Part II: EXCLAMATORY

Almost twelve hours later, Remus found himself awakening blearily to the protests of his vocal door closing, and the sun sitting low through his window. Blinking around the room, he spied the breakfast tray still glowing from the warming charm. Wafting scents of bacon and eggs made coming to that much faster, and the next minute saw him ignoring the rumpled state of his robes-turned-sleepwear in favor of tucking into the aroma-worthy meal. The wolfsbane potion accompanying the meal was much less enticing, yet he downed it in one well-practiced gulp, keeping his face deadpan.

Sitting back, his stomach full of Molly's good cooking, Remus allowed himself to recall why he'd taken a sleeping potion. With a groan, he rested his elbows on his knees, hands supporting his head. What to do? Running away seemed by far the most attractive option, though he couldn't do that to everyone. Besides, Hermione didn't scare him. She, Ron, and Harry were a constant reminder to everyone else in the Order with them why they were fighting. His mind couldn't seem to get past the idea that she had been his student. She was too young, too immature, she didn't know what she was saying, she just pitied him, she couldn't know the effect of her words, he thought.

Turning his analytical mind to the task, he tried to consider what effect her statement had upon him, backpedaling as he recalled that he had hoped to be killed the previous day. Clearly he had other issues he should be addressing first.

The day after a full moon was never easy, even with the Wolfsbane potion to keep him from mutilating himself. There was always a sense of loss that came with reverting to his less powerful form, along with his normal agonizing transformation. Sometimes he wished, foolishly, that he didn't have the potion, giving him an excuse to feel the pain he was sure he deserved for being the one to survive. Body aching in pain, mind reeling from the loss of his former companions, he had bided his time until the household was out. Then he stealthily left his room, ears pricked for any possible sounds. He then palmed the fog bomb from the stockpile Fred Weasley had donated to Headquarters. Then he'd apparated.

With reflection, he knew he had been beyond himself. He had not thought the matter through, and he was lucky to be alive today. He was fortunate that he had the opportunity to repay those still with him with faithful service, instead of taking the easy, ungrateful way out. His life had never seemed like a bowl of cherries, and he'd always known suffering. Though he did not wish to admit it, his carefree days with James, Sirius, and Peter were gone. The latter, a traitor, was the only one remaining. Remus might have lost his childhood with the acquisition of the wolf, but he'd never given up his thoughts on entitlement. Everyone was entitled to a good life, provided they never abused it by taking another's.

But why James and Sirius? Why Lily? Why his mentor? Why must all of this happen to people he loved! But it didn't, his mind told him. Cedric Diggory was nothing more than a memory of a bright boy in his class. The Boneses he knew only vaguely. He felt terribly attacked, as if nobody could understand his grief, but his common sense told him that everybody in the wizarding world, probably in the world, was experiencing this pain.

He wasn't alone in his losses. Obviously he was still grieving, despite the long period of time between the deaths of his friends and his crazed action the day before. That was what his mind told him. His heart echoed each conclusion with ringing despair. He was surprised to hear the sound of glass breaking. Looking down, he felt hot blood trickling down his hand, as he clenched his hand on the neck of the empty beaker. Maybe he shouldn't even take the damn potion! Then they'd see what he really was. Hermione, silly child, would give up her delusions of his goodness. His friends would turn away from him, and he'd have nothing to keep him from leaving a world that only seemed to exist to cause pain.

Growling slightly, he threw the remaining bulb of the bottle at the wall. It shattered with a satisfying explosive impact. Hearing voices downstairs, he quickly muttered a ward on the door, making it silenced, unplottable and impermeable. Staring around his completely isolated room, he felt the agonizing crush of grief. Strange. It overtook him with a hitherto unseen force, filling his body with energy and tension. Hands shaking, he pulled on his messy hair, looking around the room as if for an escape, breathing shakily. Tears leaked out of his sore eyes, surprising him. He wiped them off, only succeeding in bloodying his face with his sliced hand. He examined his hand up close, observing the lines of his palm snaking over the calluses, even as his fingers tightened into a claw. Trying to straighten it, he placed both hands on his temples, palms on his cheeks, attempting to breathe evenly. He failed.

