"An honest heart speaks from its soul,
that's how we know it never lies."
-via Unknown
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Lupin Cottage, December 1979
Remus roamed the fields of Walter's Ash dressed only in trousers. His marred skin, worn and ragged from the years of abuse, shimmered under the winter sun. A layer of snow crunched beneath his bare feet, toes an unsettling shade of purple; he could not feel them. His chest and face were red, beaten from the winds of December. The tawny, near brown, wisps of hair atop his head were damp from the clusters of snowflakes falling from the blue sky; didn't snowflakes come from clouds.
He peered through his lashes at the sky, dazzled by the magnificent shades of blue mixing with one another. There'd been not a cloud in sight; the winter sky expanded for miles, disappearing only behind the mountains in the distance. It was mid-day; his parents had gone to work – his mother into the city and his father to an Order meeting.
Remus grimaced.
A figure was approaching him, the crinkle of snow beneath their feet rolling over the surface of the frozen meadow. Remus watched, their raven cloak startling against the white landscape. It was as if a small fragment of the night had fallen from the sky – sore and bleak to the eye. This figure, who evoked a painful throb in his chest, was broad and tall, like the oak tree to the east. Their hood covered most of their face, though the hint of a frown peeked from under the fabric. Remus felt his skin crawl; something was not right.
They stopped feet away from him, warm breath spilling from their parted, red lips. Remus stood stoic in his spot; if possible, his toes would have curled.
"Young Lupin," they spoke.
Remus felt a shiver scurry through his bones, rattling them within his skin. This was the voice of his past nightmares, the slick and cool voice that had haunted him for years. This was the voice of Tom Riddle – of Voldemort.
"Riddle," Remus said.
Voldemort removed his cloak, revealing a smooth, hairless head and flattened face. His eyes, once a murky shade of blue, now appeared bloody in color and dark in attitude. What had once been a proud Roman nose had been replaced by serpent-like slits, thin and menacing. Veins covered his skin, blue and heavy against the pale shade of skin poking out beneath the cloak. If there'd been anyone who appeared more ragged than Remus, it was Riddle. He appeared sickly and thin. It was as if his faced had been blurred by brushes, the Tom Riddle he'd once seen in pictures now gone forever in a haze of body modifications; it was horrific. Riddle's long, skeletal fingers were clasped around his wand, knuckles white from the cold.
"You remember me," Voldemort remarked.
"Who could forget?"
"Don't I look different," Voldemort asked. Remus just nodded, too afraid he might speak out of turn. "I thought it might evoke motivation for my cause. Our cause."
Remus felt his heart thrumming against his ribcage, not so painful yet. His breaths were controlled and even. Winter air spilled into his lungs, rubbing achingly on his vocal chords.
"And who could forget someone such as yourself," Voldemort asked, lips pulling into a daunting smirk. He circled Remus, a vulture preparing itself for a meal, humored by the evident tension rolling across Remus' frail body. "So, your friends have abandoned you?"
Images of Sirius and James danced in the background of his dream, their smiles and carefree laughter taunting him in his plight. They wrestled just as they used to, James' broad figure tackling a delicate Sirius to the snowy ground.
Something in Remus chest jerked excruciatingly, a grimace making itself known on his wind whipped face. His heart twisted.
"You miss them," Voldemort noticed, stopping behind Remus' crumbling figure. "Don't you?"
Sirius looked up, snowflakes caught on his thick eyelashes he'd finally come to love, and smiled at Remus. There'd been a time when Remus woke up to such an image – Sirius on his chest as they'd both slept in on a Sunday, legs tangled amongst the sheets and comforter. Sirius was the first to wake, his fingers tracing the scares carefully, rousing Remus from his peaceful slumber. He'd always smile as Remus woke, as if he were watching the sun rise behind the skyscrapers of Manchester with awe.
James laughed, his arm stretching to the sky, and waved. His mouth moved, an echoless call inaudible even on the hushed expanse of the meadow. Remus felt himself lean forward, desperately wishing to hear the call of his name – to hear the sound of James' voice even through the pain and hostility that remained in his heart. James watched, eyes squinting as his cheeks grew red with happiness.
It had been so long since he'd seen them. Yes, he missed them. He missed them sorely.
