The sun was down, and all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, "Behold! the barren beach of hell at ebb of tide."
-- Alexander Smith, A Life of Drama
PART IV:
HOLLOWNESS
By the time the sun was beginning to sink below the thick, grasping tree line, Remus was certain of his decision. The kitchen was filled with hot, bloody light, the copper pots shining like rubies, his skin pink like sheets dipped in red water. His mother sat at the kitchen table, scarlet with dying sunlight and prophecy.
Where will you go, my darling? she asked, her husky voice thin.
I don't know, he replied. He could not meet her dark eyes, could only look so far as her bright cheeks.
Come visit me, she said.
I'll -- try.
Her skin seemed flat, like paint on a canvas, in this light. Remus was a little afraid of her. Her white nightgown rippled around her thin body like cream. It's very lonely, Remus.
It can't be lonely, Mum, he said. There are plenty of other people around.
No, it's quite lonely. You should come and see me.
Remus pursed his lips. I'll try. I promise.
Good. I'd just die without you, my darling.
Don't say that, he whispered. Please don't.
You're killing me as it is, Remus, dear, she said. I might as well be dead.
Please don't . . .
You're terrible, you know. Terrible.
Mum . . . He looked away from her flat, orange skin, the hollows of her face nearly black with shadow. He stared instead out the window.
Why did you put me here? Why did you put me here, Remus? Why are you doing this to me?
It wasn't my fault, he said quietly. He could feel tears gathering, unbidden, in his eyes. Please don't . . .
Why are you doing this to me?
It was your own fault! he shouted. A silence fell between them, and, finally, blinking the wetness from his eyes, he looked back at her, repentant. He found himself faced not with his mother but with Sirius, and he felt a scream rise in his throat.
Why are you doing this to me, Remus? Sirius asked.
Remus could neither release the scream nor force it away. He swallowed thickly, but to no avail; he wanted to shake from fear but couldn't find it in himself.
Sirius' eyes were cast into dark shadow, just like his mother's had been, and his skin was the same dull orange. His hair lay flat like another shadow around his face. Why did you do this to me, Remus?
When Remus finally managed to breathe, he felt sick. Get out of here, he murmured. Get out.
I can't, Remus. I can't. I'm stuck here.
No -- He could feel the panic rising in him. No -- You're not here. You're -- not.
You put me here. Why did you do this to me, Remus?
I didn't. I didn't do anything.
You put me here, Sirius persisted.
Remus stood up quickly, knocking his chair back. It's your own fault! It's your own bloody fault! He stared at the figure before him, still as a stone. Get out of my house! Get out! You aren't here! You aren't! You're not real. It's your own fault -- get out!
You haven't got your wand, my darling, said the figure in front of him, which was slowly becoming more shadow and less skin as the sun set below the trees. What can you do without your wand? Not a whole lot.
Please! Get out! Get out!
This is my house, my darling. You can't throw me out. His mother laughed.
Stop it! Leave me alone!
You called me up. Don't you want me here?
I hope you die! Remus shouted, backing away from the table. I hope you both die!
When he felt his back hit the back door, he turned, and forced the latch open. He shoved at the door and stepped into the muddy, reddish darkness. There was no sound from the kitchen, save for that of the breeze rustling the newspapers on the kitchen floor.
I hope you die! he shouted back at the newspapers, and a bird fled a nearby tree in fright.
It struck him as strange that the streets of Muggle London could be so jubilantly placid. It was strange, but not unwelcome.
Here, nobody had really recognized Voldemort's rise to power, and certainly no one knew he had been defeated by an infant. Here, there was no manic celebration of a newfound peace, nor a fatal undercurrent of sick grief. There were no Mrs. Pettigrews here in Muggle London, and certainly no Remus Lupins. Here, life had been revolving on its cheerfully benign axis all along.
There was no mistake that Remus liked it that way. He liked the unassuming bustle of businesspeople and tourists, the faceless interaction on the underground, but, most of all, he liked the way he could cut quietly through the crowded sidewalks with complete anonymity. He liked the hollowness of Muggle London. If he were to backtrack a mile or so, and reenter Diagon Alley, he would inevitably have been surrounded by a strange mix of relief, despair, and complete confusion. The wizarding world, although overjoyed by Voldemort's defeat, had been left in a muddled, impenetrable fog for two months now, and no one quite knew what do to with their new liberty.
Remus could not bear it. He did not want to see the people he knew rebuild their lives. He did not want to meet old friends as they finally came out of hiding, to finally read the obituaries that had been withheld for security reasons. In fact, he wanted nothing to do with any of it.
The clean Muggle architecture was a comfort. It had nothing to do with the world he'd been living in for the past ten years. He felt blissfully out of context.
The automatic doors opened with a hiss and he stepped into the warm lobby. There were plastic Christmas garlands hanging limply on the walls, and he could just see a heavily decorated plastic tree in the next room. A nurse in a white uniform sat at the front desk, reading a magazine. He cleared his throat and she looked up at him.
The nurse did not seem impressed. Sign in, please, was all she said.
He signed in on a clipboard perched on the very edge of the desk. His name, as he looked at it, seemed more and more like a series of runes, inscrutable.
Who are you here to see?
