Follow You Down
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I make no money from this fanfiction.
Warning for: some suicidal ideation (I guess?).
He turns vegan in the days after the war ended. It's not a choice he would have anticipated making; he wouldn't have dared back during his school days – James and Sirius would never have let him hear the end of it - but it's not as if he would have wanted to anyway. The wolf inside him has always craved, howled out for, animal flesh; the human boy had always loved to indulge in endless bars of chocolate.
Now he doesn't want to want either.
His body sings out in the strange pain of restraint every time he catches the scent of bacon or roast chicken or steak with the blood still glistening on the surface. He tells himself he couldn't afford it anyway and it's true (regular 'unexplained sick-days' never seem to go down well with employers). It's all perfectly reasonable. He's working at a pub at the moment but who knows how long that will last?
The only pleasure he gets from constantly snacking on celery is the knowledge that he hates its bitter tang and stringy texture. He always has.
He can feel his wretched body fade, get weaker, after every cursed moon. The transformations are worse now he has to do it alone; he had forgotten just how bad they could be.
He starts to go through his possessions to work out what he can give away. Sirius' stuff was already gone. Everything had just been left there, Sirius had shed them along with his former life; his Gryffindor scarf had still been slung over a chair in their kitchen, various muggle records had been strewn about the living room in no particular order, there were several of his shirts still thrown carelessly on the bed that they had shared.
Some of it had been taken to be tested for evidence of dark magic. Remus had forced himself to get rid of the rest, leaving just the things that he owned himself.
He had always been under the impression that he owned very little but the process had disabused him of that notion.
No, he had plenty of things – just nothing that held value to anyone else in the world.
He has to sort through his stuff anyways, he can't afford to continue living there – the flat that he and Sirius had shared – much longer. He tells himself that it's better that he leaves, clichés about making a fresh start rattle around in his head like loose change: promising at first but amounting to very little once you actually stopped to count it. It is true that every corner of this house was soaked in innumerable memories. He'd collapse onto the sofa after work, wanting nothing more that somewhere to rest his weary body and find himself transported by the familiar smell, musty with just a hint of wet dog.
He'd be cooking eggs and he'll feel the ghost of a touch at his waist. He'd shudder and the eggs would get burnt and had to be thrown away. That had been another reason for the veganism; the smell of eggs is just sickening to him now.
He happens upon a stack of unsorted photographs and other assorted odds and ends that he'd forgotten about; the photo albums had been deliberately left gathering dust on the shelves. It just makes his heart twinge and his stomach sink to look at the pictures of James and Lily, their faces always so bright with the joy of first love. But he knows he has to keep them; their son, Harry might want them someday (the boy should at least know that they were happy once).
The first picture in the stack is of Peter; he looks like a drowned rat, his hair darkened several shades by the rain water, but he's smiling. If Remus recalls correctly, he had just gotten back from playing a particularly sneaky prank of some unsuspecting Slytherin when that was taken and he'd had to sprint across the school in the rain to avoid being caught.
Even now Remus can't see the hero that Peter apparently turned out be and he feels the habitual guilt for not appreciating his friend more when he had been alive, for underestimating him just like all the rest.
He also finds an old detention slip; he smiles, almost instinctually at the memory of it, and then wishes he hadn't.
"You know, I'm managing to get some actual studying done now that you two ne'er do wells are out of my way," Remus says, tapping his stack of books with an exaggerated air of pompous superiority.
Sirius rolls his eyes. "Exactly! You're in danger of becoming a professor at this rate!"
Remus opens his mouth to say that he wouldn't have exactly minded becoming a professor some day but Sirius seems to anticipate this and cuts him off before he has the chance to say a word.
"Come on! Your perfect detention-free record was already spoiled after that incident with the toast three months ago – you might as well just embrace the rebel life!"
"You won't regret it!"
"I already do!"
Sirius and James had gotten a month's worth of detention and Sirius had persuaded him it'd be a great idea if he got detention too so they could still spend their evenings together – and besides, they couldn't play the prank they had already planned whilst they were in detention could they?
He capitulated, of course, and ended up with an admittedly shorter sentence with James and Sirius. Their smiles and cheers made it seem worth it somehow. Peter had managed to get himself into trouble all on his own and he joined them a couple of days later. Four Marauders in one detention…Remus had thought that poor Filch was going to explode if the situation carried on for too much longer. But it had ended with them all getting out relatively unscathed, despite it feeling like they would all be cleaning the dungeons forever, the detention burdened weeks were shrugged off – James and Sirius planning new pranks that would land them right back in the same situation.
