I lay collapsed the bloody fabric, weak from not having eaten since the
hurried breakfast the day before.
Pulling back the sleeve of my robe, I looked down at the symbol still healing onto my arm and ran two pale fingers over it. I was amazed at how pale my skin looked now, as if I were slowly fading out of my body completely.
I ran my hands through the greasy black hair; over my bony face, looked out into the dim window and see my reflection in its dirty surface. It amazed me to see my reflection there. Robes far richer then I'd worn at school or at home, boots made of the best leather instead of the worst. That was me, hidden behind, for all the world like a hermit crab who has chosen a shell far larger then it can carry.
I could, at the ends of my memory, still grasp why I had wanted this, but it was beginning to seem so terribly distant, so much more like looking into someone else's memory then my own.
When it all started I didn't understand it the way I did then as I sat on that scarlet sofa in my warm apartment. Power is one thing, and not all things. And I realized what a little thing it was as I stared down at that letter, scribbled in Peter's spidery hand. It is truly a marvel of human nature that we can be moved to tears, to hate, to kill based on several lines of black India ink. But I was crying suddenly, and if I could have seen Peter I would have killed him. I would have watched that vermin of a man shrink and crumble under my wand; watched him curl to the ground, struggle for breath; die. I wanted nothing more.
But instead I was crying on a sofa in an empty apartment, and I knew that I had to go. Get out of there before they came.
I left the stinking rooms with only the robes on my back and fifteen sickles in my pocket. Peter's letter I left crumpled behind me on the blood-red sofa.
The streets were cold, and colder because I'd abandoned the heavy robe I'd been wearing for a more conspicuous form in the muggle streets.
I brushed past an old, red haired warlock with a somewhat less then friendly stare, hurried past him and out of the dark alley I'd been calling home and hell for the last year.
In the blackness every shadow was Lestrange or Goyle coming to find me. And when they found my apartment empty they would come. As surely as Lily was dead, and as surely as James had fallen, they would come. And when they found me, they would kill me.
I moved into a crowd of late night drinkers near a pub and melted into the loud yells and plumes of dirty cigarette smoke. I knew the bar, Rat's Tale it was called, and the rooms above it were cheep to rent. Two sickles for an empty hostel, firewood included. I knew I should go farther, take a bus, take a train, floo, aparate. But drawing attention would be only too easy, and I needed to be cautious, careful. I needed time. It was cold, but I couldn't light a fire. A man like me didn't deserve a fire. I deserved death, and at that moment I knew it was more then likely that I would find it. Already the sign on my arm had begun burning, and I wretched with pain on the empty bed, struggling with every convulsion to tell myself that this was what I was. This was what I deserved. Pain. Horror. Death.
_________________________________ To be continued, obviously. Hm. Basically to give you an idea where I'm going, this would be where Severus heads after the deaths of Lily and James. I'm hoping to do a series, so if you haven't read Lupeseule- I really beg you to because it's Remus' take on everything and I think that if you enjoyed this you might like that. As always PLEASE REVIEW. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. Muy thanks! Love you all! -Gud.
Pulling back the sleeve of my robe, I looked down at the symbol still healing onto my arm and ran two pale fingers over it. I was amazed at how pale my skin looked now, as if I were slowly fading out of my body completely.
I ran my hands through the greasy black hair; over my bony face, looked out into the dim window and see my reflection in its dirty surface. It amazed me to see my reflection there. Robes far richer then I'd worn at school or at home, boots made of the best leather instead of the worst. That was me, hidden behind, for all the world like a hermit crab who has chosen a shell far larger then it can carry.
I could, at the ends of my memory, still grasp why I had wanted this, but it was beginning to seem so terribly distant, so much more like looking into someone else's memory then my own.
When it all started I didn't understand it the way I did then as I sat on that scarlet sofa in my warm apartment. Power is one thing, and not all things. And I realized what a little thing it was as I stared down at that letter, scribbled in Peter's spidery hand. It is truly a marvel of human nature that we can be moved to tears, to hate, to kill based on several lines of black India ink. But I was crying suddenly, and if I could have seen Peter I would have killed him. I would have watched that vermin of a man shrink and crumble under my wand; watched him curl to the ground, struggle for breath; die. I wanted nothing more.
But instead I was crying on a sofa in an empty apartment, and I knew that I had to go. Get out of there before they came.
I left the stinking rooms with only the robes on my back and fifteen sickles in my pocket. Peter's letter I left crumpled behind me on the blood-red sofa.
The streets were cold, and colder because I'd abandoned the heavy robe I'd been wearing for a more conspicuous form in the muggle streets.
I brushed past an old, red haired warlock with a somewhat less then friendly stare, hurried past him and out of the dark alley I'd been calling home and hell for the last year.
In the blackness every shadow was Lestrange or Goyle coming to find me. And when they found my apartment empty they would come. As surely as Lily was dead, and as surely as James had fallen, they would come. And when they found me, they would kill me.
I moved into a crowd of late night drinkers near a pub and melted into the loud yells and plumes of dirty cigarette smoke. I knew the bar, Rat's Tale it was called, and the rooms above it were cheep to rent. Two sickles for an empty hostel, firewood included. I knew I should go farther, take a bus, take a train, floo, aparate. But drawing attention would be only too easy, and I needed to be cautious, careful. I needed time. It was cold, but I couldn't light a fire. A man like me didn't deserve a fire. I deserved death, and at that moment I knew it was more then likely that I would find it. Already the sign on my arm had begun burning, and I wretched with pain on the empty bed, struggling with every convulsion to tell myself that this was what I was. This was what I deserved. Pain. Horror. Death.
_________________________________ To be continued, obviously. Hm. Basically to give you an idea where I'm going, this would be where Severus heads after the deaths of Lily and James. I'm hoping to do a series, so if you haven't read Lupeseule- I really beg you to because it's Remus' take on everything and I think that if you enjoyed this you might like that. As always PLEASE REVIEW. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. Muy thanks! Love you all! -Gud.