture, and kill for a man that wanted nothing but death and destruction and power.
Remus could feel tears making tracks down his cheeks; slight warmth a relief against the cool night air. He would die here, just like so many before him. His dear friend Tonks, Fred Weasley, his students. Pain shot through him, harsher than any other wound. His misery had made him drop his guard and now agony ripped through him. Sharp and cutting. Dolohov was grinning above him, spitting foul words that he could not hear. He could feel himself losing consciousness. A relief. His vision darkening, pain lessening. Numb.
He woke. There was no pain but his breathing was heavy, he was unable to catch his breath. His sheets were covered in sweat and he was shaking. He swallowed down the vomit that was making its way up his throat. A mouthful of cool water from his bedside table managed to settle him a little. He was safe. It had all been a dream. A memory. All that he had dreamt had happened, many months ago now. It was no longer the beginnings of summer, no longer did the war rage on. It was now the beginnings of winter. A storm was brewing and from his window Remus could see the crashing waves against the sharp rocks far below his small cottage on the edge of a cliff. It was an atmosphere so different from that which he'd dreamt he could feel himself calming a little. It was over.
The dreams were becoming more and more common. He had hoped that that wouldn't happen. That his memories of the battle would lessen and he would be able to move on. Yet he could do nothing but remember. Every night he would close his eyes and there they would be. The dead haunted him. It was sometimes a relief. For the seconds before they died he could see them again, alive. He'd lost so many over the past twenty years. His family, his dearest friends. The friends that remained understood, of course. They'd all had the same. Everyone he counted as a friend had been at Hogwarts on that fateful night. They'd lost people before then too. His best friends had been Harry's parents and Godfather. He could not claim that his loss was his alone but they all seemed to be dealing with it far better. He had gone to St Mungo's months ago, hoping that they would give him something to make the dreams go away but all they had given him was a leaflet entitled 'Dealing with Death?: Desolation Restoration Draft and Other Ways to Deal with your Grief'. Hermione had scoffed when she had seen the leaflet.
"They're handing that out like it's going to cure everyone. Really they've no idea how to deal with PTSD."
Remus had not asked her what PTSD was, he presumed it was some Muggle thing. The more he suffered from the nightmares, the more he thought of going to her and asking. He knew she was now studying to be a Healer, and he knew she was shaking things up. He'd heard complaints about her when walking down Diagon Alley. She'd been working with Healer Pye to bring muggle cures into St Mungo's. He'd heard the conversation as he walked past Fortescue's one day, a group of Mediwitches and Healers had sat outside whinging about 'Granger and her grand ideas'.
"Humph." An elderly wizard with a mediwitch badge attached to the front of his robes had said, "What on Earth does any self-respecting wizard want with counselling?"
"I have every respect for Miss Granger, you know I do." One Healer assured her colleagues. It was considered bad form to bad mouth any muggle born, and certainly not one who had helped Harry Potter so much. "But she'll find that these ideas have no place in our society."
Remus had thoroughly disagreed with the Healers opinion. His experience with Hermione Granger led him to believe that she was rarely wrong, and that if she thought something was worth the time and effort of changing the opinions of the entire Wizarding World then it was worth listening to her. He did not stop to discuss the issue though, instead wanting to finish his shopping as quickly as possible. In recent months it was not just nightmares that had shook him to his core, but the slightest noise, a bang or a cry, could set memories off when he was wide awake.
This thought, and his most recent nightmare made Remus think that perhaps it would be best to contact his former student. She was a good friend, and trustworthy enough that he thought she would not discuss his nightmares with anyone else. The muggles may even have something to cure the visions in his head. Maybe this 'counselling' was some sort of potion that the Muggles had created to combat that sort of thing. He knew that they had enough wars that maybe his nightmares weren't so abnormal.
He cast a quick tempus and saw that it was nearing morning. Hermione had always been an early riser; an owl this early would not faze her. He sat at the desk in the corner of the room, his cottage not nearly big enough for the desk to have its own room, and penned a letter to Hermione. He would try anything, anything at all for the nightmares to go away.