The sunlight streams through his window and he rolls over, away from the light, and shields his face with his arm. His body aches, his joints burn in the sockets, and he feels every movement he makes. He smells sweat and alcohol and smoke in the sheets, doesn't smell her, doesn't smell them. Hasn't for ages. It is now his own failure that keeps him company, day in and day out. Somewhere else in the house he hears someone banging around, shouting, stomping up the stairs. He can't stay in bed all day long, he knows this, but he wants to, longs to.
There's a knock at the door and then Molly's motherly voice reaches his ears. "Remus, dear? Why don't you come and have some breakfast."
He stays still, unable to find the energy to push back the covers and climb from the comfort of his bed. He thinks of answering, thinks of telling Molly he doesn't feel well but the door opens a crack before he can and he closes his eyes as Molly steps into the room. She stays near the door for a moment, no doubt watching him, and then she walks to the bed. "Remus, you need to eat." She places a gentle, cool hand on his shoulder and he slips his arm away from his face, looks up at her wearily.
"I'm fine, Molly. Really." He wishes she would leave. He hates that she's seeing him this way, so vulnerable and alone.
She purses her lips, her cheeks flushing the longer she watches him, and then she puts her hands on her hips. "Remus John Lupin, I expect to see you in the kitchen in five minutes. Understood?" She nods her head and doesn't wait for an answer before turning and walking from the room. He stares at the open door in bewilderment. Did Molly Weasley really just treat him like one of her own children?
He lies in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the wall and listening to the sounds out in the hallway, upstairs, and all over The Burrow. He knows that Molly expects him for breakfast, no excuses, so he pushes back the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He sits for a moment, shoulders hunched, to allow his body to adjust to motion. The full moon is days away and his body knows this, burns with the knowledge of it. He groans quietly as he stands and shuffles to the door to close it so he can dress.
The floor is cold and the room is cold and everything is a bit cold, he notices as he walks to his wardrobe. He dresses in a simple pair of slacks that are worn but comfortable and pulls on a thin, pale blue cotton dress shirt. His hands shake as they move down the front of his shirt, fastening each button in turn. He stares at his assortment of threadbare cardigans before sighing ruefully and pulling one from the hanger.
As he pulls on a pair of socks and his shoes, his stomach sours and he wishes he hadn't had so much scotch the night before. He drank last night because she was over, for the meeting, and seeing her, smelling her, feeling her brush past him in the hallway created such an intense ache in his chest that he thought he'd have to take his own life to make it go away. Scotch dulled the ache and made him so sleepy that he was barely able to undress before falling into bed, his skin damp with sweat and his heart thudding wildly in his chest. He drank to forget the feel of her, drank to forget the way her lips brushed his neck in the night, to forget the way she said his name when they were alone, to forget how she looked at him, how she always looked at him as if he were nothing more than fully human (which makes him feel like he's standing in front of her, stark naked).
He pulls open the door and steps cautiously into the hallway. At Christmas, with so many people in the house, one ran the risk of being run over just leaving a room. Shouts and laughter emerge from the kitchen and he pulls his cardigan tighter around his body, suddenly self-conscious about his unsteady gait and gaunt appearance. Harry and Ron returned home the night before but he was tucked away in his room with a book and a bottle of scotch and had ignored their requests for an audience with him.
"Professor Lupin!" Harry calls brightly, motioning to the seat beside him as Remus enters the kitchen.
"Good morning, Harry. Everyone." He glances around the table at all the Weasleys, at Hermione, and slides into the seat beside Harry. "I trust you had a good trip home." He smiles gratefully to no one in particular as the tea pot drifts toward him. "Just black, thank you." The teapot fills his cup and drifts away, stopping to top off Arthur's cup along the way.
"Our trip home was fine. 'N' you'd know that if you'd open your door last night." Quips Ron, taking a bite of toast. Remus feels his cheeks flush and he looks down at his plate. There's a sound and then Ron blurts, "What'd you do that for?"
"Ignore him, Professor." Hermione says quickly, smiling at him from across the table. She glares at Ron, who is rubbing his arm with a confused expression on his face. "How have you been?"
Remus musters a smile as he summons a few pieces of toast and the jam jar. "I've been fine, Hermione, thank you. How was your term, then?" He suspects none of them knows about how he has spent his time. Molly and Arthur are honest with their children but do not divulge everything, and for that, he's grateful. The less they know, the better.
Hermione launches into a day-by-day retelling of first term and Remus follows along as best he can. Ginny, Ron, and Harry interject here and there, occasionally talking over one another, and he relaxes into the normalcy of the moment, eating his breakfast with a sincere smile on his face as he listens to their stories.
Being at The Burrow, surrounded by so many people he loves, feels like being a member of a very large family. He's not had this in quite a long while, hasn't had the comfort of sitting with people who naturally include him in their conversations, in their lives, while allowing him the opportunity to slip away and exist on his own. He owes Molly and Arthur a debt that can't be repaid; they have opened their home to him, taken him in and cared for him after the full moon for the past several months. He can never risk staying long, cannot risk humanising himself even further, and he knows in two nights, he'll be back out there again, with the pack. He has risked a great deal by staying with the Weasleys for so long and so close to the full moon, but his body and mind are weary and at the moment, he doesn't quite care what the pack will think when he returns.
"Professor?" Harry's quiet voice breaks his reverie and he swallows the toast he has been chewing.
"Yes, Harry?" When he sips his tea, he burns his mouth.
"You feeling all right?" Harry's eyes make a quick assessment of Remus' face and he reminds himself of his reflection the last time he saw it. Fresh cuts that would now be close to healing, pale skin, hollow eyes. "You look a little…well…" Harry trails off, his eyes meeting Remus'.
"I'm fine. Just a bit worse for the wear." He takes a more cautious sip of tea and smiles as reassuringly as possible. He feels much worse for the wear in so many ways.
Harry raises one eyebrow and leans in closer so no one else will hear him. "What has Dumbledore asked you to do?"
Remus turns his mug in his hands slowly, contemplating the truth and how much of it should be told, but Arthur interjects before he can sort it all out in his mind. "Kids, why don't you begin clearing the table?"
A chorus of groans arises in response and Molly eyes them all sternly. As the children (though to be fair, they're hardly children at this point) begin to clear the dishes by magical means, Remus finishes his toast and tea and enjoys a quick chat with Fred and George, who show him their latest creation – a candy cane that turns into a worm in your mouth.
"Not one of our best," George intones with a shrug, "but popular nonetheless."
Remus stays in the kitchen until the dishes are clean and put away, and then he's not sure what to do with himself. After sitting in the living room with everyone for a bit, he tires of attempting to keep up with the various conversations and goes to the coat closet for his wool cloak. He slips out unnoticed into the chilly late morning air and pulls his cloak closer to his body.
