AN: Following fic is a three-parter. Any and all slash is, at this point, purely implied, if you so wish to think it.

Disclaimer: I own these characters. I do. Honestly. Except not.

Dregs

by evanesce

01. dregs in porcelain

In the dregs at the bottom of the tea cup, the meaning of life can be found swirling haplessly about, displaying, quite shamefully, every answer to every problem. Or so it would seem. Remus Lupin was attempting to find the answers as best as he knew how using just such a method. Staring at the base of a chipped porcelain cup could hardly be deemed as a worthwhile or productive activity, but when answers need to be uncovered, the brown silt and cold water seem to provide some sort of solace.

Or perhaps not.

Setting the cup down was the second hardest part about that morning; the morning that had been enveloped in rain since four am. Remus had been awake when it started, and intended to be awake until it ended, even if he stood no fighting chance against the bitter pangs of lethargy; lethargy that set in at all the wrong times and at all the wrong places and caused all the wrong things to happen.

Rubbing aching temples with frozen hands (for the tea had been consumed and the dregs examined for the better part of an hour), Remus made to stand up, clutching the cup in one hand, and the ring-stained saucer in the other. He hit his leg on the table and immediately sat back down. The Fates didn't want him to stand up, he argued. Therefore, he wouldn't. And he didn't.

Setting the cup back down was the third hardest part about that morning. It was admitting defeat, and, although the severity to which it affected Remus was at a level altogether less than that which it affect James and Sirius, defeat was something he did not like. But, then again, who does?

Making to stand up again, and carefully pushing his chair out at a safer distance, in order to prevent the same unfortunate collision of man and table, Remus, once more, took up the tea cup and saucer, and managed to set both items in the sink in order to be washed at a later time. He'd have time today, he imaged, but for now he wished to collapse in the sitting room and stare blankly at a wall, per usual. Well, not per usual, but he could always pretend that it was so.

Things are brought down to an elementary level when one stares at walls.

Hoping that such would be the case, even on a desperately lost day as today, Remus flopped down in an armchair, having to push a pile of old tomes rather carelessly onto the area rug below before he could seat himself thusly. If James or Sirius had been here, they would have wanted to check him into St. Mungo's, or even a simple Muggle infirmary, as abuse of books is far from usual Moony-like behaviour, and warrants suspicion of ailments of the mind.

It was August. It was August Twenty-ninth, to be exact; and a Sunday. Exactly two months and one day since he had seen or heard from James or Sirius. Peter had written him once. It was brief, and a month had passed since that single owl flew into his sitting room window (quite literally, which made the situation quite desperate, as the owl remained comatose for a week solid). Remus rather felt that the entire effort had been one forced out of his friend, as Peter was usually never one to correspond with his friends, unless that friend is one James Potter.

Sighing and giving himself a good mental slap, and contemplating a physical one as well, Remus shifted in the chair, golden brown hair falling into his eyes as it so often did. He expended no efforts to relieve himself of this added burden, and instead favoured the slight solitude from the immediate harshness of the bright-grey clouds, concealing the scorching sun.

He sighed again.

Tea. He needed more dregs to stare at. He needed something to occupy his empty hands and racing mind. Perhaps, thinking on a more metaphorical level, a level he dwells on when the world seems to fall short, he needed something warm to fill the proverbial hole in his heart. Oh the sap and agony of it all.

He gave himself another mental slap and stood up sharply, feeling the world shift uneasily as the blood rushed to catch up with his throbbing head.

So tea, then. Yes. Tea.

No. No. Change of heart (oh the irony as well). No tea.

Picking up his very Muggle, very brown jacket; the one with the tartan patches on the elbows that James once called "endearing to the essence of All Things Moony" and Remus supposed that that was a good thing, so he continued to wear it. Being that it wasn't hooded, he realised that arriving back home wet would be an unavoidable consequence of his going out for a stroll whilst the rain still pounded down with a feral persistence. Or a think. Or a whatever he happened to classify this as.

And a scarf. The thought jumped out at him completely out of the context of his train of thought, but now he realised that such an article of clothing wouldn't be entirely out of place. Even if it was August. It would be September soon.

September.

And the first day of the end. The end of everything. There would be no more Hogwarts; no Shrieking Shack; no pranks; no detentions (even if he hadn't been the one receiving them). There would be nothing but a vast expanse of empty white to be filled in and coloured as chosen, with a brand new routine.

There had been two full moons without Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail. If this year was to be different than the last (and the two before that), Remus decided that bearing the moon alone would be the best way to grow accustomed to the feeling of emptiness and neglect, before the general trauma would set in. There would be paranoia, at least. That was unavoidable. It was the very core of what Remus Lupin was. Besides calm. And generally good-natured. And many other things that involve the words "book" and "quiet".

He opened the door; it groaned on heavy, burdened hinges, and Remus winced slightly. And then he stepped outside and shut it behind him.

And realised that tea would have been so much less complicated.

But now he was out, and he took a deep breath of the cold, wet air, smelling petrol and take away from various places, which managed to intermingle quite civilly, and hearing Muggles shouting back and forth at each other. There were the noises of cars and buses, and head lamps illuminating the semi-darkened streets as the gloom spread.

And he descended the small, black, rickety staircase that snaked up the side of the rather dodgy block of flats, wrapping along each respective level with a grip that was anything but vice-like, if the sporadic swaying and shrieking of metal was to be any indicator.

The pavement was in no better condition than that of the stairs. It was cracked and rebellious; large gaps in the slabs of cement had freely disappeared, catching any innocent passer-by and sending them on an unexpected flight.

