I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope.
-- Aeschylus, Agamemnon
PART I:
GREY SKY RISING
On December 11, 1981, Remus Lupin slipped on the icy steps on his way into his house. His feet went out from under him and he fell off the step, landing flat on his back on the cold, damp gravel with a heavy, grating sound. He was clutching his bag, full of scrolls and books, to his chest with one hand, and it was an oppressive weight above his lungs. His other hand rested, palm up, on a lump of hard, dirty snow that had refrozen, like most of the landscape, in the midst of melting. He blinked slowly.
Before his eyes, the pale grey sky was rising like water filling a glass, swallowing up the weak, yellow, afternoon sun. Soon, he thought, it would reach the tickling fingers of the treeline, and then, successful, disappear beyond the horizon. The sky around the sun was a pale, virulent green, and seemed to be protesting its usurpation by the heartless clouds.
The wet of the ground seeped into his robes. After a moment, he got to his feet, the back of his head throbbing a little. He made his way up the stairs, more carefully this time, but also more deliberately, crushing old ice beneath his boots and tempting fate. He let himself into his small, drafty house and dropped his bag on a nearby armchair. Shutting the door behind himself, Remus Lupin leaned against the wall and felt more aware of the value of his own life than he believed he ever had.
That evening, he sat at his window, polishing a copper pot. He had wedged himself in the window seat, one foot resting against the window frame opposite him, and was watching the moon rise through the whorled, grainy glass. Again and again, he passed his cloth over the pot in his hands, wiping the same place relentlessly, studying the moon's progress. It was a huge, yellow sphere, rising up out of the trees into a cloud-smeared sky. Tomorrow, it would be full, and he would lock himself in his basement to scream and rage as he wished. For the time being, he would hold onto himself. He could do it. It was not even another twenty-four hours until he would be able to release his fury.
As he wiped at the metal in his hands, he let his eyes fix on the ominous jewel, hanging in the sky. It rose steadily, becoming smaller and whiter, until it was high above the clutching treetops, esconsed in a glowing, pale halo, skirted by soft clouds. There was not a star in sight until the moon passed higher, beyond the gap in the clouds, leaving two bright stares lingering in its wake.
When the moon had disappeared from sight, he got up from the windowsill, hanging the pot on a rack above the stove. He put the rag away in a drawer, shutting it with a neat, contained noise. Extinguishing the lights in the kitchen, he climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor. There were no hand rails to hold onto; he had grown up knowing to step carefully.
In his bedroom, he lit one lamp with a flick of his wand and closed the curtains that looked out onto the back yard, knowing that the moonlight would wake him if he didn't shut it out. He pulled off his robes and hung them in a battered wardrobe made of the same wood as the stairs. It, too, creaked under use. He pulled off his clothes, putting them away neatly, and slipped into a night shirt. The back of his head, and his shoulders, still felt tender from his fall earlier, and he found it uncomfortable to turn his head. Taking hold of the wardrobe door, he was preparing to close it when he caught site of himself in the mirror fixed on the inside of the door. The glass was dingy, and he seemed a shadow in it. He closed the wardrobe and crossed the room. With another flick of his wand, he lit a fire in the hearth and put out the lamp. Then he lay down on the cool, white sheets of his bed, pulled the rumpled blankets over himself, and, turning over, fell asleep.
It began in a dark, muddy forest: He was following a trail, although he couldn't see it in the misty, dim light. He simply knew this path was there -- that it had to be, perhaps. As he kept walking, the mossy trees thinned, those that remained becoming skeletal, and the sky showed through, hot and clear and bright blue. The ground became brittle.
When the last sickly tree was far behind him, he found himself on a wide, gravel road in the midst of an expanse of orange desert. The wind was slowly picking up, swirling fine dust across the bare landscape, making his think, black cloak flap helplessly. Up ahead, the gravel road forked in two, stretching out as far as the eye could see towards the horizon. He turned around to find the the forest had utterly vanished, and the gravel road continued on behind him, too, cutting through the orange earth. At the fork in the road before him, there was a beaten signpost, worn grey by weather, one marker pointing in either direction, both blank.
