PILLAR OF SALT.
You can't look back. You should look back - you have to look back - but you can't, because that would mean acknowledging it and you aren't strong enough to do that. It was a moment of anger. An accident. It wasn't your fault. It couldn't have been your fault, because you aren't strong enough for that.
And so you run away from your mistake, the accident that you still can't comprehend. You replay it in your mind; once, twice, twenty times, and it still doesn't seem like you are the one doing it. It doesn't seem like it could be you, that it could be your responsibility and that it is you that will have to face the consequences.
As the ground passes beneath your feet, as the earth moves round and round, you cannot do anything but keep going. The branches whip against your body, shredding your shirt and leaving trails of ripped skin and bright red blood, but you don't let yourself feel them. The tree roots and the shrubs that litter the floor of the forest trip you up, forcing you to stumble, to fall, and still you cannot become motionless. If you stop, even for a moment, everything will catch up to you. You cannot allow that to happen.
The forest is a blur of greens and browns, murky colours that suit you. Your red hair does not belong, but the murky colours are your soul; they show that you are not as perfect as you look. Your looks, you know, are deceiving. They do not say anything about who you are.
And yet, the forget-me-nots - the little stars of blue with flecks of white - leer at you, their fingernail-sized blossoms flickering past as you run, whispering. Don't forget, don't forget. How could you forget? It is impossible, but you have always been one to test the boundaries; you need it to be possible.
Even as you do your best to think of nothing, to leave your mind a blank wasteland, thoughts dribble onto it as beetroot juice does to your favourite shirt, staining it. The memories constrict your lungs, wrapping themselves so tightly around your ribs that you feel you can't breathe, you can't live. So for a moment you stop running, and the silence shocks you.
You've been waiting for him, sitting on the landing at the top of the stairs; it has the best view of the front door. The second the lock clicks, you stand, ready to hear the excuses, to translate the drunken slurs into something recognisable. But when he comes in his gait is not one of a drunk; he is stone sober, and for a moment you do not know how to address him. He didn't get smashed at the pub this time.
The smear of lipstick betrays him as he looks up and sees you, coming up the stairs with a tired smile. Your eyes are transfixed on the smudge, a colour that is too pink to be blood, and too purple to be anything else. As he reaches you, his fingertips grasping your shoulder and pulling you towards him, it is unmistakable.
It isn't like you haven't expected it. He was never the most faithful of people; you know that. He made mistakes, just like everyone else. But that does not mean you have to forgive him, so you push him away, the lipstick on his cheek drawing your eyes back to it like a scab you are trying not to pick. You aren't sure what you are saying, even as your mouth forms the word:
"Where have you been?"
"I was held up at work - someone came in to complain," he murmurs, trying to pull you back into an embrace. He thinks that if he ignores it, it will disappear, but you know better.
"And then who held you up after that?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not stupid, Teddy - there's lipstick on your cheek." Your voice is matter-of-fact, and your tone is as cold as you can make it. You have been brought up with values – though you cannot blame Mrs. Tonks for what Teddy has become. Part of you blames yourself: you didn't give him enough attention, perhaps, or maybe it was because you are his godfather's niece. The more sensible part thinks he is inexcusable and hates you for being in love with him. All parts of you hate it.
He panics and his fingernails dip deeper into your shoulder. "It's just paint, I'm sure--"
"Paint? And you would come into contact with that at the Apothecary why? There's no point lying."
"I-- Look, it's not what you think, I swear," he says desperately, trying to make your eyes meet his own wide brown ones. "Please, it's not--"
You are startled by the choking sob that seems to echo among the trees - who is here? Do they know you are? But the sob is your own, and you force yourself to keep running, because it is too close now. It is snapping at your heels, trying again and again to gain purchase enough to pull you back.
Going back is not an option. If you look back, then, as Lot's wife did, you will turn into a pillar of salt. You will crumble, the wind and the rain wearing you away and beating at your sides until there is nothing of you left but tiny crystals on the ground. And then those will dissolve and there will be no proof of your existence.
It would be fitting, but even now you cannot allow that to happen. You must keep going, keep stumbling over the shrubs and tree roots, keep trying to avoid the eyes of the forget-me-nots. You can't forget, you can't forget. He was part of the family too, just as much as you are. You know from family histories he almost certainly shares blood, if one went back far enough in the family trees to find out. Who doesn't love a war orphan, anyway? The orphan status was never part of the charm for you, but it worked on adults. No one, least of all your own flesh and blood, would ever forgive you for what you have done. You keep running with that in mind; looking back is not an option.
You have never been this far into the woods before. Not figuratively, but literally, and you can't help but slow as you realise you have no idea where you are. You have never seen these trees, that clearing, and even in the midst of what has happened, that scares you. You are lost.
As you slow the pain gnaws at your sides, so you force yourself to speed up. What does it matter if you are lost? You are losing faith now. What does it matter if you stay lost forever? Nothing matters. You don't matter. The world around you is proof of that - would the forget-me-nots keep sneering at passersby, would the nightingale still sing, would the sun still rise? The answer is yes, and you know it.
You stand in shock, barely able to move as you see what you have done. What you have caused. You cannot shove the blame off to anyone else like you are so fond of doing; it is your fault, and your fault alone that you now stand at the edge of the first floor landing by yourself.
For what seems like an hour you are frozen, still as a pillar of salt, staring down and waiting for him to stir. A groan, a gurgle, a twitch of a limb that is bent the wrong way - anything. But nothing comes, and you know nothing will. You didn't mean to push him - you meant to get his arm off you, so you could confront him properly. But, as you do with everything, you misjudged. And now you cannot go back.
So you run, and you keep running until you reach the woods and as soon as you enter them the temperature changes. The drop of a few degrees is welcome, though the English summer is not warm. Feeble hairs on your arm stand up in protest to the cool air, reminding you that you are alive, that you are you, and that you cannot change anything.
So you, the murderer of Teddy Remus Lupin, keep running.
Your breath hitches in your throat, and you stop at last. You don't know where you are, but you know it is far away. You don't know what colour your shirt used to be, but you know it is now brown with flecks of red; long gashes show where branches clung onto you, begging you to stay. You do not know what the time is, but you know there is a gold watch on your left wrist if you cared to find out.
The flowers dance, a breeze conducting music you cannot hear. You listen, but you know there is nothing you can do. The time when you could hear the music of the wind is long gone. As you sink to your knees, you wonder what would happen if you turned back. If you looked over your shoulder, if you returned to the staircase...what would happen? Your uncle loved Teddy like a son; you have no chance of forgiveness. And why should they forgive you? Do you deserve it? The forget-me-nots do not think so, and neither do you.
But you are human - the Veela part of you is diluted by sin, by imperfection - and you cannot help yourself. You look back; glancing over your shoulders to glimpse what you wish would be there. But there is only the coming darkness of a late summer night at last, the fingers of the sunset disappearing behind the trees. The darkness surrounds you, envelopes you, and you think that turning into a pillar of salt would be a blessing.
I won't forget, I won't forget.