Author's Note:
Written for the Summer 2013 Wizarding Modly Forum Wide Competition of Awesomeness
Challenge 4 (Charms)
Option B: You are a very proficient charms-worker, and your favourite charm is Lumos. When you light up the tip of your wand, it seems like hope in a dark time. Your task: Write a war fic. Stipulation: This fic must be over 2k-after all, you're good at this!
Ravenclaw; Wand (unknown); Full score (PM please)
Written for the Opposite Day Challenge
Your challenge, because of your love for Wolfstar, is to write a story that separates them forever (break-up basically).
You place your suitcase down in front of your feet.
You take off your cloak and fold it neatly across your arm because it is too warm; you are, admittedly, nervous. A shaky hand runs down the front of your robes to straighten them. A finger sweeps stray hair out of your eyes, brushing against the new, raised scar on your cheek as it does so. Your right shoulder gives a twinge of annoyance; you have used the wrong arm, the injured one.
You go rigid. You squelch a weary sigh; you wince. You know what is coming next and you are embarrassingly helpless to stop it.
The awful, horrible circumstances of the last month, the happenings that put you where you are now, begin to play over in your head.
Fragments. Images of blood; remembrance of bruises. The full moon; that brilliant orb that is your biggest fear. Howling and scratching and the fights to the death you witnessed and did nothing to stop.
You had no power to interfere in the ways of the rogue werewolves, but guilt is ever present, a constant weight curving your shoulders in and shadowing your eyes.
That, you imagine, is a fact, even if you haven't as yet confirmed it.
You are held in the grips of your memories, and it takes longer than you would ever care to admit to physically shove them back into their figurative little box in the corner of your mind.
By the time you have achieved this, your breath is unsteady and a tension you can't shake has riddled your body.
You have been standing motionless for not-quite four minutes.
It has now been forty five days, nine hours and three minutes since you have seen Sirius, and you are more anxious than you were before. It has, by no means, been the longest time you have been away from him, but it feels likes it.
Isn't it funny how war can change everything? A man, his dreams, his morals? Right or wrong; every decision could mean life or death. What you originally thought you had no stomach for becomes a regularity. The worst parts about yourself are brought to light. Relationships become distant; suddenly you can't remember how your lover likes to spend his free time. You have nothing to talk about, but you have so much to say.
When the world is at war, forty five days can be a lifetime.
You have altered over the time you were away, and not for the better, you don't believe. You wonder with something akin to dread if Sirius will notice, if he will care.
A violent shudder ripples through your body.
How much has Sirius too differed in forty five days?
Is it hypocritical for you to hope not too much?
Enough, you think.
It is okay. It is all going to be absolutely fine when you see Sirius again.
You relax your stance, and somehow dredge up a natural smile to grace your lips. You knock once on the apartment door, just under the silver number 153, a sharp rap-tap-tap.
The closest thing you have felt to excitement in a long time bubbles up, and you actually feel impatient.
A minute (you are, unabashedly, counting the seconds) and then two.
Usually after a mission you report first to Dumbledore, but this time you had a concerning feeling that seeing Sirius was more important.
Receiving no answer only works to crystallize your fear. You are instantly, perhaps unfoundedly, put on alert.
You smoothly draw your wand, aiming it directly at the ground, and you close your eyes.
You listen, carefully, with a werewolf's heightened hearing. In apartment 151, someone, a male, evidently, by the heavy, laborious breathing, is watching the much-loved-by-muggles television. In apartment 155, a woman sings out of tune.
No sound is emitting from behind the closed door in front of you.
You sniff delicately. Immediately you are assaulted with scent.
Rust and mould that is the very essence of the building.
Lavender. Honey. Paper. Ink.
Chocolate and dust and antiseptic that is undeniably you.
Wet dog and treacle and mud that is Sirius.
The smell of you is strong but Sirius, you can tell, has not been back home for a while; days, even. You inhale, and hold your breath.
You can't get enough of the reminder of Sirius. You miss him. You are craving more of him, and this tiny, lingering sliver of him is not enough.
