Like Riddles Etched In Stone

Disclaimer: Let it be known that I will not continually post this. I obviously do not own or profit from J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter.

Author's Note: I had hoped to post this sooner, but life has been busy. Thank you for your reviews and please don't hesitate to ask questions or give feedback. Both are greatly appreciated, and I will try to answer questions either directly or through the story. Thank you.

-Aegle

Chapter One: Beat of the Doldrums

In retrospect, Remus Lupin thought idly, blacking out on an icy sidewalk had been fairly trivial in the scope of things, considering all that he had done in the past month. In fact, it was practically grand. Hadn't it solved the nagging problem of consciousness for a while? True enough, he had woken with rather a nasty bruise on the forehead, but that, he supposed, was the price one had to pay in these things. He might have been ashamed, perhaps even appalled, at himself one time not so long ago, but now, lying on a dingy mattress that squeaked and groaned with the slightest shift, Remus found that he felt no remorse for the act. For other things, yes, for nearly everything, but not for spending several hours with his face toward the sky in front of the Nakapan Thai House.

The other things, the things he hurt for and found himself constantly trying to escape, they chased like wild animals and left him panting. He often wondered when the ghost visions would fade away, because they were persistent- like smudges of grime on the backs of his eyelids. When he slept he saw them, heard them laughing, singing, screaming, and when he woke their imprints were still dancing about, much like the spots one saw after looking too hard and too long at the sun.

Endless hours of funeral speeches had left him bitter; he was tired of hearing how "honorably" someone had died, or even worse, how a life had been lost "for the cause." Now there wasn't a cause anymore, and Remus was beginning to question the reason they'd all been fighting in the first place. Wasn't it for safety? For happiness? Martyrs and heroes had been made, and somehow, one side had won, but to him, the ends didn't quite justify the means. He told himself, after leaving Peter's funeral, that every battle had losses. That was just how it worked. And even in the mornings, when his thinking was most clear, he still couldn't see how any of it made sense. Sirius wasn't a murderer- rebellious and prone to ending "relationships" in a matter of hours, yes, but after a while it became almost endearing.

Remus winced and rolled onto his side. He had thought of a killer as endearing.

A part of his mind felt this was unfair. After all, no matter what the circumstances, Sirius was still Sirius, still Padfoot, and still the person Remus had known from the time they'd been First Years. Yet, in a way, that person was dead. Locked away in Azkaban was a separate entity, not Sirius Black but some alien life that had taken over. Of course, Remus knew this was untrue, but it helped to think of it this way, if only a little.

There were car horns blaring beneath his window, unusual for so early in- he glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly noon. Well that explained it.

The days had melted together like hot plastic, and for a person so centered around order, it was remarkable how easily five o'clock became ten and each morning faded discreetly into evening. Most of his time was spent either at his flat or walking, which more often than not ended at a pub. That had been the result last night, and a larger ratio of the days before. And he would have taken the Knight Bus home, back to the shoddy flat in Dartmouth with swinging light bulbs and all manner of leaks and broken fixtures, but he'd spent his last Galleon on cheap whiskey (he didn't even like whiskey), and had consequently Apparated back to the city. It was amazing, he realized now, that he'd ended up relatively close to his home, and perhaps even more amazing that something hadn't gone terribly wrong on the trip. But, he supposed, he wouldn't have really cared if anything had.

Bed springs protested as he moved to stare at the ceiling. His stomach was still sore from vomiting through the remainder of the night, and now it gave an angry gurgle at having not been fed. The thought of food made Remus sick, and he would have likely thrown up again if there had been anything to expel. It was good though, he figured, as he couldn't afford to eat anyway. He closed his eyes. The sun coming in through the window was bright, and it hurt his head, but he was too tired to draw the curtains.

There were marks in the plaster walls where he'd attempted to put his fist through; he vaguely recalled this as someone rapped heavily on the door. He did not move. It was most likely the landlord, he assumed, a short Armenian man named Mourad or Murkad, or something similar- Remus couldn't remember which- and the visit was no doubt for money. There was no point in rushing the inevitable, Remus thought. The rent was late, and he didn't have the payment. So he stayed where he was. Eventually the knocking went away. The clock continued its ticking.

Twelve-thirty. That meant he could sleep for hours. The will reading wasn't until tomorrow anyway. The will. He almost laughed at the notion. What was left? Blackened ruins of his parents' house in Dover? Spectacular if one was planning a bonfire…a marshmallow roast perhaps. The idea stuck him as comical and he began to laugh- shaky outbursts that were hard to distinguish from sobs. More than anything he wanted to scream, but nothing came out, and so he swallowed barbed emotions that corroded from the inside out.

