The next day, Remus woke early, before even James. After grabbing a slice
of toast, he went outside into the cold November air.
A thick, grey mist hung heavy over the tops of the trees and the sky was a
dull slate grey, threatening rain. He walked slowly around the castle, the
moisture in the air clinging to his robes and freezing his face and hands.
Just before the Quidditch match was about to start, he ran up to the
Gryffindor tower to grab a scarf and gloves. There was no one there and it
was eerily quiet, outside it had started to drizzle. A depressing sort of
rain with no sign of stopping. Remus considered for a moment staying
indoors, keeping dry by the common room fire and finishing off the
astrology homework Professor Synastra had set for them the day before. But
just a glance at the instructions told him that he didn't have a hope in
hell of doing it right and so, reluctantly, he decided that Quidditch was
his only other option.
"Go Gryffindor!!" screamed an eager first year to Remus' right. The commentator droned on in the background and the gryffindor stands erupted as Versey put the ball through the right hand hoop, catching it expertly and doing a triumphant lap of victory whilst a furious looking Rodgers muttered to his teammates. Meanwhile, James soared above their heads, his hair messed by the wind, watching closely for any sign of the snitch.
Remus didn't notice any of this. He was too busy watching the large girl in green. She was perched on a broom that looked like it ought to snap under her weight, and was holding a hefty looking bat and glaring menacingly around the pitch.
Remus had purposefully chosen a seat on the other side of the Gryffindor stands to where he and his friends usually sat. He was surrounded by first and second years, their brightly coloured flags and banners framing his view of the pitch. He had been trying to ignore Peter and Sirius but couldn't help throwing occasional glances across at them. While Peter was watching the game with a rapt expression on his face, Sirius' head was bent low over his lap and he was scribbling something, looking up now and then to check on the players in front of him, and then going back to the sketchbook balanced on his knees.
Sirius wasn't that interested in the game of Quidditch, and cared even less about the outcome, but he always went along to the games for James' sake and to draw the players. He had told Remus he enjoyed the atmosphere of the crowds and the excitement of being part of something. Although he was amazing on his broom and had been asked more than twice by Versey to join the team, he stubbornly refused, saying that he preferred to draw the players rather than be one of them. He never showed anyone his sketchbook, although plenty of people had asked. He occasionally showed Remus and the rest of the marauders a carefully chosen picture or drawing, coloured or black and white and completed. Sirius had a real gift for drawing but only occasionally animated his sketches with magic, preferring to leave them still, like a muggle snapshot.
Suddenly, Sirius looked up, directly into Remus' eyes. Remus felt himself blushing fro being caught staring, but Sirius smiled un-self-consciously and Remus could see that he was caught up in his drawing, not remembering that Remus wasn't talking to him.
He looked away, in time to see James diving headlong towards a glimmering spot of gold, the Slytherin seeker hot on his tail. All the stands were up on their feet, screaming and yelling, cheering their seeker on. James' hand was outstretched, fingers reaching and almost touching the fluttering white wings of the snitch. He was so far forward on his broom that it seemed he was flying without support. The Slytherin seeker was next to James, their shoulders touching, their hair blowing in the wind, both straining forwards, to catch that glimmering orb.
Suddenly, a bludger came out of nowhere, smacking James in the side of his head. Remus watched in slow motion as James' whole body arced, his wolf's eyes picking up the droplets of blood flying from his nose and lips. James had let go of his broom and was tumbling almost gracefully through the air, arms and legs flying uselessly beside him. The stands were completely silent but only Remus heard the heart-stopping crunch of bones as James hit the floor, splayed out on the damp grass like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.
Then everything speeded up. All the players on the pitch flying towards that one spot on the ground, even the Slytherins, the snitch clasped in the seeker's hand. Madame Hollander ran across the pitch, blowing her whistle and waving her arms, forcing her way through the huddle of players. A few Slytherins hung back, talking to each other, and Remus saw with a sinking feeling as Rodgers walked up to Branwen Dunn, patting her on the back and laughing.