Where is your Padfoot?
You exhale, reopening your eyes to view in a calculating manner the hallway to your left and right.
There is nobody around.
You tap your wand once to the worn wood, a soft alohomora leaving your lips. There is a click; another rap of your wand and the apartment door opens up under its own steam.
You don't move to walk inside.
Instead, you reel in your magic. You focus on envisioning wards lines, and sure enough, they appear. They criss-cross in the air between the edges of the doorframe, and you notice that they are not as strong as they should be.
Why hasn't Sirius redone them?
They are crackling an unfriendly blue. You designed them so that would be deadly for anyone not permitted to walk through them.
You raise you wand and touch the tip of it to the mid-air, frazzled knot bunching the wards all together.
A small spark and the knot unravels. The blue mellows out; you have been accepted. Quickly, you pick up your battered suitcase and step through the thin opening between the wards before it can close again. You slam and lock the door behind you.
To be honest, the silence scares you. You did not expect to come home to an empty apartment.
You take another step forward, and automatically reach to hang up your cloak on the hat stand you brought a year ago.
That done, you focus returns to other, worrisome matters.
There is an odd feeling to the apartment. Emptiness. Abandonment. It is dreadfully cold and the air is stale.
"Sirius?" you call in soft voice, because things are never what they seem.
Nothing changes.
"Sirius?" Again, and slightly louder this time, but your voice only echoes back. A swift, effortless spell and you are proven to be truly alone.
There is a half-drunk mug of coffee balanced precariously on the armchair of the ugly fluorescent orange couch. The main light is still on; the blinds are still pulled closed. A t-shirt has been thrown over a lampshade; there is floo powder scattered over the rug in front of the fireplace, and grey ashes where there should be stacked wood. Random books are haphazardly piled about.
You take all of this in and more, but you are incapable of processing it. You can't think, not yet, of what it all means.
The black photo frame on the mantelpiece that used to hold an image of you and Sirius wrapped up in each other is mysteriously vacant.
You drift through the ajar door leading into the kitchen.
Dirty dishes. An open window you move disjointedly to shut mindlessly; half-sealed letters. A two-day old edition of the Daily Prophet that has been used to mop up something unidentifiable; something that wasn't a foul, brown crust.
Everything screams of use. It is like Sirius was in the middle of doing all of these tasks, but abruptly had to leave before he could complete any of them.
Why?
Where is Sirius now?
The logical part of you considers that maybe Sirius was called away for a mission for the Order. These missions come more frequently nowadays; they are nothing out of the ordinary, you have to admit, sadly.
And, yet.
You have no way of contacting Sirius. These are, after all, dangerous times.
Your mind made up, you thread your way around the scattered mess back to the fireplace.
A wave of your wand and a green fire roars to life. Warmth licks at your cheeks, and you find yourself leaning forward, eager to defrost more of your frozen self.
The heat works with practise to soothe your nerves.
You step into the flames.
"Albus Dumbledore!" The words are torn from your throat, and then you are spinning away into the unknown.
Nausea rises and fades within you like the tide; you can feel the beginnings of a headache pound away where you cannot reach and soothe it away.
You do hate to travel by floo. The fireplace spits you out somewhere unknown; you have your eyes closed and you are, while the bile sits in your throat, disinclined to open them.
You decide enough is enough; you prise your eyelids apart and are relieved to note your stomach stays intact.
Albus Dumbledore's office comes in to view around you.
Wood is your impression, wood and silver and trinkets and a decent library. Dumbledore's office has always been a place of serenity; it has a sort of mysteriousness reminiscent of thought.
The old bearded man himself is sitting behind an overflowing oak desk with his head buried in wrinkled hands. His white beard stands out in startle comparison to his black robes. Dumbledore hasn't looked up at you and the fleeting thought that maybe you have interrupted something private occurs to you.
You frown, not comprehending the sudden change to a mourner's garb.
Black robes. The Dumbledore you know wears bold, bright coloured robes in ridiculous patterns; never black.