He puts the photo of Peter safely into an album; the detention slip is consigned to Remus' fire. He decides to leave further sorting to another time.
Predictably, he ends up getting fired from the pub.
"Look, Lupin, it's just not working out," the pub's manager says, sounding irritated as if he was the one being fired not Remus. "You turn up looking like a shambles – that is when you turn up at all, you can't just call in sick every time you feel like it. You barely even talk to the customers…I think I've given you enough chances to get your act together. I just can't have you working here any more."
Remus has to admit that nothing that his now ex-boss has said is factually incorrect but he'll miss the income, if not the raucous patrons that frequented the place.
He collects his things and heads out without protest. On his way out of the pub, he spots Kingsley Shacklebolt walking in his direction and wonders whether it might not be too late to duck into an alleyway and hide – but no, Kingsley is waving and Remus supposes it would be awfully rude to ignore him.
"Morning," Remus says.
"Good morning, Remus, fancy seeing you here." Kingsley greets him with a smile. "How have you been?"
This was why Remus hates seeing people from school – he always felt like he needed to impress them or at least manage to hide the fact that his life after Hogwarts is quite as pathetic as it is.
Unfortunately, the wizarding world being as small as it is makes it hard to avoid former classmates – or even worse former teachers.
"Not bad," Remus says, subtly trying to smooth down his unkempt hair. "How are you?"
"Pretty good." Remus believes him – Kingsley's robes look new and the other man certainly has the general aura of health. "I've got a job at the Ministry. There's a lot of rebuilding to do, the place is a bit of a shambles after…"
"Yes, I can imagine," Remus says, not knowing what else to add.
"So, what do you do with yourself these days?" Kingsley asks, abruptly shifting the topic of conversation.
Remus feels distinctly shabby with Kingsley's eyes on him. "Oh, you know. This and that." He hopes, desperately, that Kingsley won't pursue the matter any further.
"Anyway, I'm just meeting some mates for lunch," Kingsley says, gesturing at Remus' former place of employment. "It'd be great if you'd join us."
"I have be off I'm afraid," Remus half-lies – he's got no-where to be but the manager had told him to clear off so he imagines that going back in as a customer wouldn't go down particularly well.
Thankfully Kingsley doesn't seem too put out. "Alright then. Owl me if you want to catch up properly some time."
"Yes, I will do," Remus says, though he has no intention of ever doing so.
They say their goodbyes and Remus slopes off home, hoping he won't bump into anyone else he knows along the way.
He had procured a bottle of firewhiskey from work (or ex-work now he supposes) before he went…and by procured of course he meant that he had stolen it from the store-room in the back (he can hear their voices in his head, tell him good on you, now you're acting like a true Marauder). He tells the voices that the pub had refused to pay him part of his wage and that this was just due payment.
He drinks the entire thing in half an hour.
Alcohol has never much affected him and in full honesty, he's mostly always liked it that way, glad for control over his baser nature. But now he wants to see how far he can go.
He stays sober and awake – firewhiskey always seemed to make his comrades sleepy but his body just seems to object to sleeping with a stomach full of liquid. To stave off the boredom, he returns to his task of sorting through his things.
He finds an old essay from first year in amongst the things he owns and wonders why he hadn't already thrown it out. The answer, of course, is that he had been a terrible hoarder and can barely stand to throw away even the most unsentimental of items. He's breaking that habit once and for all now.
He reads it over and the memory comes back to him – their muggle studies teacher had told them that this essay question was commonly asked of muggle children too and that it would be fascinating to compare their responses to the question with that of the papers that she had somehow obtained from a muggle school.
'Where I see myself in ten years," – the title read. If he had been 11 when he wrote this then that made this his envisioning of his future as it stood now (21 years of age, Merlin, he was old). Or not quite – reading it he remembers, he'd wracked his brain for far longer than usual to try to decide what to write. He'd known, even at that young age, that writing 'I expect to be unemployed and probably homeless because the employment prospects for werewolves are historically very poor' wouldn't have gone down well, even if he had missed out the part about his unfortunate condition. His parents had tried to shield him from this reality but it was difficult to keep ignorant a child who liked to read so much. He'd always been resigned to it anyway; it seemed too cruel to let himself dream.
In the end, he'd just copied what James had written (the first and last time he had ever copied – though it seemed almost like a bonding experience that he had done so, Sirius had also made it a point to copy James) minus the part about marrying Lily Evans and having three children.