Remus couldn't move, was stuck to the floor of the stands with shock as people around him began milling about, leaving and chatting. Out of the corner of his eye, Remus saw as Sirius stood up, his sketch book and pencils falling to the floor with a clatter. His fists were clenched and he was saying something to Peter before pushing his way down the stands, causing third years to trip over themselves to get out of his way. Peter followed nervously behind him, apologising to the people as they passed. Remus realised Sirius was making a beeline for Branwen.
Everyone was against him as he struggled to reach the place where Sirius has been standing only moments before. Bending down, he gathered the pencils and sketch book, hugging it to his chest before making his way carefully around the seats.
Down on the pitch Remus could see Sirius striding towards Branwen, rolling his sleeves up as he walked, ignoring the high pitched pleading from Peter. Sirius walked directly up behind Branwen and tapped her on the shoulder. She was about four inches taller than Sirius was, but as she turned around he drew his fist back and swung it into her face, causing her to stagger back a few steps in shock before smiling and returning the blow.
By the time Remus reached the pitch, Branwen and Sirius were locked in a ferocious struggle, rolling in mud and shallow puddles, occasionally getting the upper hand and striking before being forced down by the other. Peter was standing nearby, begging with Sirius to stop and follow James to the medical room, whilst a group of Slytherins were standing a bit nearer, egging Branwen on with shouts of "Sock it to 'im Dunn!" and "Go on! Show that filthy Gryffindor who's boss!" And intermingled with the other noises were the combatant's own cries and grunts. Sirius was screaming something about how she'd killed James and he was going to kill her. Behind the fighting, Madame Hollander was overseeing the removal of James on a stretcher towards the hospital wing and Remus could see a trickle of blood against James' impossibly white forehead.
Remus could only stand and watch dumbly, incapable of interference as the fight grew more vicious. Abruptly, Branwen stood up, panting. Sirius was still rolling on the floor in pain; clutching his balls and biting down on his already cut lip. Branwen's eyes locked with Remus' and a slow grin spread across her face. she laughed openly and winked at Remus. He turned and ran.
His feet were slipping on the wet grass and he slipped and fell, landing in a puddle of mud, feeling it ooze between his fingers and drip down the back of his neck as he flicked his hair out of his face and picked himself up. Behind him he could hear the raucous laughter of the Slytherins and he felt shame creep up inside him. But he couldn't stop running. Even when he heard Sirius' weak shout of Remus!, he still continued towards the castle.
Remus flung Sirius' things down onto his own bed and stripped off his wet and muddy clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Shivering in the cold air, he ran into the bathroom, immediately losing himself in the torrent to boiling water that pounded down onto his shoulders, chest and head.
He started heaving weakly but no tears came. When he closed his eyes all he could see was Sirius covered in mud, in blood, himself covered in the same things. And Branwen's cruel laughing face, the way she had winked at him.
"I'M SICK OF THIS!" he screamed and the water filled and bubbled in his mouth. He was sick of feeling dirty all the time, of hiding secrets, of himself hurting, of his friends being hurt. Somehow it was all his fault, everything. And none of it would have happened if he had just told Sirius what was in that note.
If Sirius had known, then he wouldn't have gone to meet Branwen alone, he wouldn't have bitten Sirius that night in the shrieking shack, James would have been more careful on the pitch today, and he, Remus would have been there to hold Sirius back.
But he hadn't. It was the same mixture of emotions that now prevented him from going to see Sirius and James in the hospital wing. It was a mixture of pride and obstinacy. He was too proud to admit that he needed Sirius, and he had been too proud to ask for his help in tackling Branwen, and he was too obstinate to admit he was wrong, he did need Sirius.
