Disclaimer: I do not own ANY of the characters in the following fanfic (unfortunately…*imagines her own Lupin in a pretty cage in her room*), they all belong to the lurvly J.K. Rowling.
Nyao, hi there! =n.n= I hope you enjoy this fun lil thing…"fun" meaning "weird, and perhaps a little depressing", but of course it's a matter of interpretation. ;) It's based loosely around the timeline before PoA, so any inconsistences can be chalked up to creative license. Oh yes, and when you're through, would you please let me know what you think? Taynks. ^-^
Enjoy!
*lights dim and curtains part...*
Dreamscape (In Two Movements)
By Cat Lady Murmur
Movement One: "Sacrifice"
I have always admired the silvery winters. To me, nothing can compare to the frigid beauty of fresh snow glimmering in the moonlight, like crushed diamonds that have been shed from their velvet bedding above. The silence of a white carpet so thick that even the slightest footstep can be heard half a mile away. On those nights, it was as if time held still, just for us, as if it enjoyed accommodating us and allowing us to continue with our games until our paws were numb and our fur was damp from the tumbles taken in the drifts. Those nights became the epitome of my life before long: just four close friends playing and brawling good-naturedly together in an ageless silent sphere where the world was ours for the night. James, Sirius, Peter, and myself. The Marauders.
It's nights like these however when, left to my own devices, I can do nothing but remember, and the pain envelopes me. Repetition has done little to give me strength; rather, it has begun to chip away at whatever resistance I have been successful in building, and despair sets in. I have lost everything of value and my world has been shattered, the ruins of which I have refused to acknowledge until recently.
It's peculiar really the way we assume that by simply pretending our problems are of no importance, it will become a reality sooner or later, that by stuffing them into that proverbial closet, our troubles will accept it and disappear. What we don't consider is the logical fact that the more we push aside, the more accumulates. But we hide it, with stoic facades and vain attempts at strength, and meanwhile our underlying strife sabotages it all.
The fall of Voldemort (at the cost of James and Lily's lives, of course) failed to spark within me a sense of rejoicing as it did throughout the wizarding world. In the face of freedom I couldn't look past the smiling eyes of my dear friends, the likes of which would never smile again. It was a tremendous and devastating shock, but whispering in the back of my mind was that voice of reason I was known for, and it told me time would pass, washing away the worst of my grief with it, and I would be able to laugh and smile again, and life would be reasonably normal again. After all, I still had two people who were grieving as well.
The last time I had been so miserably wrong had been in my 6th year at Hogwarts; I had miscalculated the amount of a certain ingredient to put in a somewhat potent itching powder that Sirius had had his heart set on emptying within the Slytherins' wardrobe. Unfortunately, the excess ingredient caused a harsh reaction and the jar exploded in Sirius's book bag. Needless to say, Padfoot was quite unhappy (as well as uncomfortable) for a good while.
Which is now the way he'll remain for the rest of his life, locked away in Azkaban for the murder of James and Lily, and for the public massacre of 10 muggles and one wizard: Peter. In 2 days I lost everything that ever gave my life meaning and the emotional trauma was too much to bear. In fact, I'm sure it killed my voice of reason, because there were no comforting words whispering to me anymore. There wasn't anything encouraging my strength. Just silence, and cold, dark despair.
At first I tried to believe Sirius's pleas of innocence, I held onto them as if they were the only pillar left holding up my crumbling existence. But people were talking constantly, convinced of his guilt, throwing outrageous reasonings into every theory, and they were so loud…whatever was left of my logic concerning Sirius was soon drowned out and I began to wonder, "What if he was jealous? He'd always been borderline troublesome, what if his personality was much darker than we ever knew?"
Nobody said anything to correct me, and the pillar collapsed.
It had always seemed impossible to consider that the Marauders would disintegrate the way we have, it was simply something everyone thought would never happen. I believed in this so fervently; you can probably understand then that the denial I became entrenched in was as murky and deep as a river choked with floodwaters. My friends were the flames that kept my miserable life warm, and for a while I simply refused to accept that they had all been snuffed out.
