AN: well, Remus had to do something while Sirius was in Azkaban, no? just a small idea, pretty depressing really, but I don't seem to be able to write anything different (which is definitely a flaw…). It refers to an OC from 'Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now', but stands alone OK.
Disclaimer: actually, I own everything, apart from Lupin, Dumbledore and Tonks. Wooo, feel the power!
It's a fine state of affairs, Remus Lupin thought soberly to himself as he looked in the mirror, when a man has to get married without his best friends around him.
He pulled irritably at the golden cravat around his neck and glared at the grey gloves resting on the dressing table. It was too surreal, really. It seemed somehow horrifically treacherous to be dressing up, as a Muggle groom no less, without his fellow Marauders.
Alex and Philippa entered the room, and he forced his face into something resembling a smile of welcome. They weren't unbearable, his…brother and sister in law, but he could as much imagine Professor McGonagall belly-dancing as he could Al and Phil engaging in well planned and even better executed plots and intrigues through the corridors of Hogwarts.
Ah, well. He had suffered worse disappointments than simply standing alone at an altar. He chided himself as he accepted a glass of champagne from Phil, anyone would think he was regretting the entire venture.
Far from it. Time and time again he had struggled to find words for what he had felt the moment Freya had taken the small box in her hand, looked at its contents quizzically, and nodded dumbly, before bursting into hot tears. They were good words, he knew. But they were too great for one as poor as him.
No, what pervaded was his overwhelming guilt that he should be preparing for such a day, such a future, while his friends were scattered and divided. Although he had to keep convincing himself that none of it was his fault. It had been their choice to drive him out, to choose the volatile, unbalanced, passionate one over the stoic and bland boy who would have taken their secret to the grave.
But in the words James had spoken in asking Black to be his Secret-Keeper, he had destined Remus to…this, this moment at which he severed all links with those he thought he knew, and began a pleasant lie of a life.
Phil was messing with his cravat, trying to tug it into a more casually rumpled style, while Al talked gently, in a tone that seemed to Remus to be more suited to a funeral than a wedding, of catering and honeymoons.
He had never been to a Muggle wedding before, although he imagined it to be largely similar to those in the wizarding world, with huge displays of wealth and extravagance, as if to say 'I love you to the value of x pounds'.
Funny. He had always imagined a small, rustic chapel, with rambling roses peeking at the windows, and battered pews filled with friends from Hogwarts, when he imagined at all. And invariably, when his slender bride pulled back her veil, her red hair fell in gentle tendrils around her face, and her green eyes radiated with anticipation and supreme happiness.
But time, that old enemy, had altered his dreams – they had had little time to dwell on marriage and love in the aftermath of the fall of Voldemort, for while the wizarding community had been celebrating, he had been spiralling, descending into something lost. Only Dumbledore, he who had saved him over and over though he had rarely deserved it, remembered little Remus Lupin whose friends were now dead or outlawed.
It had been so wonderful, like troubles melting like lemon drops, to return to Freya, and sever all ties to the potions and incantations that reminded him of betrayal and false memories. And though it had seemed painfully likely that this time around she would want nothing to do with the shabby, reticent boy across the hall, for once things had gone his way.
It had been difficult, explaining about himself. It still gnawed at his conscience, to realise he was lying every day to his fiancée, but in truth he himself had renounced magic in favour of the stability and love that Freya could offer him, and was content to do so. After all, there was little left in that now distant world to tempt him back.
And looking at Phil and Al, beaming in their satin dresses and fine suits, he could not help but feel happy to be an honorary Muggle. His heart, laced with the gentle fizz of champagne, was open to a life of dull domesticity and slowly smouldering love.
As he pulled on his gloves, a particularly deep scar on his wrist caught his eye, and he grimaced. But it was not the right time to consider such brutal truths. He had spent enough time deliberating selfishly, standing before a department store jewellery counter running through the possible consequences of his lycanthropy in his mind – but the pull of the thought of Freya's little hand in his, bearing his glinting ring was too much for him.
He glanced once more in the mirror, nearly feeling Sirius' hand clapping him on the back and hearing James' voice complaining about the uncomfortable waistcoat. But he saw only himself, looking presentable, if a little awkward, and uncommonly pale.