Remus had every imperfection along this stretch of the pavement memorised. He'd walked along this path daily for the first month of his living here. Because he had nothing better to do, and no one to see, and the streets of London were always far more inviting than the obscurity of the dilapidated flat.

Now, though, the flat was home to Remus. He'd been no where else (other than odd bookshops in London and Diagon Alley, that is) and had spent his time and effort trying to spruce it up, though the endeavour was nearly fruitless, as the entire building was in it worse for the wear. He'd given up on the Muggle way of removing the grime on July Nineteenth, just twelve days after moving in, and had used magic to add the finishing touches.

Sidestepping a screaming toddler and his obviously exasperated mother, Remus crossed the street, hugging the jacket tighter around him, and keeping his head bent against the rain, eyes watching the dampened pavement with no interest whatsoever; fringe covering his eyes in much the usual fashion. Another "Moony-like quality" as decided by James.

It is always more efficient to look up when attempting to shoulder through crowds of Muggles around the lunch hour, even on a Sunday. Rather reluctantly, Remus followed this piece of advice, hugging the jacket tighter still, and burying his numb hands into the deep, fuzzy, lint-filled pockets. He'd forgotten his scarf.

It wasn't that cold, really. But the wind made it bitingly unbearable, and the rain was cold enough. He wished that he had his scarf. His scarf was comforting. A childish attachment, perhaps; but like the young child's security blanket, so Remus's plaid scarf was to the barely-eighteen-and-a-half-year-old.

Coffee and tea and chocolate intermingled as he passed by a quaint spice shop, and he was momentarily tempted to enter, when he realised that he had barely enough money for the rent as it was, so indulging on the things he loved most would provide only momentary comfort before reality intervened. And reality always did. He hadn't been able to pay the rent last month, and this month he had just enough. If he didn't eat for a week. Or, at the very least, if he would drink nothing but tea. A routine not unlike the one he was currently going through, but not favoured despite the fact.

The scent lingered even as he passed the tiny shop, and the one next to it, and the one after that. It seemed to taunt him; it danced in the air in front of him; it shrieked and screamed and pined for him to turn around and simply purchase something. Anything.

But Remus pressed on, and eventually the smell evanesced into the rain-drenched air, and he was grateful for it. He made a mental note, however, to return to that shop once he'd acquired enough money to actually indulge himself. There had been a bookshop that he wanted to inquire at for a possible job. If he wasn't going to be surrounded by close friends any longer (and how that thought chilled him to the bone like the rain never could), he decided that being surrounded by books and words and the musty smell of old parchment would provide succours of some sort.

'Keep in touch, Moony!' And he had. And he had. And he had. He had written dozens of letters to his three friends...And bloody hell. The void was growing wider, if it were possible. Had he lost them? No. He couldn't have. No one would because Animagi for someone that they didn't give a rats arse about. Then again, Remus was just the excuse they'd need...

He shook his head, and dozens of tiny droplets of water sprinkled about his face, his wet fringe clinging to his forehead and getting in his eyes. He raised a hand to brush the offending strands away, but noticed how it was shaking, and hastily stuffed it back into the warmth of his jacket.

Remus Lupin was lonely, and there was no other way of putting it.

The café on the corner seemed the best stop for something less pricey. He only wanted a cup of tea. Or perhaps something chocolate. Entering, a small silver bell tinkled above his head, and he shied away from it by force of habit. Things like that never happened, but today his mood made him paranoid enough for everything to be worse than in actuality, and therefore, he was a bit jumpy. Or just lonely.


Yes, lonely. Something that he had thought would never - could never - happen again.

Severing the thought before he got far too carried away, Remus quickly ordered a cup of tea and a biscuit and sat down outside under an awning. The rain was dripping a safe enough distance away, and the interior of the café was far too occupied for his liking. Despite the fact that he was lonely, he wanted nothing to do with anyone. Perhaps that sort of thinking was what was making him so lonely in the first place.

Or perhaps if that word would just dissipate with the rain, things would be tolerable again.

Sipping at the tea, Remus scanned the street with his earthy brown eyes, not truly processing what was going on, but distracted enough to prevent him from thinking. Or dwelling. Or whatever it was that he was doing.

There was a young girl running about in her good Sunday dress with a yellow Mac which clashed so horrifically that it was oddly ambrosial. The girls' mum was not far behind. And then a bus passed by, obscuring Remus' vision of the opposite side of the street for a time. He looked down at the all-too-familiar dregs sitting at the bottom of the very clean, unchipped cup, listened to the sound of a loud motor revving, more idly chatting pedestrians, and the rain. Always the rain.

The tea downed, the biscuit mere crumbs on the metal table top, Remus rested his head in his hands and shut his eyes. He was tired. He'd had a month of insomnia ever since July's full moon and it had not gone away. Usually the insomnia would last a week or so but being alone seemed to provoke it, prolonging its stay to an extent which made him even blanker in mood than he already happened to be.

Standing back up, Remus decided that he ought to at least do something productive. Or make an attempt. At least, he told himself, if he wasn't productive, he'll go to sleep knowing that he tried to be.

And so, leaving the cup and saucer where they sat, he hugged the jacket around him once more, and stepped out into the dreary weather yet again, head bowed against the rain. His destination was obscure, so he walked with the simple intent of getting as far away from the monotony as was physically possible.

In his escape, he clipped his shoulder with another individual, and without looking up, Remus gave his apologies in his usual calm, gracious manner, and walked on.