It was only after drying himself and putting on clean clothes, leaving the soiled robes on his trunk along with his damp towel for the house elves to collect, that he remembered Sirius' sketchbook. He flopped down onto his bed beside it and took it onto his lap. He had been with Sirius when he had bought it, in a small art shop in the middle of rural France. It had been boiling that day, the sun bouncing off the dusty paths and seeking out every corner, every crack, so that there wasn't a scrap of shade anywhere. That hadn't stopped James' parents driving them outside, forcing Remus, James and Sirius to walk to the next village where they would have apparated first and be waiting for them. They insisted that a walk would do the boys good. When they reached there, the sweat pouring off their backs, their shirts having been pulled off long ago, instead of going straight to the nearest tap to soak themselves under the cool water, Sirius had dragged Remus into an art shop, just re-opened after the midday break. Remus remembered Sirius' long fingers stroking the pages of the book lovingly before buying it from the small lady behind the counter, who was obviously shocked at his flawless French.
Remus hadn't seen inside it since, had only watched as Sirius drew in it, filling page after page until he was forced to slot in his own pages, their edges sticking out slightly from the bulk of the book. Now that Remus was about to open it, he could wonder for the last time what was inside the pages of the famous book. Quidditch players? Mythical beasts? Diagrams? Still lives? People Remus knew? Maybe there would be a picture of him in there, and the other Marauders.
His fingers carefully drew back the front cover of the book and stared down, straight into his own eyes. There, on the very first page was Remus, at a small café table in France, leaning back, his hair falling into his eyes and a half smile playing around his lips. He looked relaxed, as he never felt in school, his bare chest skilfully drawn by Sirius' artful fingers.
Remus turned the pages of the book with growing apprehension, on almost every page his own eyes gazed back at him. Tired, angry, happy, sad, bored, dull, animated. There was even one of him asleep, his hand tangled in his hair, the other one above his head, his sleeping features contorted in fear, in the grip of one of his nightmares. Occasionally there was a sketch of a Quidditch player, or one of the other Marauders, but it was usually hurried or unfinished, the lines scratchy and bored. On the last loose page of paper, there was the beginnings of Remus, gazing out onto the Quidditch pitch, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Behind him, little black Quidditch players hovered, faceless, houseless. A long black line ran diagonally across the page, right across Remus' torso.
Remus shut the book slowly and sat on his bed for a moment, allowing it all to sink in. He had never realised, he never knew, what did it all mean? His breathing sounded unnaturally loud in his ears and the spattering rain slowly filtered into his consciousness. The stillness that filled the room was suddenly shattered as Peter came bursting through the door, panting and holding his chest.
"They're....they're....taking James....St Mungo's...Sirius...come!"
In between taking huge shuddering breaths, Peter tried to relay the message he'd been sent with.
T.B.C
"Go Gryffindor!!" screamed an eager first year to Remus' right. The commentator droned on in the background and the gryffindor stands erupted as Versey put the ball through the right hand hoop, catching it expertly and doing a triumphant lap of victory whilst a furious looking Rodgers muttered to his teammates. Meanwhile, James soared above their heads, his hair messed by the wind, watching closely for any sign of the snitch.
Remus didn't notice any of this. He was too busy watching the large girl in green. She was perched on a broom that looked like it ought to snap under her weight, and was holding a hefty looking bat and glaring menacingly around the pitch.
Remus had purposefully chosen a seat on the other side of the Gryffindor stands to where he and his friends usually sat. He was surrounded by first and second years, their brightly coloured flags and banners framing his view of the pitch. He had been trying to ignore Peter and Sirius but couldn't help throwing occasional glances across at them. While Peter was watching the game with a rapt expression on his face, Sirius' head was bent low over his lap and he was scribbling something, looking up now and then to check on the players in front of him, and then going back to the sketchbook balanced on his knees.
Sirius wasn't that interested in the game of Quidditch, and cared even less about the outcome, but he always went along to the games for James' sake and to draw the players. He had told Remus he enjoyed the atmosphere of the crowds and the excitement of being part of something. Although he was amazing on his broom and had been asked more than twice by Versey to join the team, he stubbornly refused, saying that he preferred to draw the players rather than be one of them. He never showed anyone his sketchbook, although plenty of people had asked. He occasionally showed Remus and the rest of the marauders a carefully chosen picture or drawing, coloured or black and white and completed. Sirius had a real gift for drawing but only occasionally animated his sketches with magic, preferring to leave them still, like a muggle snapshot.