He'd identified his mother's body yesterday morning. The post had arrived early- or maybe it was late; he didn't care much for time these days- and in it a letter with a waxen seal, deep green and dignified. Remarkably harmless in appearance for a note explaining your parents' deaths, he'd thought. Well, it was all backlash, wasn't it? Voldemort had fallen but his followers had not. Oh, most had taken residence in Azkaban, it was true, but there were some who had begged off sentencing with galleons and good names. Voldemort would rise again, they thought, because it rationalized senseless killing. Remus' parents had been supporters of the Order, had been friends with most of its older members, in fact, so it was no surprise to wake up and read the letter. No, the shock had been largely in identification. Twenty-one years old and he'd barely recognized his mother and father- Mum and Dad- when they'd lifted the coverings. "But all's fair"…said the adage, and it was just another death, no different than Lily or James or Peter's. Christ, no different than Sirius' if you wanted to be metaphorical.

Realization had hit hard for Remus, all the same. But window-diving was too messy and he wasn't dramatic enough for suicide anyway. Sometimes, though, at night, he leaned out of his bedroom window as far as he could without toppling over the ledge, let the wind ruffle his hair, and stared at the dark street below. Each time, however, he saw newspaper headlines like photographs in his head. "Werewolf Suicide Increasing by Leaps and Bounds." No. He couldn't have that.

And so what did he do? He sat through elegies and ignored nervous glances and avoided Armenian landlords. But he was never good at pretending. The stress showed; it made him look years older. Last week he'd noticed the first gray hairs. They were mixed in with the strands of brown and gold but they were there. Well, James had always said he'd go gray by thirty. He'd been generous on that one.

Quietly, he rose from the bed, floorboards creaking when his feet touched the ground. He was tired and gaunt, moving with a reserved sort of grace that a boy-just-turned-man shouldn't have possessed. In truth, Remus looked far older than anyone his age- he always had. Even in his Hogwarts days most had assumed him to be the eldest of his friends. Of course, assumptions often prove false, and it was only fitting that he should be the youngest. They had joked at about that, his friends. The youngest and probably the first to go, Moony, they had said, and Remus had secretly felt that they were right. He was practically drowning in the irony.

Remus' kitchen was filled with more books than the whole of his flat. The room served no better purpose than to accumulate old texts, and it was in the doorway that he paused to fight off his lightheadedness, leaning against the frame and running his fingers back through hair that was slightly too long. On the wobbly table near the wall were stacks of papers and rolled up maps- several had fallen to the floor and rested near the corner- shoved in between stacks of thick books. He noticed he still had a letter from Marlene McKinnon among the clutter. How long ago had she sent that? Eight months? Nine? It didn't matter. He couldn't believed he'd kept it. He'd not recalled turning into his father but most of the time

these things went by unnoticed. Or so they said.

He couldn't remember what the letter had been about, but he knew he'd received it shortly before she and her family had been slain by Death Eaters in Inverness. He'd been fond of her. Sirius had been fonder. He sighed.

Most of the papers were from his apprenticeship. He'd given that up when the war and the Order became too demanding, and along with it, his income. Remus had worked for Angus Burnham since the summer after leaving Hogwarts, furthering his studies. Burnham had retired from teaching before Remus had learned his first spell, and consequently most of Remus' time was spent listening to the man reminiscing about the past. His favorite topic- and Remus' least- had been student misbehavior. Angus was a traditional wizard, set in his ways and still steaming over the "loss of respect" in Britain's youth. He often talked about these things while looking at Remus over the rims of his glasses, as though sharing some dirty secret. Candidly, Remus couldn't stand the old man, bored with his lectures and irritated with his philosophies. Yet, he had provided Remus with the materials he'd needed to increase his knowledge of the Dark Arts, and in all probability it was this that had kept him alive until now. Burnham had found him an acceptable student, and paid him small earnings to translate texts Burnham himself could no longer see properly, among other odd jobs. This salary had kept Remus afloat, and he could have gone back, could have asked for the job, but he found he didn't want to anymore than he wanted to think about deaths and debts.

So leave, said his instincts. Go.

For some time now he'd thought about doing just that. Pack up the personals and head out the door. Why did it matter if he didn't know where he was going? Surely it was better than living life in a stupor and waking up on street corners, hung-over and pathetic. There were other places, places other than England and all of its phantoms. Memories followed, he knew that, but to get away from people who knew you and murmured pleasantries with feigned, toothy smiles would offer some small relief. Increasingly, people had started to look like they were wearing masks, and Remus had long since grown weary of hushed whispers behind great Cheshire grins. And, feeling slightly less downtrodden, he cleared off a chair, reached for a map, and with a soft exhalation, spread it out before him.