"You're lonely, Remus," Voldemort said, watching as Remus' friends pulled themselves from the ground.
They brushed the snow from their clothes, turning away from Remus and running into the valley.
"Wait," Remus said, terror raking his nerves. "Don't go!"
He feet, numb from the cold, carried him after them. He didn't mind the chill, didn't mind the sharp breaths paining his throat, evoking the taste of blood in the back of his mouth. He didn't want them to go.
Stay, he thought, don't leave me alone.
He stood at the top of a hill, seemingly miles away from them. James embraced Lily at the edge of the property. She held him close, small hands fisting into his jacket. Sirius watched with delight, saying something to them, but not to Remus. Could they not hear him? See him?
"They seem to be doing just fine without you," Voldemort noted off-handedly. "Just look at them. Smiling and laughing."
They walked with one another, Sirius acting just the way he did those months ago, bothering James and Lily endlessly like a child. The newly engaged couple only had eyes for each other. Remus watched as their figures faded into the distance, plumes of white snow replacing their silhouettes.
"Who would need someone like you," he heard, the familiar croak of his father in his ear.
He could feel the breath dripping down the curve of his neck, spilling into the dips of his collarbone.
"Disgusting," his mother had told him. "I should've listened to the healer."
Remus winced, his fists drooping at his sides in defeat. Perhaps they'd really been happy without him. Even Sirius, who he'd once thought was his soul mate – his other half. Had they really gotten on so well without him? Remus' eyes fell to the ground, hot tears burning the frozen stretch of his skin. His nose crinkled as he sniffled, a lump at the back of his throat growingly treacherously large. His emotions betrayed his mind.
"I can take you to them," Voldemort demanded, though his voice was silvery and gentle. "I can show you the way, young Lupin."
Remus shook his head, the tears flowing freely, "They betrayed me. I can't go back, nor can I trust you."
Voldemort laid a cold, steady hand on Remus neck, nails tracing sharp lines into his skin, "It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them. Why would the likes of me – the Greatest Sorcerer of this era – want a filthy mongrel as yourself?"
Remus glanced at the man next to him; he was alarming and sore to the eye, expression severe just as his father's. His eyes were callous, unfeeling, yet the voice deceived such suspicions. Crimson eyes looked into his soul, acute and listless.
"I'll go on my own," Remus nodded, wiping his cheeks and returning to the empty cottage.
Voldemort staid in his position, watching as Remus hurried out of his sleep.
"Oh, how tempting the heart's desires can be. How often it will lead us astray."
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Potter Manor, December 1979
Remus' body protested his skipping of breakfast or even a cup of coffee; he dressed himself with haste, not wasting a single moment to doddle. His stomach groaned painfully, organs twisting amongst each other like vines. It growled viciously. Remus had gone days without eating or sleeping, the only source of nutrition coming from tap water, coffee, and protein bars. His ribs poked from his skin, a skeletal being replacing the healthy body he'd grown into; he refused to look into mirrors, covering them with sweaters that had once fit.
There was a small chance the Order meeting had still been in session; every now and then, Minnie would update him on their progress and, just as Voldemort had told him, they'd been getting along just fine without them. They went on patrols, battled Death Eaters, and cavorted just as they had before. If anything, it sounded to Remus as though they'd made more progress without him there, and he wondered if he might disrupt them with his return.
Despite these doubts, something in his brain, a small voice he'd blocked out on perilous occasions, told him to go. Ignore the reservations, ignore the plights of his sanity, and ignore the rationality he'd accumulated through the years of living with imbeciles like the Marauders. He just had to go. He disregarded their betrayal, tossed it aside with the regrets of having ever left. Forgiveness was in his heart, and he could only hope that they'd return it.
He dashed away from his flat, too caught up in the moment to worry about locking it, and apparated. Remus was lucky he didn't splinch himself; if he'd lost just an ounce more of focus, he would likely be bleeding to death at the entrance of Potter Manor.
The skies were grim in Wales, just as in any part of England during the winter. Fat, heavy snowflakes soaked through his clothes as he scurried up the drive, weighing down his journey a great deal. The fabric of his socks squelched within his loafers, his toes going numb from the chill. His teeth chattered violently in his mouth; the frailty of his body was taking its toll on his energy. Perhaps he should've eaten something – an apple at least.