What has happened for Dumbledore to look so defeated?
Surely not… The Order. Another death. Oh, no. Not Sirius, not James or Lily...
Your eyes burn. You shift, considering that perhaps you should come back another time, but your body hasn't been in your control since you knocked on your apartment's door. You move forward languidly, your fingers twitching spasmodically.
"Professor Dumbledore?" The words come out in a whisper.
You have reverted back to the title you are familiar with in your terror, although Albus Dumbledore hasn't been your Headmaster in many years.
You stand now in front of Dumbledore's desk. Absentmindedly, you stretch an arm forward, to do what you cannot say, but before it matters, Dumbledore has shocked himself out of his motionless stupor.
"Remus," Dumbledore croaks.
You regain composure enough to hold yourself formally, with your hands clasped behind your back so he can't see them fidget. If it is bad news he is about to spill next, you don't want to know, not yet. Not before you have seen Sirius.
After your latest mission for the Order, there is not much more bad news you can take.
The lines around Dumbledore's ancient eyes are deeper. His eyes are rimmed red. They hold so much emotion; you refuse to analyse and decipher any of it.
With no small measure of relief you regain control of your brain to shut out the theories that have been steadily brewing away.
"What happened?" Resigned. This war has been a lost cause right from the very start, you think.
You stare at Dumbledore's crooked nose.
How many times has it been broken?
It is nought but a distraction.
"Remus," Dumbledore repeats, stronger this time, almost like he knows you are blocking, well, everything out.
A heartbeat, a pause, a recess in the conversation.
"I think you already know." Said gently, with compassion.
You are this close to the edge; the suspense that has been building up is getting to you.
No, you think.
You really don't know why you can't find your lover, or why everything smells of death.
Your pent up anger is released from its meagre bonds; targeted straight at poor Dumbledore himself.
"No, I don't know! What I know is that the day I get back from one of your missions, I might add, I arrive home only to find that my apartment has been ransacked and Sirius isn't even there! I don't have left at my disposal an address or-or- I think we deserve just one night together after everything we've done for you-"
Rambling. You are rambling your thoughts and things you have wanted to say for a while now… yet you are not quite sure if this is the time to be pouring feelings out relentlessly.
You are usually so collected and calm. Renowned for it.
Dumbledore takes it. He sits quietly and lets your tirade wash over him until you have lectured him hoarse and there is nothing left to say.
They say you are the reasonable, logical one.
"My dear boy. Why did you not come here first?" He asks when you are numb.
"I wanted to see Sirius."
Was that petulance?
Are those tears?
"Of course. Of course. Oh, my dear boy. It's my fault. I am so terribly sorry. I am so sorry." Dumbledore's voice breaks.
You say nothing, drawing out the silence until he feels obliged to finish what he started. You will not consciously allow yourself to draw to conclusions.
Even though you have much more than an inkling.
"James and Lily… have passed."
You acknowledge this with an 'I know'.
And then you collapse.
Dumbledore was right.
Because you did already know.
Deep down, you already knew.
You knew when there was no answer.
You knew when you were standing in the hallway for too long.
Your world is knocked off-kilter.
You mumble his name, into your palms.
It is messy, this business of crying. Your hands are wet and you can taste salt and snot and blood from where you have gnawed your teeth and bitten your lip.
"I should have known. I should have- Sirius was not the most reliable of men…" Dumbledore stutters, sounding far away and helpless.
You feel no sympathy for this man who is taking all of the blame for his own.
In many ways, it is selfish.
You must look like such a coward, curled so pitifully on his rug.
You are closer to animal than man.
For the first time, you want to be werewolf.
You want to be able to convey your pain.
Sirius Sirius Sirius
Traitor Traitor Traitor
You want to shriek at the top of your lungs and howl your loneliness to the world; you want to rid yourself of this anguish
You want to go back to Before
Your heart, that shattered, glass thing held together only by glue and the tape Sirius wrapped around it, swells to double its size in your chest.
It explodes.
And you scream, and you scream and scream scream scream
Traitor