And then Sirius Black were there, in a torn grey tunic, his hair long and greasy and lice-ridden. His face looked empty as he stood at the fork in the road. He stepped up to Remus, and started screaming. Remus cringed, feeling Black's hot, rank breath on his face. He could see Black's dull, yellow teeth behind his snarling, white, chapped lips. Black's dull eyes widened, the tendons in his throat straining as he screamed. But Remus could hear nothing. Black's mouth was moving, but Remus could not make out what he was saying.
It continued that way, for what seemed like years -- Black screaming and howling, furious, anguished, and tears began streaming down his dirty, sunken cheeks, becoming lost in his long beard. The delicate orange dust continued to lift off the dry ground like sheets billowing in the wind. Sometimes, it passed around Remus like a cloud, but never obscured his vision. Remus could feel himself relaxing, his horror receeding. He looked at Black full in the face, unafraid. He could not hear Black, but Black kept screaming. Remus watched, until it seemed that there was nothing left of the man before him save the silence that surrounded them.
Remus blinked, in the dream, and it was over.
He woke very early in the morning. The light behind the curtains was still sickly and undefined and the bedroom was dark. He woke not only knowing that the full moon would rise tonight, but feeling it in his bones, like the tug of a receding wave against one's calves. The base and back of his neck ached. He sighed, and curled up more tightly under the warm blankets, straining the muscles in his back. If he kept his eyes shut, he would not see the empty side of the bed. If he did not reach out, he would not feel the cold sheets on the empty side of the bed. If he went back to sleep, perhaps he would never wake up.
Sleep did not come. He lay there, still, for as long as he could bear. But the restlessness, the painful restlessness that required him to keep moving, did not leave him alone for long. Soon enough, he was throwing the bedclothes back, exposing his bare legs to the cold air. He sat up and swung his legs out, off the mattress, which dipped under his shifting weight, poised to swallow him up. He would have to take the mattress off the bed soon and turn it. It was getting lumpy. His feet hit the floor resolutely, with a pair of dull thuds one so close to the other that they nearly seemed one sound. The floor, which was highly polished, seemed a frozen pond as he stood up. It seemed the color of dried blood.
He put on a pair of loose pants and picked up his wand off the bedside table. He filled the basin with cold water with a flick of his wand and washed his face. The cold water ran down, over his jaw, making tracks down his throat like tears and, sliding under his shirt, slithered down his chest before being absorbed. He splashed more water on his face, rubbing his icy fingers over his hot eyelids. His eyes burned from fatigue or oncoming illness. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids and sniffed. Then, wiping the water from beneath his nose, he dried his face with an old towel, inhaling deeply of the smell of soap and wind-dried laundry.
There was no point in engaging in any further grooming today. He merely patted his neck dry and left the towel on the table, where it had been for days. Its little hook remained abandoned on the side of the wash stand. He went back to the bedroom to put on a grey sweater and went downstairs to make tea.
He would not be going to work today. He did not feel like it. They would fire him soon, and he would not blame them. As Remus put the kettle on the range, he wondered who would come to tell him he'd let himself go. He knew the answer, and was secretly glad of it: No one would come.
On days such as this, or, worse yet, when he could not bring himself to get out of bed, he would read. Today, he was sitting in the dusky study, curled up in the threadbare, wing-backed arm chair, with a mug of tea sitting on the floor, growing more and more forlornly lukewarm. He was presently attempting to drag himself through the fifth chapter of How Morgana Le Fay Returned to Camelot, a tome of considerably heavy prose by Flavius Ragetti.
When he found his eyelids closing of their own account, he marked his page and shut the book. He put it down next to his cold cup of tea and stood up. On the end table next to the sofa, there was another mug of tea, at least three or four days old. Another teacup, this one fine, cracked china, an abandoned spoon still in it, lay on the floor near the sofa. Yet another cup sat on the writing desk by the window, older still and probably mildewed. An afghan lay in a rumpled heap on the sofa, the pillows askew.
Rising, he walked out of the study and away from the growing chaos of the room. He found himself walking up the stairs without considering his destination, and, again, shutting the bathroom door behind himself before he had even thought about it. He locked the door, though he could not imagine who would intrude on him, and filled the white tub with steaming hot water. Slowly, mindful of his sore neck, he pulled off his clothing, dropping it on the wooden floor by the head of the tub. As he undressed, he looked out on the back yard. In a few hours' time, the moon would be crawling up past those abysmal, reaching trees and into the dark night. The sky outside the window now was cold and cloudless, blank. When his clothes were all piled by the chipped, clawed foot of the tub, he stepped into the turquoise water, and slowly sank down into it. His skin flushed and seethed as he did so, and he broke out into a sweat, but he did not let this stop him.