Remus laughs, out loud, and raises his glass (empty now) in a mock toast – well done, eleven year old self – you had it right all along.
In the morning, after endless hours of sorting, he finally throws up and is tired enough that he gets into bed, finally managing to drift off into sleep. His sleep is fitful but he's headache free and fine when he wakes up a few hours later. It's just another day. He goes out to get the paper, scouring the job section for something he might be able to do.
He gets a job at a second-hand bookshop, a job he is (according to the manager) probably over-qualified for but that he is excited about regardless. At least he won't be dealing with drunken customers shouting barely coherent orders at him this time – at least he hopes not.
He's put in the back to catalogue the new selections, sorting them into genres and cleaning off any accumulated dust. He's left alone to do this for most of the day and he finds the situation sufficiently satisfactory.
He only works there for a week and a half before the full moon. He tries to explain his absence but it's no good, apparently the manager takes a special interest in the categorisation of dark creatures and could spot the symptoms a mile a way.
"Remus Lupin," he hears the manager say to another employee, the voice dripping with disgust. "He's just flaunting it with a name like that."
Remus wants to turn around and shout that it's not fault that his entire life seems to be governed by a strange cosmic sense of irony and that in fact, it just so happens that his birth name is like an illuminated sign blaring out 'werewolf'. But he doesn't; he just walks out, his head hung.
He finds a grey hair in the mirror that evening. Then another. Then another. Werewolves have short lives, he reminds himself. The transformations take their toll after all – he must be at least middle aged by now. His friends had always called him old before his time.
He finishes packing up his stuff, finally. He picks up a picture, the last one to go unsorted and a laugh escapes his lips despite himself. It's Sirius, decked out in pink and bright orange tie-dyed robes; he's clutching his head and trying but failing to duck out of the frame.
Remus awakes to a loud groaning noise.
"Hungover?" he asks, knowing full well that Sirius was.
Sirius makes a sound that goes along the lines of: 'mgumphhh.' A few minutes later (Sirius is delicate this morning, moving slower than usual) the curtains open and Sirius drags himself out dressed in the robes he had slept in.
"Remus," Sirius says, rubbing his eyes like it would make a difference. "What the hell happened to my robes? Did Snivellus…?"
"Snape did nothing of the sort, you have brought this entirely upon yourself." And here, Remus thinks, are the benefits of sobriety.
Sirius doesn't respond for a few seconds. "Huh?"
"You said, that you 'curse your family, the most ancient and noble house of Black, and for that reason you would no longer don the colour black for as long as you lived. Furthermore, we are to no longer address you as Sirius Black but instead call you Sirius Orion Padfoot Red – red for Gryffindor of course.'
Sirius clutches his head. "Merlin, how drunk was I?"
"That's not all though – you got your hands on your charms book and decided that you would change all of your garments that were in the colour black to other - may I say somewhat garish - colours for all of eternity, in perpetuity, forever etc. etc."
"Forever," Sirius stops dead and a comical look of terror crosses his face. "But Moony, my leather jacket is black!"
"Not any more it isn't." Remus said, stifling a laugh as Sirius dug through his trunk to find his leather jacket – now lime green with a ghastly yellow collar. "Very groovy."
Sirius looks up him with the saddest, puppy-dog eyes. "Is it really permanent?"
He looks so forlorn that Remus knows that he has to put him out of his misery.
"Alright, I think you've suffered enough," he says, magnanimously, taking out his books to find the counter to the spell. "It's not really forever."
"Moony, you are a god among men."
"Yes, well, you might remember this next time you feel like drinking yourself into oblivion." He can't help lording his piousness over him a little more – after all, being the designated sober Marauder (by fact of constitution) means that he has to clean up after their messes when they get stupid off their faces (sober Marauders are bad enough to begin with) and somehow it's always his fault if they find things aren't quite right in the morning. So, he thinks he's entitled to a little self-righteousness.
"I'll never drink again," says Sirius and they both know it's a lie.
"Yeah, yeah," Remus says, moving on to cast the spell (it's quite simple really) but stopping to take a snap first – to preserve the moment for posterity and, more importantly, blackmail purposes.
"Oi, just hurry up will you," Sirius whinges.
Remus casts the counter curse and the robes (and everything else) go back to black.
He's thrown all the other pictures of Sirius out but he decides that this one, this last one, he'll keep. He slips it inside the newspaper – the one with Sirius' picture on the cover, the Azkaban mug-shot with Sirius howling like just another pureblood fanatic. The shot was everywhere for the first few weeks after the war ended and then it disappeared just as quickly as it arrived (it's just old news now).