Suddenly, Sirius looked up, directly into Remus' eyes. Remus felt himself blushing fro being caught staring, but Sirius smiled un-self-consciously and Remus could see that he was caught up in his drawing, not remembering that Remus wasn't talking to him.
He looked away, in time to see James diving headlong towards a glimmering spot of gold, the Slytherin seeker hot on his tail. All the stands were up on their feet, screaming and yelling, cheering their seeker on. James' hand was outstretched, fingers reaching and almost touching the fluttering white wings of the snitch. He was so far forward on his broom that it seemed he was flying without support. The Slytherin seeker was next to James, their shoulders touching, their hair blowing in the wind, both straining forwards, to catch that glimmering orb.
Suddenly, a bludger came out of nowhere, smacking James in the side of his head. Remus watched in slow motion as James' whole body arced, his wolf's eyes picking up the droplets of blood flying from his nose and lips. James had let go of his broom and was tumbling almost gracefully through the air, arms and legs flying uselessly beside him. The stands were completely silent but only Remus heard the heart-stopping crunch of bones as James hit the floor, splayed out on the damp grass like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.
Then everything speeded up. All the players on the pitch flying towards that one spot on the ground, even the Slytherins, the snitch clasped in the seeker's hand. Madame Hollander ran across the pitch, blowing her whistle and waving her arms, forcing her way through the huddle of players. A few Slytherins hung back, talking to each other, and Remus saw with a sinking feeling as Rodgers walked up to Branwen Dunn, patting her on the back and laughing.
Remus couldn't move, was stuck to the floor of the stands with shock as people around him began milling about, leaving and chatting. Out of the corner of his eye, Remus saw as Sirius stood up, his sketch book and pencils falling to the floor with a clatter. His fists were clenched and he was saying something to Peter before pushing his way down the stands, causing third years to trip over themselves to get out of his way. Peter followed nervously behind him, apologising to the people as they passed. Remus realised Sirius was making a beeline for Branwen.
Everyone was against him as he struggled to reach the place where Sirius has been standing only moments before. Bending down, he gathered the pencils and sketch book, hugging it to his chest before making his way carefully around the seats.
Down on the pitch Remus could see Sirius striding towards Branwen, rolling his sleeves up as he walked, ignoring the high pitched pleading from Peter. Sirius walked directly up behind Branwen and tapped her on the shoulder. She was about four inches taller than Sirius was, but as she turned around he drew his fist back and swung it into her face, causing her to stagger back a few steps in shock before smiling and returning the blow.
By the time Remus reached the pitch, Branwen and Sirius were locked in a ferocious struggle, rolling in mud and shallow puddles, occasionally getting the upper hand and striking before being forced down by the other. Peter was standing nearby, begging with Sirius to stop and follow James to the medical room, whilst a group of Slytherins were standing a bit nearer, egging Branwen on with shouts of "Sock it to 'im Dunn!" and "Go on! Show that filthy Gryffindor who's boss!" And intermingled with the other noises were the combatant's own cries and grunts. Sirius was screaming something about how she'd killed James and he was going to kill her. Behind the fighting, Madame Hollander was overseeing the removal of James on a stretcher towards the hospital wing and Remus could see a trickle of blood against James' impossibly white forehead.
Remus could only stand and watch dumbly, incapable of interference as the fight grew more vicious. Abruptly, Branwen stood up, panting. Sirius was still rolling on the floor in pain; clutching his balls and biting down on his already cut lip. Branwen's eyes locked with Remus' and a slow grin spread across her face. she laughed openly and winked at Remus. He turned and ran.
His feet were slipping on the wet grass and he slipped and fell, landing in a puddle of mud, feeling it ooze between his fingers and drip down the back of his neck as he flicked his hair out of his face and picked himself up. Behind him he could hear the raucous laughter of the Slytherins and he felt shame creep up inside him. But he couldn't stop running. Even when he heard Sirius' weak shout of Remus!, he still continued towards the castle.