The Manor appeared to be empty, curtains closed tightly and not a single light emanating from within. Their gardens were wilted, Euphemia's favorite lily bushes now brown and dismal. The grass was yellow, a mixture of mud and snow weighing down the soil. Ice plagued the walkway; Remus lost his balance a handful of times before finally stumbling onto the porch like a madman.
His breath was shallow and heavy; it felt as though he couldn't catch his breath. A pain budded in the pit of his sternum, a jarring and quite startling feeling taking hold of him. It was foreign to him, and he was beside himself, suddenly, with grief. It took every fiber of energy within him to hold his emotions in place; he refused to let this bout of grief take over for absolutely no reason.
Remus told himself it was merely distress and worry, the typical components for these panic attacks. It would subside, he rationalized. It always did.
He beat against the grand oak doors, hands heavy with apprehension and, dare he say, dread. The handles shook beneath his fists, booming raps echoing through the entry hall as he could hear, yet no one answered. Again and again, he knocked, calling for Fleamont or Euphemia.
It was only then that he realized they must've hated him as well. Remus abandoned the Order like the coward his father always thought him to be. When faced with difficulties – the difficulties life always presented when we could go without – he ran. That night in September, a night that felt like decades ago, yet just like a bad dream he'd only just woken from, he accused Sirius of tucking his tail and running. But the truth was plain for Remus to see: it had been him to run.
"Please," he called, "Mr. Potter! Euphemia!"
No answer.
For a moment, he curled in the corner of their porch and held himself. His jacket was a poor shield against the cold; his bones rattled in his clothes. Remus could feel himself shaking to the point of absurdity. Whether it was from the frigid winds or the lack of food, he was not sure. He looked down at his palms, horrified by the white and purple landscape across his skin. In an attempt to warm himself, he huffed into his cupped palms.
"Damn it," he swore.
Nothing was being achieved at the Potter manor. The next step was to search Diagon Alley in hopes they'd rented a room at the Leaky.
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The Leaky Cauldron, December 1979
The interior of the Leaky always thawed Remus' body. It could have been the intense fireplaces ablaze at all times of the year, or maybe the smoke from numerous pipes and rolls. It was a consoling place in this time of unrest for Remus; it might have been the memories associated with such a place – the drunken cavorting with his band of mates and the dinners with the Order. But now, he sat alone in the corner, hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee – the first cup of coffee all day.
It'd been hours since he'd left the Potter's property; he'd wandered Diagon Alley in search of a familiar face from the Order. Hell, he'd even be happy to see Dumbledore despite his deceit. After spending so much time in self-isolation, the prospect of human contact was both formidable and welcomed. Much of his time away from the Order had been spent either in his own flat or at the front counter of Miss Grimes' shop. Even there, he'd felt terribly miserable and alone despite his friend's company. As the wise bat she was, Mrs. Grimes knew when to leave troubled young men to their own devices. He'd only wished she hadn't left him to mull in his suffering.
Remus brought the cup to his face, relishing in the steam that thawed his frozen nose. The Leaky's coffee had never been as wonderful as Sirius'. Then again, Sirius ordered his coffee beans from Columbia liked the spoilt brat he was, but none of that mattered to Remus, really. Sirius could've used the water from a prison toilet boil to make their coffee – that might have been a stretch – and Remus would've adored it. Maybe that's part of the 'in-love' package.
His eyes glanced out the window, watching as people meandered around in the snow. Many were dressed in their finest; boxing day had just finished, and it was time to show off the expensive gifts some received. Several children had the latest cloaks from Madam Malkin's collection. Other's played with their toys and miniature brooms. Many adults nattered away about their gifts, their dinners, and their family affairs.
A familiar face caught his eye; Remus jolted.
Peter was walking through the crowd, dark hood shadowing most of his face. He appeared to be peeved; he had that same expression on as he always did when Sirius did something idiotic. As one would assume, that facial expression came often. His hands, now thin and pale, were shoved into the pockets of his cloak, hidden. The anger in his eyes – the spite – rubbed Remus the wrong way; it felt cold and severe, something Peter never emulated.