Remus blinked, and his name was his own again. he asked.
Who are you here to see?
He looked down at her dumbly. Her reddish hair, curled neatly away from her white, narrow cheekbones, was suddenly repulsive. She seemed like something on a printed page, glossy and flat, staring up at him with that expectant look in her empty cow eyes. . . . Mrs. Rose Lupin, he said finally.
Right, then, the nurse said shortly, looking back down at her desk. Remus noticed that her magazine was still in her hand. Room 205. Good day. With that, her gaze dropped back to her magazine and it was once more as if he did not exist at all.
He made his way into the next room, past the overburdened Christmas tree, and up the staircase. On the second level, he met a woman sitting on the floor, her legs tucked up under her, her pale pink robe gaping open to reveal her skin. He looked away and pretended he did not see when she reached out to him.
Room 205 was empty. His mother was sitting in a chair by the window, vacant. She did not turn when he knocked on the door frame, nor did she look away from the window when he called to her.
I'm leaving, he said to her back. I'm going very far away. Her dull brown hair was parted neatly down the middle, hanging limply over her shoulders, her neck a pale white column. I don't know if I'll come back. So I'm sorry for that. But I promised I'd come, and, you see, I have.
He could hear trucks going past outside. The hum of the air through the vents was loud, and the air was papery and hot. He sighed.
I'm leaving, he said again. She did not move.
He wished, suddenly, that he had brought flowers. She came back to herself in fits and starts, he knew, and although she did not recognize her son now, she might appreciate some flowers sitting on her faux wood table when she remembered his name.
This vision of his mother haunted him more than the other ghost had. This woman, unobscured by shadow and red sunlight, was ultimately more terrible. He saw in her hollow eyes the same sort of listless fog that he saw in the eyes of Frank and Alice Longbottom. While Voldemort had reduced them to this, something much more inescapable had claimed his mother.
It was a cold comfort, telling himself she was better off here. It was his father's insurance that was paying for the place. He couldn't leave her alone in the family home. While he was certain she couldn't burn the place down, he knew she could very easily rot away inside those walls. He thought, in fact, that she had been doing that very thing for years.
The sky was red again when he left, the air violently cold. He paused by a fire hydrant to adjust his jacket and wrap his scarf more tightly around his neck. The wall of the building across the street, an smooth granite shape, was bathed in fractured red light, and Remus turned away quickly.
He didn't go to the Leaky Cauldron and use the floo to get home, though his bags were packed and waiting for him. He thought it might be the bloody light that kept driving him onwards, though he couldn't say to where or for what purpose. Even to him, his path had no particular direction or logic.
Long past the the tall Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, he passed a rather seamy barber shop. A balding man in a white smock was trimming another man's hair. The man in the chair was huge and broad-shouldered and his short hair was a malarial yellow. Remus stood by the window, bathed in the warm light pouring from inside. The barber, it occurred to him, reminded him of his Uncle David, and he pushed the door open.
Have a seat, the barber said curtly, not looking up from his client's scalp.
Remus took off his hat and scarf and sat down in a chair with plastic seat cushions. He crossed his legs at the ankle and twisted his hat between his hands. Eventually, the barber removed the plastic cape from his client's shoulders and the yellow-haired man stood and got out his wallet. He handed the barber a crisp bank note and, pulling on a heavy winter jacket, left without even glancing at Remus.
The barber picked up a broom and began sweeping up the short hairs that scattered the floor. What can I do for you? he asked, his eyes on his work.
I suppose, Remus said slowly, I thought I might get my hair cut. You aren't closing, are you?
Can stay open a few more minutes. The man bent down and Remus heard some joint pop loudly. He swept the hair into a dust pan and stood. You've got a good bit of hair, don't you.
I do, he replied. It was one of his few vanities. It wasn't especially remarkable, his hair. In fact, it was straight and a pale mousy brown and rather dry. There were already brittle strands of grey in it. But it was not one of his vanities because it was so unbearably beautiful. He liked his hair because it was long, down to his shoulder blades now, and it was the way his scalp felt when he ran his fingers through it that really made it seem an indulgence. I think I ought to cut it.
If you want, the barber said. Remus could see that he was a careless, easy man, nothing like his uncle.
I think I do.
Take your coat off, then.
Remus stood and started to remove his coat. When it was halfway off his shoulders, he stopped. The barber looked at him expectantly, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his scalp. Remus looked back, and felt a lump rising in his throat. I don't think -- I'm sorry. I've changed my mind. I'm wasting your time. He quickly jammed his hat back on his head and wrapped his scarf around his neck like a noose. I'm sorry, he said again, and left. He might have at least one pleasure left to him, he thought bitterly as he turned away from the barber's.
The winter wind tugged at his open jacket, and he swallowed against the thing in his throat. It felt like tears, but he had told himself that he would not cry. He did not cry. Men like Voldemort and Sirius Black did not deserve his tears.
He passed a storefront display of glowing silver soup tureens and engraved platters. The light reflected off their polished surfaces was bright, almost blinding. It seemed like dawn was emanating from that crowded window. Until the real sun rose, sharp and unforgiving over the Thames, that false dawn echoed in his thoughts and reminded him of one thing: That the future had not yet been determined, and that, like most promises, was painful at best.
