Storm Child

AUTHOR: Hex

RATING: PG-13

WARNINGS: SLASH! RL/SB. Angst. Resurrection. Alcoholism.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, it is owned by the fabulous JKR and the not-as fabulous Bloomsbury and Scholastic.

NOTE: Yes we all know James and Lilly Potter are dead and we will never see them alive in the books but that is what fan fic is for, ne? Happy happy joy joy!

Thanks: None just yet but I like reviewers n.n

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There was an explosion of lighting, setting fire to the sky all around and giving a brief artificial day to the dark shadows of the landscape. Wind whipped the rain up in torrents, throwing it in fist fulls against windowpanes and roofs, drumming an incessant downbeat. Fat drops of water fell to the earth with the force of tiny meteors, leaving fleeting craters in the earth until another bead washed it away. Shadows scratched at bedroom walls, clamouring for shelter from the storm beating just outside the curtains.

Against this backdrop of natural chaos another storm was raging. In front of a roaring fire a man sat, staring into the jumping flames as his mind wandered like a lost traveller across the plains of his memory. One tired hand held a glass of red wine, the final dregs from the empty bottle, dropped to the floor beside his chair. The other hand gripped the arm rest in a white knuckle hold, threatening to tear the fabric to shreds given half a chance.

He raised the glass to his pale thin lips with trembling fingers and supped for a moment, translucent blue eyes reflecting the dancing flames as he continued to stare, unseeing. An alcohol induced glassiness glimmered in his eyes as his mind slurred it's way through the past to the present, recounting everything the man had gained and lost and regained again. Faces and events swam past his eyes like a home movie filmed out of focus, washing over his dulled senses. Long dead voices crashed like waves against his ears, roaring then quieting before exploding again.

His skin, pale and thin, was lent an unnatural glow by the fierce flames burning in the fireplace before him. His clothes hung to loose against his to slight frame, a sign of neglect and malnutrition. Too many nights sat in front of this fire, dead in memories and dumb in wine. Too many days left alone with the darkness of his mind and the beating of his anguished heart. To many memories of laugher and happiness in a time of pain, regret and sorrow. He was dead to this world, gone and forgotten by all he thought had cared.

He raised the glass again and drained it of it's crimson liquid, feeling it burn as it slid down his tear dried throat. The stinging pain reminded him he was alive. The stinging pain reminded him others were not.

He reached for the bottle again, only to find the table devoid of wine. He sighed and let his head drop against the back of the chair, staring for a long moment at the ceiling as he tried to remember how to walk. With shaking, awkward movements he stood and stumbled from his chair towards the kitchen door. He needed more wine. He needed help to forget what he could not ignore.

Outside, the storm continued its bellowing play, the crashing symphony of nature in pain.

*****

There was a shape here, a shadow moving with purpose across the night black scene towards the only glimmer of light. A house.

This shape was not human. It's movements were too elegant, too smooth and too powerful to belong to a man. It's feet pounded the rain slicked mud, unheeding of the water soaking it's sleek black fur, ignoring the wind that chilled its bones.

In the flare of a lightening flash the shape was illuminated. It was a dog, massive and strong, covering the ground faster than was naturally possible for a beast of such mass. It's muzzle was soaked in rain and ooze and it's ferocious teeth were bared as a rumbling growl bubbled in it's throat. It's eyes were wide and savage, glaring despite the rain attacking them. An unnaturalness dwelt within them. An unnatural humanity.

Nothing about this dog suggested it was a child of nature. It seemed more like a demon, a spawn of this hellish storm sent to ravage all those who did not cower before it.

The house came into view now, standing alone on this isolated moor, a spot of civilisation marring natures otherwise unblemished glory.

The dog put on a final burst of speed, tearing across the open land towards the prospect of warm shelter.

*****

The man stood in his kitchen, hands fumbling clumsily with the bottle opener as he tried to pry the cork from it's snug position in the neck of the wine bottle. The green vessel shifted in and out of focus as the man finally gave up and threw the opener against the far wall in frustration. It clattered into the sink, full of unwashed plates and scraps of moulded half eaten food.

Taking hold of the bottle, he picked up a large ceramic book end and brought it down hard on its neck, smashing it. Satisfied, he retrieved his glass and made to pour himself another shot of mind numbing wine.

A banging on the front door startled him and the bottle slipped from his fingers, shattering on the kitchen floor and sending wine everywhere but into the glass. The man cursed, dropping to his knee's and trying in vain to rescue his precious liquor.

When the banging did not stop, he lurched to his feet and staggered out into the hallway. Leaning heavily against the wall, he made his way down towards the door. He made a bumbling grope for the doorknob and got it on his third attempt. Wrenching the door open he glared at the cascade of rain outside. A slow frown creased his brow when he realised no one was there.

Something brushed past his legs and he looks down. It was a dog.

It made it's way into the living room and the man, drunkenly intrigued, closed the door and followed. The dog moved to stand by the fire, basking in the heat for a moment before turning it's lamp-like eyes on the mortal. In an instant the dog was replaced by a man, bearded and thin with a certain shaggy familiarity about him. The drunkard blinked stupidly and stumbled forward, seizing the back of his chair and screwing up his eyes, trying to counter the fuzziness of his vision.

The man-dog was speaking but the drunk could not make the words out. He just wanted more wine. Then he could sleep...

Sleep came too soon as his grip on the chair loosened and his legs went numb. Welcomed darkness rushed at his mind and he succumbed to it. In unconsciousness came the dreams of happier times. In sleep came release.

*****

R&R much appreciated!

I decided to have Remus (my drunk) drinking wine rather than whiskey or beer because I always envisioned him as a cultured and refined man, more likely to stock Burgundy than Guiness.

Ok I promise this *is* a resurrection fic but I wanted to build up another aspect of the plot. Remus! Did you all like it? I really hope so!

More soon!

Laters

Hex.