Title: Étoiles
Rating: PG
Summary: Just a short piece, an extended drabble really, about the aftermath of the battle in book seven, and an altered future for my favourite character.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Claim: Remus Lupin
Prompt: 10quotes community at livejournal. Number 7 (Lawrence of Arabia) "Are you badly hurt?" - "I'm not hurt at all. Didn't you know? They can only kill me with a golden bullet."
Pairing: None. Really, aside from a brief canon mention of RL/NT.
Étoiles
There were stars overhead.
That was the first thing Remus Lupin knew as he came to and found himself, eyes open but glassy, staring blankly up at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall in Hogwarts. He blinked, once, with effort, expecting to slip back in to inexplicable darkness, but the bright scene overhead did not change. The sky remained resolutely navy, flecked with clouds edged in rose and lavender, occupied by the wicked sickle moon with its silver gleam, and the stars: gold-spangles, bluish-silver, all the colours of jewels, winking from above.
Captivated by the scene, Remus did not look away, though he explored his body for injury, delicately. Something powdery streaked his face. It was in his mouth, tasting vaguely of chalk, and he decided, after a moment's deliberation, that it was powdered fragment of wall, from the place in the castle where he had been standing, which had been blown apart as if by bomb. He swallowed, expecting pain, but found none.
It took some courage for him to try and move his fingers. Clenching his hands tight, first the right, then the left, Remus decided he was undamaged there as well. His legs were numb though, and tingly, as if the feeling were rushing back after a lifetime of circulation denied. At least he could feel them. He could feel himself regaining strength as his body whipped into a frenzy of healing.
After an eternity, he turned to his side.
Nymphadora lay there beside him, still and small and finally quiet, in death, her cheerful chatter silenced. It hit him, hard, to see her lying there as though asleep with dull, light-brown locks instead of the pink or purple shades she had preferred. There was finality in that; looking down at her gentle, pale face, into those soulless blank eyes turned soft hazel in death, Remus knew she was gone, irreconcilably so.
Struggling to sit up properly, Remus looked at her, his brow wrinkled. Everything he had felt, since that traumatic evening after Bill Weasley had been attacked by Fenrir Greyback and Albus Dumbledore had been murdered by Severus Snape, came flooding back to him, magnified. He had been afraid of her then, the half-woman, half-girl with such gleeful eyes, who radiated optimism and good cheer. She was too loud and boisterous for him. Remus was most comfortable on the sidelines, skulking in the shadows, but Tonks had not permitted that. She had sought him out, practically throwing herself at him, and he had, after her impassioned declaration of love outside of Bill's recovery room, found himself with no more excuses. But he was guilty, he knew, guilty of not loving her enough, of not having wanted her, but holding onto his love for someone else. She had been a kind woman and a good friend, but she'd not been the one he wanted. She had been the one he had settled for, deigned to accept, though he was the one who was undeserving. Now she was dead beside him, unable to forgive the bright guilt that stabbed him, or kiss away the tears of shame he felt burning in his eyes.
"Oh Remus, Remus!" spoke a familiar voice from far away. It was mottled with grief and fear, but still undeniably Molly Weasley. "Oh, I'm so sorry." Her eyes dampened with sorrow for him, and grief for Nymphadora. "Oh dear, Tonks," she said, softly, her arms crushing Remus into a rib-cracking hug. Over her shoulder, Remus could see Molly's son, his flaming red hair such a sharp contrast with his pale skin, lying on the floor surrounded by family. The dead boy still wore the ghost of a smile, and Remus felt his heart plunge with agony for everything they had lost.
………..
Later, hours later, the Great Hall was packed. Celebrants, drunk off of Aberforth's fire whiskey and butter-beer snatched through the Floo from the Three Broomsticks, sang and danced and cheered. Mourners clung to one another, white-faced in grief, ripped up inside by the conflict of wanting to cheer Voldemort's destruction, yet needing to cry their tears for their dead. Remus sat among them, a cracked mug filled to the brim with hot tea -- curiously sweet; he supposed Bill had spiked it with butter-beer for him -- pressed between his hands. There was a bit of plaster dust still on his chin, and a bit more in his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed and his stomach ached with apology and loss, but a faint smile curved his lips as he looked over at various tables and saw parents hugging their children, lovers kissing lovers, Hagrid dancing with Flitwick, and Hermione and Ron clutching hands and whispering to an apparently empty space of air beside them.
"Harry?" Remus spoke, recognising the presence of the invisibility cloak, even though he could not see it. He had watched James slip beneath it too many times not to know; had himself ducked under it countless times with his friends.
The cloak slid off as Harry stood up, his eyes round. He looked -- aged. Not physically, but something in his eyes was weary and ancient, and he held himself differently, his centre of balance shifted. "Remus?" Harry whispered after a moment's gawking. He ignored the sudden rise of volume in the hall as he was spotted by his fans, those he had saved. "Remus -- but I saw you, lying on the floor. You were -- you were dead." Harry's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Weren't you?"
Examining his hands, Remus shook his head softly. "Apparently not. I don't remember what happened. One moment I was duelling with Dolohov -- and there was an explosion….it's all a blur after that, until I woke up."
Harry nodded slowly, trying to make sense of what had happened. "But they attacked you, and you were in the ruined part of the castle! The Death Eaters -- I know they came for you." He stopped, bewildered. "Are you badly hurt?"
Remus' smile stretched just slightly. "I'm not hurt at all. Didn't you know? They can only kill me with a golden bullet."
"Silver," spoke Hermione solemnly. She did not seem to realise that she had spoken, for she blushed as Harry, Ron and Remus turned towards her. "A silver bullet," she specified. "In the Muggle legends, that is what kills the werewolf, something made out of silver. But I --" she broke off, overcome with feeling. "I don't think --"
"Ah, now, don't worry, Hermione," Remus said gently. He held out his hand, showing her the back of it, where a shiny ring glittered on one finger. "I can wear silver. It's harmless, see? It's all right. Those are only stories -- everything is all right now."
Struggling to catch her breath, Hermione nodded tearfully. "I know. It's just -- so much destruction! I'm so happy we won, but we lost too many people! I never knew it would be like this, I never thought --"
"I didn't either, Hermione, but that was a war. This is what war does to people." Harry stood, a little stronger, as though the curious, thankful gazes of the onlookers steadily him. He looked on approvingly at Ron, who had taken advantage of Hermione's emotional upset to embrace her, and then he smiled a bit more widely, looking at Ginny. Finally, he turned to Remus, then flicked his gaze upwards, following Remus' own, so that they were both studying the glimmering stars overhead, magically shimmering in the enchanted ceiling. "And now, the war is over."