Plot, here I go! This is the turning point of the story, and with that in mind, this has been one of my favorite chapters to write. That day's prompt was Tea. Thanks so much to the people who have left a review, since they just make my day. :)

Smudged Ink

By: Nekare

Remus escapes from his crumbling convictions the next evening, hiding under the dark (yet not as Dark as himself) trees in the Forbidden Forest, covered with the powder white snow he knows Sirius always dreamt about while in grey London ( he catches himself at mid-thought, and then he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think, doesn't want to feel).

He stands with his back against an oak, cold seeping slowly into his winter coat, dampening it, but Remus isn't sure he minds too much. He keeps his hands inside his pockets, where they continue to tremble, tinged with an almost translucent blue right on the fingertips, the same as his lips, the same as his muddled thoughts; but Remus refuses to go and face Sirius, sitting in silence by the creaking fire in the Common Room, dark hair and dark aura, alone since no one can stand him in such a brooding mood.

A tiny part of Remus, the one he keeps trying to push down into oblivion (the wary part of his mind that's world-tired and filled with petulant pride), is satisfied that Sirius if finally being miserable about the whole thing.

The rest of him (the part nurtured by his mother's loving hands while she bandaged his wounds, and the feeling of his friends fur under his fingers), every other cell in Remus' body that just aches and wants and denies himself any kind of small pleasure; that part only wants to jump into Sirius' arms and be done with what his brain tells him to be a childish argument.

When Remus sighs, his fogged exhalation of air mingles with the flutter of wings from an Owl. The bird stands shortly on his shoulders, offering its leg with impatience, not caring about Remus' confused expression. He opens the letter with shaky fingers, but the trembling transfers to every inch of his body as his wide eyes move across the blotched words. The Owl is long gone when Remus finishes reading the letter, and by then every single drop of blood is gone from his face. The parchment slips to the ground, falling off from numb fingers and getting wet in the snow, ink getting smudged.

Remus falls to his knees, his world having turned out of control without his knowledge.

His father has died.

---

Night has fallen when Remus hears footsteps, and in the darkness the snow seems to glow bright and pure, a study in contrast. Remus's head turns a bit towards the sound, and then there's Sirius amidst the trees, breathing fast and looking far more anxious than Remus knows he would ever let himself show.

"Look, you little shit, I'm only here because both James and Peter practically forced me to, so don't-" he stops as soon as he sees Remus, kneeling in the snow with half frozen tears on his face, blue lips and red eyes. Remus doesn't want anyone to see him this way, broken and lost and trembling like a leaf on the wind; but he also needs an excuse to stop staring at the now soft parchment, the same way he has been for more than two hours.

"Oh, fuck," says Sirius as he rushes to him, taking off his thick coat on the way. He crouches in front of him, just before he puts his coat on top of Remus' shaking shoulders. "Remus, what happened? Are you hurt?" Remus moves his head slightly in the letter's direction, not trusting himself to speak.

Sirius reads it quickly, scanning its contents with eyes that widen more the lower he gets. When he finally lowers the parchment, his mouth is open as well, eyes fixed in Remus' trembling figure. He tries to speak, but after the fourth failed attempt he just lets the letter fall to the ground and launches himself to Remus in a bone crushing hug.

One of Sirius' hands touches Remus' cheek, and he separates a little, a small distance Remus just cannot accept right now. "Oh God, you're freezing! We've got to go back inside, I- I'll make you some tea, or well, have the house elves make you some tea, and-"

"No." mutters Remus in a small voice, cutting the flow of words from Sirius' lips. He throws himself against Sirius, cold nose brushing his neck, wanting to forget everything (the stupid fight, Sirius' stupidity) and nothing (his father reading him stories by the broken radiator, buried beneath a pile of blankets to escape the cold). Sirius' body heat seeps into his bones, but he keeps on trembling against Sirius, wishing it would hide his sobs.

They stay there for a while, holding each other too tightly, getting covered with a thin layer of new born snow, impervious to the beauty surrounding them. They're silent, gentle touches becoming words of grief and mourning, of comfort and warmth.

(Like the two sides of the coin of life).

A kiss in Remus' ear, and he wants to melt.

Remus' sight is blurring slightly, but Sirius' neck, face, hands, stay in focus; a constant he's just realized could be gone any time. He holds to his arms with fingers too numb to even be felt by Sirius through the multiple layers of cloth, and Sirius finally breaks the silence. "That's it, you're lips are getting purple already. We're going back in." Remus wants to say no, wants to say he'd rather stay here and turn into an ice sculpture; but he's shivering too much to even shake his head.

Sirius helps him up, and he stumbles once, twice, innumerable times as they wade through the thick snow, holding onto each other and looking ahead for Hogwarts candle-lit figure.

That night, the four boys sit close on Remus' bed, piling blankets on top of him and forcing warm tea down his throat (a fulfilled promise by Sirius). Peter, who's been researching healing Charms for a project, informs them that Remus had only been another hour away to do some serious damage to himself, and the silence that follows is drunk with fear.

Remus finally stops feeling the cold biting at his soul, but he doesn't stop trembling for the rest of the night. He doesn't sleep, and instead he stays up watching ice stalactites growing outside the window (translucent and cold, the same way he feels) and tangling his fingers again and again into the dark fur of the dog beside him.

The letter is left beneath the oak to decay.