Too Many Funerals
Litt
Aug 22, 05
E Pluribus Unum
#97 Reality (step)
Disclaimer: Property of Rowling.
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The fact that he, Remus, was alone (and would stay that way) occurred to him fashionably late—fifteen years too late. Granted, the thought of never seeing his friends had haunted him before, but never had he felt so struck as he was at that moment.
When Peter died the first time, Remus could not muster up the grief, or enough of it, to seem properly mournful at his funeral. He could not even feel guilty about that. Trying to conjure up memories, none of them glorifying, did nothing but irritate him and, during the wake, all he could think of was dull blond hair. Not a friendly thing to think of an acquaintance when said acquaintance was murdered, but it had to do.
He knew that all that lay in the coffin was Peter's severed finger and some pictures donated from the Pettigrew house. Again, another pitiful thought: all they could find was his finger. How fitting.
No matter how numb he was that last week of October, he won't forget the burn he'd felt at Godric's Hollow, the chosen burial place of the Potters. He felt for them and then realized he never would again; he would never touch them again. Their eyes, their hair, their bickering—it had all gone away in a burst of green and flame. He had walked away from their alters realizing he was alone, the last, and had no right to feel angry about it.
He nearly choked. Someone patted him on the back, mistaking it for a sob when, really, it was a chuckle. Furious, he had got enough of a hold of himself to think: nothing is funny about this.
Later, he would realize he had left looking for Sirius, an ingrained and unconscious want. But, of course, Sirius was not anywhere Remus could find him.
A part of Remus had balked at the confessions and laughter supposedly pouring from his friend, and this part never believed it when Sirius was found guilty for murder on the third degree. This part remembered a proud, smiling boy, a Sirius with a fluffy tail and sharp teeth; a loyal, arrogant boy who ran away—but it had not mattered.
Nothing mattered.
Like the others, he was gone.
And, after the phantoms left—and even while they were there—he learned to accept this.
Three dead, one condemned to a fortress, and he alone. Somehow, he could not join them on their most famous adventure. Somehow, he, and he alone, had survived.
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AN: Originally written for Latin class, as a journal. Turned into my entry for my own challenge.