Waiting
By Kitsune no Alz
He sits there and he wonders why this has happened to him. He is not guilty, and that is the thought that he clings to, his safety-belt, his lifesaver, his comfort-blanket and shield in this cruel cold prison that keeps him in and keeps him in. He'd like to say that it's not his fault, too, but he knows better than that. Maybe he isn't guilty, but he is still at least partially to blame for what happened.
The walls are chill and hard and occasionally slimy, and black things with antennae and many legs scuttle across the floor. Occasionally they scuttle over him, mistaking him for a mere lumpy and peculiarly soft extension of the wall, so still does he sit. He does not move to brush them away. They are company of a sort, and have more life and sympathy than those soul-sucking leeches do who haunt the halls and guard the exit to his cell.
He sits there for ages and ages, barely moving, barely living. He sits there, and his memory keeps him company while he waits and waits. Faces cross his vision and voices ring in his ears. Bold, brash James and beautiful Lily, talking and laughing together, arm-in-arm as often as not, and now they turn around, smiling, to say something to him, only he can't make out their words. The silence of his prison cell muffles what they're saying, and in the haven of his mind he curses and rails at the silence.
Still, he can see what Lily cradles in her arms, he can see the soft glow of love that suffuses both her face and her husband's as they gaze down at the baby boy nestled in the crook of her elbow. His hair is an unruly shock of black, and his half-open eyes are just like his mother's. Little Harry, his godson. The family of three gather close, hold close, are close. This memory gives him comfort. And he gathers this memory close, holds it close, keeps it close, because he knows it is no longer real.
Another face shatters this image, a visage that is pinched and furtive. Rage boils his blood and he nearly stands right then and there, to go and cling to the metal bars making a prisoner of him and scream his throat raw. Traitor, traitor, traitor, I trusted you, we trusted you. Imagining how I'm going to force you to pay your debt to Harry keeps me sane. Peter, you backstabber, you lying, conniving, traitorous bastard. But at the last second, he restrains himself, because he knows that standing and screaming and promising vengeance to the empty air will gain him nothing; the time and effort are better spent waiting.
As he waits, calm returns as gradually as sand descends in an hourglass. The rage is still there, but it is deep and smoldering and wrapped tightly in his heart. He composes himself, and waits for the final face in the cycle to appear.
There it is: a face as calm and composed as he is striving to be, a face that is perhaps a little careworn, but good-natured and friendly. He can see him now, a bit shabby as always, a bit tired as always, but still smiling that small smile, his lip slightly curving as though he is sharing a private joke with him, the both of them, the two of them together. He can see his face, and when he listens hard, he can hear his voice, genteel and low, saying useless things. The words are meaningless and he never bothers to listen to them, because what he is listening for is the intonation, connotation, the meaning and emotion and expression behind them, for that is where the true message lies, and he treasures it and treasures it and treasures it. He closes his eyes, sees his face still, and feels a slight warm brush across his face, as though a hand has just stroked his cheek. In his heart, he keeps the memory, as true as and as deeper and richer than the rage that also lies therein.
Remus, he thinks, you help me survive while I'm waiting.
Because I'm waiting for the exact moment to escape.