He tells himself it'll serve as a reminder though he's not sure what it is exactly he's trying to remind himself of.
He moves out of the flat and into a single room in a rickety house owned by an aristocratic witch who had fallen upon hard times during the war. She doesn't bother him and he doesn't bother her. It's smaller than his old place, of course, but it has the added benefit of being far cheaper – his new job, working as a cleaner in a café, only has him in three times a week.
It catches him by surprise when, on his way to work, he sees the papers proclaiming one year anniversary of the war ending. Already it feels like another life time ago.
It had all ended so suddenly, a sharp line dividing his previous life and this unstructured existence. The order was gone, Dumbledore was finished with him, there was nothing left for him to do. Crisis averted. Harry was far away and not to have contact with anyone from the wizarding world.
He's twenty-one and already all his friends are dead.
There are still the trials of course, they are the fallout from the conflict; some witches and wizards follow them with ghoulish delight and who could blame them? Who wouldn't want payback for all the death and destruction they had rained out in the name of pureblood supremacy?
But Remus can't stomach it, can't stand to hear the dark wizards scrambling for their lives on the stands, rolling out excuses like they'd just been caught cheating at Quidditch. He notes, with a strange lack of anger, that some of those same dark wizards were actually doing a damn lot better than Remus these days – the Malfoys, for example, seem to have made it through relatively unscathed, fortune intact and reputation only marginally damaged.
He's not surprised; he's almost more surprised that Sirius hadn't managed to escape his prison sentence. All he can think is what a good actor Sirius always was. Within months of arriving at Hogwarts he'd learned Prongs' accent, all the 'common' pronunciations and rough edges, and spoke with it so well that everyone forgot that it hadn't always been that way.
Said he'd done it to piss of his folks because wasn't that always the reason with Pads (perhaps they'd be proud of him now, perhaps he had only been acting the rebel the entire time).
You can't pick your family but you can pick your friends the old saying goes but Sirius had always played that in reverse. The Marauders were forever, stuck in their roles – like Hogwarts would never end. It didn't matter how many times James and Sirius beat the tar out of each other, didn't matter how many times someone accidentally implied that Wormtail was the most useless member of the group and he stormed off to hide his tears, nothing mattered as much as staying together. And Remus is still searching for clues because how did it go so wrong – does it have anything to do with poor, missing (dead), Regulus? Was the position of heir to the House of Black really that tempting?
It had been Remus who had come the closest to breaking formation, after 'the incident with the Whomping Willow' as the others so diplomatically referred to it. But his forgiveness had been expected (indeed it seemed inevitable) so he had given it and things had settled back to normal. But the question had echoed in his mind (as it echoes still now, it's just a different 'incident' he has in mind) – why had he done it?
It had seemed to him in that moment that Sirius was brilliant in the exact way that was only boosted by his lack of certain moral qualities – he was free, free from the constraints and the worries that lay so heavily on Remus' own shoulders, Sirius had been breathtakingly beautiful in his reckless self-assurance.
Perhaps it was just that his hatred outweighed his affection, at least where Remus was concerned – he'd always believed that Sirius never would have done it if James had been in Remus' position. He had been wrong again; he had always been painfully ignorant when it came to Sirius.
Dogs are good at begging and Sirius was no exception, his apology had sounded so genuine that Remus had almost felt guilty for even thinking of cutting him off – the incident was erased from all of their minds, all forgotten!
But he can't forget this. Even after the move, the memories follow him; they catch up with him during sleep or in the quiet moments of restless emptiness when he wasn't working.
The veganism lasts a year and a half. It's the night before the full moon and he finds himself drawn into a café by the aroma of bacon. Defeated, he goes in and orders up, forcing himself to at least eat slowly – even giving in like this, he has to retain some semblance of civilisation.
There is no moment of revelation, no moment of inspiration that tells him to hang on to this life – empty as it is. All he knows is that his (its) survival instinct is just too strong to let it go and he slides back into damned moderation.
That's it for this fic; I hope that you enjoyed it! I've never written anything longer than a drabble in the HP universe, so I hope that I didn't mess up in terms of canon or anything like that. I should note that I am aware that a vegan diet can be perfectly balanced and healthy, in this fic I'm just operating on the assumption that it wouldn't be good match for werewolf physiology, if that makes sense. Please review; I really do appreciate any feedback that you might have for me!