He lay there in the water, resting his aching neck against the smooth rim of the bath tub, his hair trailing in the water. His forearms rested against the slick, hot, bottom of the tub, and the water lapped slightly over his chest, disturbed by his slow breathing. As he had in the study, he felt his eyes slowly closing, and he came to the conclusion that it had not been the considerably heavy prose that had been putting him to sleep.
He was back in the Great Hall, crouched on the stone floor, picking up rolls of parchment and quills and books and shoving them back into his school bag. Around him, the sound of people talking hummed like insect noise as students finished their breakfast. His eyes were fixed, however, on the retreating back of Severus Snape. Remus knew this to be a memory. This was fourth year, when Snape had hexed his satchel into breaking, spilling all of his things out onto the floor. Then, the other Marauders had been standing behind him, jeering at Snape. Now, however, Sirius was not there to curse Snape from behind, and James and Peter were not there to laugh when Snape's hair and robes turned hot pink. He was, in fact, alone, save for Snape, who was about to disappear from sight. Hurriedly, Remus threw the last of his things into his bag and set off after Snape.
In truth, he didn't dare follow too closely, but he kept Snape's narrow, dark form within sight. Remus watched his lank, oily hair sway as he walked, noticed the way the hem of his heavy robe skimmed the floor. They walked through the halls like ghosts, alone except for the Grey Lady, who merely floated past them once without acknowledging either of them. Even the portraits were strangely distant, unresponsive and immobile. Snape walked quickly, purposefully, almost as if he were guiding Remus somewhere. He was beginning to wonder why Snape hadn't acknowledged him, why he hadn't turned around and looked at him.
Before he had worked up the courage to call out to him, Snape had reached a door which opened out onto the portico. He opened it and stepped out into a courtyard. He walked over the hard dirt, past a fountain, housed by solitary arch, delicate and ruin-like, in the center of the yard. The light outside was pale and weak, and it was clearly very early morning. Remus stood for a moment, looking at the exquisite arch over the fountain before following Snape again.
They went right across the courtyard and through a short, dark hallway, which led them to the other side of the building. The cool, wet morning air disappeared behind them as Snape walked briskly through the deserted halls. Remus thought he might walk through Hogwarts for his entire life, following Snape exactly as he was now, and die on his feet. But, finally, Snape pushed open a heavy, oak door and stepped outside again. As they went over the lawn, the morning dew soaked into the hems of their robes and dampened their shoes. Snape continued walking south, undeterred and apparently unaware of Remus. By the time the lake was in sight, Remus' feet were cold and he was making a slight squelching noise with every step he took.
They were about to pass the old beech tree when Snape stopped suddenly and wheeled around. Remus, who was not expecting this, kept walking towards him for a moment, but then pulled up short. It was not Snape looking back at him, but Sirius, with a stern look on his face. His lips were pursed, his hollow eyes staring straight at Remus. He stepped forward, and Remus noticed the Gryffindor badge on his robes, the gold threads glimmering a little. When the space between them had been closed, Sirius reached out and slid one of his hands through Remus' hair, tilting his head to the side. Sirius leaned in and kissed Remus, his other arm wrapping around Remus' waist. Remus felt half-dead in his arms, and let himself be bent backwards as they kissed, Sirius' chest pressing up against his.
Before he knew what was happening, Sirius was putting him down on the hard, dry ground and letting him go. He opened his eyes, unsure of when they had closed, and saw Sirius standing up, looming over him. Around Remus were the bars of his cage and, beyond that, the earthen walls of the basement of his family home. He looked back to Sirius, and noticed that James and Lily were standing behind him, to Sirius' left, and Peter, too, was there, to Sirius' right. They all looked on as Sirius closed the door to Remus' cage and did up the nine iron locks with nine iron keys on a huge iron ring. Then he slipped the ring around his neck, the keys clinked into place over Sirius' heart, and James, Lily, and Peter were gone.
Sirius pulled up a plain, wooden chair and sat backwards in it, the keys clinking on his chest as he moved. He crossed his arms over the back of the chair and rested his chin on his wrist. Remus got up off his back and sat up in the cage, which was spacious, large enough to accommodate the wolf, though not large enough to allow it any room to run or gain sufficient momentum to break out. There was space enough, Remus knew, for the wolf to throw itself against the bars again and again, but they had never broken, nor shown any sign of ever giving way.