He sank onto the floor, the breathing giving way to hiccups then body-wracking sobs, while grinding his hands to his head, as if to stop the thoughts from occurring, even though this emotional abuse was somewhat of a relief. Never since before the night of Voldemort's first defeat had he allowed himself to lose his iron grip on himself. They were gone! He had no home, no loved ones, only people to protect. His entire life he'd spent protecting others from himself. He'd been tolerant of the slights, the insults, the discrimination. He hadn't had a decent childhood.

Poor bastard, he'd never been a child! His mum didn't know how to protect herself from him, so he had to take the precautions before and during Hogwarts, in addition to taking care of the house and board. He was always alone. He was doomed to lose all those he cared about. It wasn't FAIR! He was just as good as others, better, even than those Death Eaters who got so much pleasure out of the suffering of others. "Life isn't fair," his sensible side chided him before being slain by his abrupt inflamed fury.

Yelling something incoherent, he flung himself out of his self-pitying crouch and into the wall in front of him, pummeling the tapestry decorating it. Finding the tapestry representative of all the structures and restrictions the world placed upon his life, he ripped it down with super-human strength, tearing into pieces before throwing them aside. Panting for a moment, he discovered his other dishes by the door, patiently awaiting a concerned caretaker's removal. Instead, he yelled, "IT'S NOT FAIR! They were MINE! I'VE NEVER HAD ANYONE THAT WAS MINE!" as he overturned the tarnished silver tray with a Black coat of arms upon it. He alternated throwing a dish or utensil at the wall with every word. "I- never- chose- this- I've- never- done- anything- to- deserve- this! I didn't ask for much! I JUST WANTED TO BE BLOODY HAPPY!"

Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and he scrubbed them away with a sheet from his bed, smearing it with blood and saltwater. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHH! Nobody can possibly understand how hard it is to get up every bloody morning, knowing somebody else I LOVE will DIE! Because, really, nobody I love survives long. DAMN YOU, PETER PETTIGREW! YOU DIMWITTED UNSCRUPULOUS MURDERER EXCUSE FOR A MARAUDER! THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO MADE ME TRULY HAPPY, CONTENT, JOYFUL, WORTHY OF LIFE ARE DEAD! THEY DIED, DAMMIT! First James and Lily. JAMES, you deserter, you left me! You said we'd always be friends, and you'd keep me from being penniless! You LIED! You LEFT. LILY, if you hadn't taken him away, he might still be alive today." In a softer tone, "damn you, Harry, for being so wonderful. And then you needed Sirius. He was my best friend FIRST! You never had to lose them, because they were ALREADY GONE! I had them. I loved and lost, and bloody hell be my witness, it's not jolly damn well any better!

DUMBLEDORE! You damn imbecilic, obtuse, slowwitted, barmy, foolish, decrepit, senile old man! You were not allowed to leave us! I STILL NEEDED YOU! How we won this bloody mess, if victory it can be called, I'll never bloody know." Remus' bed was now utterly demolished, his sheets torn and smeared with the coppery blood streaming unstaunched from his wound, scattered all over the room. His feather pillows had long ago been momentarily satisfyingly destroyed, causing the white feathers to be still fluttering carefree about the room. It was at this moment when he noticed the sun's final wave as it wrapped itself in the darkness of the city. A shudder ran through his still taut form. Knowing his pain would be passing his high threshold soon, he was reminded of the impetus for this paroxysm: little Hermione Granger.

"Little girl, GET OUT OF MY LIFE! You'll just up and DIE on me too, I know it! You're just something else sent from the cruel gods to give me another reason to hope, until I, too, expire from the anguish. One can only take so much provocation! I wanted so much more than this!" As rigidity seized his form, indicating the few seconds he had before becoming truly lupine. He ran to his window, despite the aggravator waiting for him on the other side other glass, shining benignly behind a cloud. "VOLDEMORT! Come and get me! You didn't die before, you bloodsucking freak! Surely you could come back just long enough to kill me! TAKE ME! Bring them all back, but PLEASE! Please take me!" His voice broke as his body was seized by shakes as the cloud dissipated. He whimpered, "I don't want to be here anymore..."