Then they were away, speeding through Reading in a glossy Rolls-Royce (which, Al assured him, was the only way to travel to a wedding). The town flashed by in a maze of terraces and lush parks, bright shops and barren building sites. He read again the note that had come with a cassette of music that was now safely encased in his pocket.
I know I should write something on the morning of our wedding, said the note, and I know it doesn't bode well if I can't think of anything to say now. But in truth, I'm not sure i'm capable of any words, spoken or written. You'll just have to read my thoughts…but that's never usually a problem. I can only say, you'll know what I want to say when I'm standing opposite you, holding your hand, repeating those vows, looking in your eyes. I'm sorry if I cry. I thought that afternoon in the restaurant was the happiest day of my life. But then you keep ruining it, and every day after that becomes the best. I know I don't deserve it, but I know this will be a day to end all days. I just pray it's that way for you, my Remus. I'm looking forward to life with you.
The church was very full, and he caught the scent of freesias around the altar. It seemed an age, with no-one but steady Al beside him…no witty whispers from Sirius to calm his nerves, or sneaky winks from James. He noticed that Freya's family and friends were spilling into the groom's half of the church, which contained only one old man with a magnificent beard and half-moon glasses, in a tweed suit.
Remus, quickly checking his urge to jump in surprise, felt as though someone had squeezed his heart tightly. He had a guest. Someone had come to his wedding. Dumbledore, always Dumbledore. And suddenly it felt alright that he was without his partners in crime for the ceremony. Dumbledore smiled gently at the young man, positively radiating a paternal sort of pride.
Freya was early. The doors at the back of the church opened and let in blinding April sunshine, framing her and blocking out her features in a halo of whiteness. She looked like an angel, floating up the aisle to meet him, and as she drew closer, and his heart beat wildly, he could see her blond hair escaping in soft curls from her tiara and flowing in a cape around her perfect face.
There has never been anything as wonderful as this moment, he thought steadily, and the rushing in his ears drowned out the softly piping music of the organ.
But there was a sudden, violent crack and a black shadow appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light around Freya, and she looked around in time to see the church fill with green light and a jet of something ethereal hit her in the chest. The crack sounded again, and the light flooded back on the small, crumpled figure, her bouquet ruined, strewn flowers and hair spreading across the aisle.
Remus remembered little, afterwards. He knew that Dumbledore had somehow gone, vanished to pursue the shadow, and bring him to justice. And he did, of course, because it seemed to be his forte, rescuing Lupin, taking on the tasks that he himself was too weak to do.
He could not remember running to her side and feeling her flop glassy-eyed across his arm, or riding in the ambulance on a pointless journey, with his jacket lost somewhere and his stupid cravat undone, and Al sitting white and shaking beside him. He managed to forget the countless times that night, instead of eating decadent chocolate cakes and strawberries with his wife, that he read her note and twisted it in his hands.
- - - - - - -
All this and more he forget, he condemned to the very furthest recesses of his memory, for years, until a spiky haired girl with her head in a trunk and her little voice singing Jeff Buckley pulled out a shoebox full of cursed remembrances.
One by one he held up long-buried items to the dusty light in the attic – a small velvet box holding a solitaire diamond ring, a single dried and brittle rose, a cassette, a scrunched and stained cravat, a piece of paper, yellowing with antiquity, the ink faded to grey. And a photograph, of a young man, laughing and carefree, on a pier somewhere unknown, swinging his legs while a girl rested her white-blond head in his lap, looking up at him, smiling contentedly too.
The girl sitting back on her haunches next to him studied the picture in silence over his shoulder, taking in the strangely static Muggle photography. It seemed something alien to them both, to see him so caught up in positive emotion.
Finally, after the dust had swirled around them long enough to mist their sight, he spoke.
'Ah yes,' he whispered, fingering the little box with its gleaming contents. 'This is what I was looking for. It belonged to a dead girl…but that doesn't mean I don't love you any less.'
As he felt his hand guide the cool ring onto her finger, it struck him that there was some sort of hideous injustice that left over a decade between one moment of great happiness and the next.
But it was only a distant thought, and easily overcome.
Just
hear this and then I'll go This is our last embrace
You gave me more to live for
More
than you'll ever know
Must I
dream and always see your face
AN: so I lied, I don't own the lyrics to 'Last Goodbye' by Jeff Buckley either. Hmph. Man, it's so relaxing to write about poor ole Remus. His life really does suck, doesn't it? now, see that purple lil' button just on the left there…