Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be
Dedication: To lazy Saturdays and not very much to do
Nervous Energy
I want to cry. Or dance. I'm not sure yet, just want to do something to get rid of this nervous energy.
I look to the window. The clouds are rolling across the sky like whipped cream. But whipped cream doesn't really roll. It- Oh who cares what whipped cream does? I have too much energy.
I'm not sad. I'm not going to sit and cry.
I'm not happy, but I think dancing is the better option.
I stand up. Ready to dance. But there's no rhythm, no beat, no melody, no sound to dance to. For the first time in… too long, I'm hearing silence. Not James laughing. Or Peter humming off-key or even Sirius talking. I can't dance, what's there to dance to?
I start to hum. Not badly, like Peter, but quite well. I used to be a bit of a singer, when I wasn't concerned with the next transformation or the next homework assignment. When I was standing in our small garden in cramped London.
Two grey flagstones. That's all the garden was. Too grey flagstones with high walls on either side. They were painted white, but were as grey as the ground after years without attention. But the walls were high and I couldn't see anyone else, so they couldn't see me, right?
Well, I was all alone and that's all that mattered to me. I could hear an almost distant noise of traffic. Someone was beeping their car horn at someone else. I could hear the dull chatter of people on the other side of my wall as they walked past.
I started to whistle. A made-up tune which sounded something like my Father's traditional Scottish ballads and something like my Mother's jazzy tunes sung by a woman who must've smoked to much with her breathy voice.
It was a weird mix, but it worked for me. I was starting to dance like I was on a pogo-stick. I jumped and jumped to nothing but my voice. Inspiration struck and I started to do a little shifty move that meant I came close to the walls but never hit them.
I kept moving, trying new things every so often. I was singing at full volume and ended up spinning and spinning and spinning. The walls crashed into me (as I am convinced I didn't crash into them) and my mother came running out.
"Oh Remus," She had said, London starting to change her Scottish accent. "What're we going to do with you?"
"Put me in a bin?" I suggested, feeling the bump on my head.
She frowned and said no. She said they would take me on a holiday, a camping holiday because we couldn't afford much more. But there would be big, open spaces and trees and all sorts of things to do.
We went in the April of that year. I was bitten and lost my mother.
It's weird to think of that now. I was only five years old at the time. Remembering that story should make me cry.
But it doesn't.
Instead, I rush outside. There are big, open spaces there. I can dance with all the privacy of high walls and all the space of two-hundred grey flagstones.
I pick a nice spot by the lake on a slight hill. I can hear the bees buzzing lazily in the June air and the birds chirping and various magical creatures making various magical noises. There's noise around.
I start to hum, my mind no longer focusing on a jumble of music my parents once listened to, but Peter's humming of old rock songs and James' shower-singing and a cacophony of Latin words I've come to know since I came to Hogwarts.
Instead of starting with small unnoticeable moves, I start by throwing my arms back and belting out a note.
From there, I just move. I listen to my voice and nature's voice and the voices of my friend's as they call for me.
I'm spinning. Spinning so fast that I fall. I roll, faster than clouds, down the hill and straight into the lake.
As the ever-cold lake water hits me, I cry out. My friends who were looking for me come running. Sirius splashes right in to make sure I don't drown or something along those lines.
"Oh Remus." He says in a patronising voice. I'm five again, looking up into my Mother's blue eyes as she bends to kiss the bump on my head. I realise that I'm actually fifteen and I'm staring into dark brown eyes.
I almost cry, but I don't have enough energy after all that dancing. I settle for being mothered by a boy with black hair, brown eyes and a heart of gold.
He drags me from the lake and looks at my torn robes and worn trousers.
"What'll we do with you?" He asks. I shrug and look at the whipped cream clouds above his head.
I'm in a weird mood that makes me want to write or cry. Or bite something. I dunno, that's why it's a weird fic. If you think I should delete, please say.