Remus was stunned, shaken to the core, as Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy – two infamous suspects in the Death Eater attacks – were trailing close behind him, faces revealed and proud. It had been ages since Remus had seen Sirius' cousins, and if it had been his choice, he would've prolonged a reunion as such. Lucius with his callous, cutting stare and Narcissa with such a refined, pious look about her; Remus found it hard to envision a life where Sirius had been one of them. Just by their aura, one could feel inferior.
They ducked into Knockturn Alley, a place Peter had no business going into at eleven in the morning. After turning a corner, the trio were out of sight but surely not out of Remus' mind. Maybe it had been the curious cat in every young man, or maybe his inner Marauder was stretching to life, but he found himself wandering after the group in hopes of discovering their plans.
The hustle and bustle of Diagon died as he meandered into Knockturn; even the beating rays of a cloudy sky seemed to darken heavily, his shadow mere against the cobblestone street. He could hardly see past his own nose. The light from the shops were the only source of illumination guiding him through twisted alleys and dead ends.
Remus wasn't a fan of Knockturn Alley; most people weren't, in fact. It was a melting pot for those interested in the Dark, and dangerous, arts. Most of the shops dealt with nasty things – bone selling, betting bars, Borgin and Burkes, and more. They were all dark in nature, emitting a certain energy that sent shivers down a moral man's spine. Of course, Remus' interest was piqued, nevertheless it wasn't always in a good way.
These were all things that Remus had no clue what Peter had to do with any of it. What did his friend – the same friend who barely caught on to sarcasm and taunting – need from such a place?
Remus ended up at Borgin and Burkes, a popular shop, he thought, for families such as the Malfoy's and what had once been the Black's. It was looming and contorted, brick walls dripping with melted snow and ice; the windows were lit with small candles, most likely the poisonous kind if the rumors were true. The stairs leading up to the entrance were tall – hard to climb – and slick. Remus had no doubt Peter had slipped.
He hovered at the corner, waiting for his friend to emerge from the depths of the shop. One thing Remus did enjoy about the alley was just how tucked away it was from the open street, meaning the wind had subsided greatly since his venture after Peter. Still, he buried his hands in his pockets, hoping a fist would bring him warmth; it did not.
Just as he was going to give up on such an expedition, he heard, "Remus?"
Remus turned on his heel, woken from a doze, and blanched.
So, his eyes hadn't deceived him. It truly was Peter Pettigrew in the flesh and blood. Up close, he looked much worse than Remus had ever seen him – dark, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, a bruised and downcast look about him. It was pitiful, really, and Remus hated himself for thinking so. However, it had been the cards dealt.
"Wormtail," he sputtered. "What are you doing here? No, no time for that. The Malfoy's are following you, Peter. We've got to get out of here before they come back out."
Remus grabbed Peter by his skinny little arm, dragging him down the alley way like a child. There was no time to ask any sort of questions, as questions might bid answers Remus wouldn't like. Peter hadn't said much since they'd started their venture back to the Leaky Cauldron, though his protests were silent. Remus pushed onward, however. If he could only figure out where the Order had been; they could sort this out in private and reshuffle their deck.
"Remus," Peter said, ignored thoroughly by his friend. Remus felt a tug, stopped by the weight of his friend. "Unhand me, Remus."
Remus turned, eyes suspicious, but released his hold on Peter. The latter brushed himself casually, as if they'd all the time in the world when they truly didn't.
"I must say, I hate doing this to you, Moony," Peter sighed. "You've always been kind to me."
Remus, bemused, said, "I don't understand, Peter."
"I know this all seems strange," Peter stuttered, his hands fiddling with his cloak, "and I wish you hadn't gotten involved. It's all going to be messy now!"
Remus' face twisted, confusion and apprehension written over every line and crevasse. He said nothing.
"Just know, I won't forget our friendship, Moony," Peter nodded with finality.
"Peter," Remus droned. "What are you –"
There was a sharp pain just at the back of Remus' head – like a rock or a staff – and, for the first time, there was no cry for help or worried shout as he fell to the ground. There was only Peter's feet shuffling away, retreating back into Knockturn Alley.