But now the icy loneliness is incredibly tangible, and my world is one perpetual winter night lacking the peaceful beauty attributed to the one currently outside of my window. My winter is bleak and somber, and has been as such for 8 years. And as I sit here in this comfortable room given to me for the night by Professor Dumbledore, with a gentle fire soothing the biting cold that is creeping in through the old walls, I can hardly bear conscious thought any longer.
I don't know why I came back to Hogwarts, especially since the memories here are more harmful to my fragile state of longing than anything else. Perhaps it's my overwhelming need to know that not everything is lost. I have no friends and no family left, only the kind headmaster who was one of the first (and limited few) to accept me early in life. I knew he wouldn't turn me away if I came to him for help, but the shame of asking for more from someone to whom I owe so much already was a horrible burden that still burrows deeply within my chest. It didn't help my internal conflicts even when Dumbledore smiled gently and offered lodging for as long as I needed it. The understanding in those pale blue eyes should not be wasted on me, a weak and pathetic man who's failed to keep a grip on what could have been a promising life. I had once even told myself that afflictions and past events cannot be changed and thus we should not allow them to change us.
Once more, I've failed.
It was surprising to see Severus here as a professor, and I could tell that he was equally as surprised to see me. I have never really harbored any ill feelings for the man, but I know he blames me for his embarrassment at school. As if I had tempted him to follow my friends out into the Shrieking Shack on purpose.
A small, sad smile comes to my lips with the remembrance. Age-old and petty disputes from long ago seem to provide me with a sort of a security blanket, a perverse assurance that things were never completely all right.
I sigh, turning away from the falling snow outside of my window and look now instead to the blade in my hands, a simple knife that had been brought up with dinner, a cold device devoid of meaning and symbolism. The irony is almost too much as I catch my own reflection in the red-stained surface.
"So now what?" I ask myself, my voice returning to me as weak and hopeless.
I wait for the answer that will never come, and turn to the window once more.
Have you ever seen blood upon freshly fallen snow? Sinful crimson upon white flakes, as if to mute the blinding purity, and is yet absorbed. Beautiful. I must see it again…
The warmth of the room has broadened the scarlet ribbons painted across my wrists, the fiery sting that had borne them long-since faded. My tattered robes are soaked with precious life…I wonder if I have enough left to fulfill this sudden desire…
Unsteadily, I pull myself to my feet from the armchair and my head…ugh…it feels as if it's been emptied. For a moment, I simply stand there as I try to balance myself and clear the blinding lights from my eyes. I take a breath and attempt to cross the room to the door…simply one foot in front of the other…or perhaps the other way around?
I stumble suddenly, the lapse in thought disorienting me, and I hit the floor…hard. I lay there for a moment on the cold stones. I can almost feel the gentle snowflakes caressing my broken spirit, and I decide it's not worth the trouble to stand again. It's almost over now…the pain, isolation, fear…it's almost over…
I close my eyes.
As the door opens.
What a marvelous joke I've played!
I think, and though I don't quite understand myself, I want to chuckle. But I can't…I can't move…almost over…I can hear quick footsteps, and my name is shouted. Someone grips my arm.
Leave me alone please, I'm trying to rest.
"You're trying to die," snarls the voice as they remove their hand from my arm.
Did I say that out loud…?
Sounds of cloth ripping…fumbling something around my left wrist with deft fingers, working in silence. This is irritating. Stop it, I'm trying to rest…
More ripping noises and something is tied around the other wrist.
"Can you stand?" says the unbelievably familiar voice with a hint of worry. I decide I don't like it. Worry shouldn't touch this man's voice, it makes him much too…human.
"Mobilicorpus," he says after a moment, and suddenly I'm weightless. Such a freeing feeling. However, my feet touch the ground again and one of my arms is slung around broad shoulders. I can barely lift my head, and so I let it rest against him. Such a familiar scent, and yet the name dances just barely out of reach.
Dances into the darkness, and I follow it.
~*~
A/N: Movement Two will be up shortly. In the meantime, what'd you think of this so far? Comments? Flames? X-mas Presents? ^-^
