Outside
by Ohnann
Disclaimer: Anything even remotely relating to Harry Potter in this ficlet belongs to J.K. Rowling.
The main doors slammed shut behind Remus, the sound echoing like the roar of a carnivore across the quiet grounds. It was barely morning; somewhere in-between the small hours and dawn. He did not know what had woken him up – perhaps it had been Peter's snuffling snoring, or the fact that James relived the latest quidditch match in his sleep – in the capacity of commentator. Remus didn't blame either of them, though; he never did. He wasn't tired, and it felt unorthodoxly good to leave the stuffy dormitory in favour of the refreshing oxygen outside.
An impulse – he didn't question it, as he'd learnt he felt a lot better mentally when he humoured the whims of his psyche– had dragged him out of bed, into his shirt, trousers and robes and straight out every door separating him from fresh air and open spaces.
He strongly suspected that his sanity had been the first thing to go when he'd allied himself to Sirius, James and Peter, but there hadn't been any palpable evidence until now. Leaving his warm bed for a walk in the September rain was not something he usually did.
He tried to come up with a reason, but had to settle for the fact that the cool drops felt soothing against his skin, like invigorating balm. The usual crisp morning air had been pushed aside by the fresh scent of damp soil. Everything was quiet, save the wind and the whisper of the rain. Although Remus wouldn't admit it, he would not mind to start every morning with a quick walk through the grass.
The sun –or at least a hint of it– rose behind some thin veils of light grey clouds. The day would be sunny, he realised, once the clouds had fled.
Even though he couldn't see it for a thicker cluster of clouds, he knew that the moon was being pushed away by the sun, and rejoiced as he remembered he wouldn't have to feel the pull of it for another fortnight.
He strolled calmly, his hands in his pockets, cowering slightly in the wind. After crossing the stretch of wet grass, he wandered off to the quidditch pitch, which was fairly firm, even though the rain had been pouring down since well before midnight. Puddles had formed in places, revealing that the pitch wasn't as even as one could expect it to be. He wanted to jump in the puddles, but restrained himself. There was a certain difference between slightly unstable and downright insane. Instead, he picked out a clear puddle – it was not that wide, but he could see his head and shoulders in the rippling surface.
The wind sneered at him, at times threatening to rip his clothes right off. It roared in his ears, put words he wished he could understand in his mouth. Cold water weighed upon his clothes, ran down the length of his robes; created little pools at his feet.
"Sometimes I worry about you," he told his jagged reflection quietly. He didn't know whether the wind placed the words on his tongue, or if they were his own, but they were true all the same. Not all kind of insanity had to be bad. A very small, but nevertheless crooked, smile disrupted the sullen symmetry he'd relied on up till then.
He looked up from the puddle, as his distorted copy refused to answer him, turned his face towards the sky, and enjoyed the assault of the chilly drops.