Let me back out, Remus said, getting on his knees and crawling over to the door of the cage. He wrapped his hands around the bars and looked out at Sirius.
Sirius, who had been watching Remus intently, smiled. he said warningly. You can never go back. With that, he tore a page out of the book that was sitting in his lap and began to fold it into something. He worked on this for some time, his eyes downcast and his face in shadow, without saying another word. Remus watched him relentlessly, waiting, although for what, he did not know. He did not think to berate Sirius for ruining the book; he could not, in fact, think of saying anything in this oppressive silence. Presently, his mother came in, wearing her favorite grey robes, and, keeping to the shadows, put a silver pitcher on a small table that Remus knew did not belong in the room. Then she turned around and walked out, her soft robes making a quiet slithering noise. Sirius paused for a moment in his folding and took hold of the silver pitcher. He poured what seemed to be water into a silver tumbler and drank from it, his eyes on Remus as he did so. They stared at each other for a long time before he put the tumbler back down. Smirking at Remus, he went back to his piece of paper.
Remus wondered whether the moon would rise soon. He looked around the room, but, of course, there were no windows, and so he returned his gaze to the crown of Sirius' head. His dark hair was obscuring any view of his face now. Remus could only hear the crinkling sound of paper being handled. Presently, even this stopped, and Sirius looked up at him again, his expression severe, as it had been by the lake. He held out one hand, in which an ornately folded sailing ship rested. Sirius dropped his hand out from under it and its sails billows and it floated towards Remus, propelled by some invisible wind. Remus leaned back to watch it, putting his weight on his arms and coming closer and closer to lying back down on the packed dirt floor. Finally, the ship stopped, hovering in midair high above his face. He saw its yellowed paper hull as though he were looking up at it through the water. It wavered there, as if waiting for something.
He looked up from the bottom of the tub and took a startled breath. Then he choked and sat up, coughing and gagging, water streaming down his face and stinging his eyes, which were watering, too. He coughed until his throat hurt, getting all of the lukewarm water out of his lungs. He spat repeatedly into the tub, more out of anger than necessity. He rubbed his eyes and smoothed his wet hair out of his face, plastering it down on his skull. He rubbed at his aching eyes, his heart pounding furiously.
Remus walked down the corridor between the long, nearly-empty tables, enchanted snow falling without making anything colder or wetter. At the far end of the Gryffindor table, near the staff table, a boy was juggling four large, perfect oranges, singing a song. The words of his song were, at this distance, indistinct, garbled as they echoed through the hollow Great Hall. Four or five other students sat near him, watching and laughing, that sound dull and throbbing, instead of clear and discrete. The oranges made high, neat arcs through the snowy air. Every once in a while, the boy shook his head like an animal, tossing his fine, black hair out of his eyes.
Finally, Remus reached the small group of students and sat down on the bench opposite the juggling boy. Everything seemed to slow down, the boy's movements, those of the children around him, everything; the brilliant oranges sailing through the air seemed to move through a different, more dense medium. As he stood across from the juggling boy, he realized that all sound had been muted out, save for a high-pitched wailing noise, like a wolf's keening howl. The boy's dark hair shimmered in the candlelight, the full, round oranges passing in front of his face like planets in orbit.
The wind was howling murderously through the brittle trees when Remus awoke. He could hear it even here, below the ground, in this windowless prison of a room. For a few minutes, he did not open his eyes, because he did not want to be confronted by the darkness of the empty room. The pain in his muscles, in his own bones, was enough to keep him company for the moment.
He could not honestly say which was harder: Waking up on the morning after the full moon, or waking up every other morning. Some days, they seemed equally unhappy events.
But, sure enough, Remus found it in himself to pull his aching body up off the hard floor and get to his knees. By the time he had crawled on his blooby hands and knees to the edge of his cage and grasped his wand in his fist, he almost didn't feel like undoing the charms holding the door fast. He briefly imagined casting his wand away and leaving himself to die here in this cage, curled up like a starved beast.
Tempting though the thought was, he freed himself and staggered out of the basement and up into a quickly-conjured bath. Remus did not move again for a considerable amount of time.