Remus flung Sirius' things down onto his own bed and stripped off his wet and muddy clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Shivering in the cold air, he ran into the bathroom, immediately losing himself in the torrent to boiling water that pounded down onto his shoulders, chest and head.
He started heaving weakly but no tears came. When he closed his eyes all he could see was Sirius covered in mud, in blood, himself covered in the same things. And Branwen's cruel laughing face, the way she had winked at him.
"I'M SICK OF THIS!" he screamed and the water filled and bubbled in his mouth. He was sick of feeling dirty all the time, of hiding secrets, of himself hurting, of his friends being hurt. Somehow it was all his fault, everything. And none of it would have happened if he had just told Sirius what was in that note.
If Sirius had known, then he wouldn't have gone to meet Branwen alone, he wouldn't have bitten Sirius that night in the shrieking shack, James would have been more careful on the pitch today, and he, Remus would have been there to hold Sirius back.
But he hadn't. It was the same mixture of emotions that now prevented him from going to see Sirius and James in the hospital wing. It was a mixture of pride and obstinacy. He was too proud to admit that he needed Sirius, and he had been too proud to ask for his help in tackling Branwen, and he was too obstinate to admit he was wrong, he did need Sirius.
It was only after drying himself and putting on clean clothes, leaving the soiled robes on his trunk along with his damp towel for the house elves to collect, that he remembered Sirius' sketchbook. He flopped down onto his bed beside it and took it onto his lap. He had been with Sirius when he had bought it, in a small art shop in the middle of rural France. It had been boiling that day, the sun bouncing off the dusty paths and seeking out every corner, every crack, so that there wasn't a scrap of shade anywhere. That hadn't stopped James' parents driving them outside, forcing Remus, James and Sirius to walk to the next village where they would have apparated first and be waiting for them. They insisted that a walk would do the boys good. When they reached there, the sweat pouring off their backs, their shirts having been pulled off long ago, instead of going straight to the nearest tap to soak themselves under the cool water, Sirius had dragged Remus into an art shop, just re-opened after the midday break. Remus remembered Sirius' long fingers stroking the pages of the book lovingly before buying it from the small lady behind the counter, who was obviously shocked at his flawless French.
Remus hadn't seen inside it since, had only watched as Sirius drew in it, filling page after page until he was forced to slot in his own pages, their edges sticking out slightly from the bulk of the book. Now that Remus was about to open it, he could wonder for the last time what was inside the pages of the famous book. Quidditch players? Mythical beasts? Diagrams? Still lives? People Remus knew? Maybe there would be a picture of him in there, and the other Marauders.
His fingers carefully drew back the front cover of the book and stared down, straight into his own eyes. There, on the very first page was Remus, at a small café table in France, leaning back, his hair falling into his eyes and a half smile playing around his lips. He looked relaxed, as he never felt in school, his bare chest skilfully drawn by Sirius' artful fingers.
Remus turned the pages of the book with growing apprehension, on almost every page his own eyes gazed back at him. Tired, angry, happy, sad, bored, dull, animated. There was even one of him asleep, his hand tangled in his hair, the other one above his head, his sleeping features contorted in fear, in the grip of one of his nightmares. Occasionally there was a sketch of a Quidditch player, or one of the other Marauders, but it was usually hurried or unfinished, the lines scratchy and bored. On the last loose page of paper, there was the beginnings of Remus, gazing out onto the Quidditch pitch, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Behind him, little black Quidditch players hovered, faceless, houseless. A long black line ran diagonally across the page, right across Remus' torso.
Remus shut the book slowly and sat on his bed for a moment, allowing it all to sink in. He had never realised, he never knew, what did it all mean? His breathing sounded unnaturally loud in his ears and the spattering rain slowly filtered into his consciousness. The stillness that filled the room was suddenly shattered as Peter came bursting through the door, panting and holding his chest.
"They're....they're....taking James....St Mungo's...Sirius...come!"
In between taking huge shuddering breaths, Peter tried to relay the message he'd been sent with.
T.B.C