AN: this fic explores Remus' life and feelings during October-November 1981, and will be comprised of 5 chapters (only 1 of which remains unwritten). Because I am a sentimental soul, there's plenty of implied RLSB and RLLE, and chapters 3 and 4 will be RLOC (a bit too much for my liking, but I can't seem to control my pen these days…)

So, this first chapter covers the night the Potters go into hiding. If you've read my other fic 'Salut d'Amour', you'll know all about angsty, pessimistic Remus. Yup, there's more right here…this sort of corresponds with that other story, but is set years before (obviously).

Disclaimer: I own nowt. I've got my eyes on Sirius' flying bike, though… oh ye, the song is 'When I Was Young' by the Boomtown Rats, and guess what? I don't own that, either. I'm a bit confuzzled…if I'm not allowed to quote songs, TELL ME and I will take all other lyrics out of the other chapters. It would be a shame, but I've gotta obey the law, no?

Enjoy…

1

There are fireflies dancing already, wheeling above us.

I see their light, and the three flames of tall, smoky candles reflected in my wine glass, in James' glasses, in the hollow pupils of the man sitting opposite me, fiddling with his fork.

Lily is still pouring us drinks in the twilight, her white hands skating over bowls of glistening wet salad and empty plates littered with cocktail sticks and salmon bones. I feel…lethargic, and oddly detached.

I am afraid of goodbyes.

For there is an air of finality, floating beneath the giggling jokes and macho reminiscences, a dreadful, ominous weight in the eyes of my friends. It is almost November, and we are dying with the year. The farewells that hang between us are unspoken, when there are hours left to be grasped and lived and tasted.

The night is inky around us, so that I can barely see Sirius' features, and the silhouettes of houses and trees are gradually blending into the sky. And the moon is shaded with chilly clouds, smoky across its pitted surface.

But there are worse things in my life right now.

I suppose the conversation continues, we cowards who cannot bear to voice the sadness that rips us apart now. No, not cowards…foolish, deluded optimists.

One day, we will gather again like this, with tables piled with good food and drink, relishing the life that we have won for ourselves. I imagine – Harry will be five, six perhaps, playing on Uncle Peter's lap, and Lily will be sitting in James' lap, a hand on her swollen belly. And Sirius. And I. Who knows?

It could be…he and I. Or I could give up pretending I am trapped at Hogwarts, where love was just for fun, where paying the bills together, finding jobs…were fantasies for breathless, invincible youth. And instead, I may be sitting, playing with my salad, watching through narrowed eyes as he smiles at some vibrant girl. But at least we will be alive, and pulsing with warm blood. We will be victors, but it will not part us, we will remain Marauders and walk through a peaceful world with our heads held high.

When I was young I would do a million things, dreaming up a thousand schemes, I would change the world each night

I lose myself too often in mindless reveries, these days. I no longer dream of unknown lips on mine, or a world where, just once, I am better than James, or a situation where beautiful, multicoloured girls press their hands to my cheek. Now I dream of myself, unscathed, vanquisher when all these demons have passed away.

And I suppose, that if I die, I will be mourned. Moony, they will say. He who shadowed our games and mischief, who stood silently, tenderly, to let others take places he desired. And they will die too, I think.

Yes, I am wracked by guilt, realising that I would let them all die, I would throw them before Lord Voldemort (even Harry, who hours ago I cradled to me, and pretended was mine) just to see Sirius' face one more time. They underestimate me, my friends. I am a selfish, passionate bastard, torn apart by what is honourable, and what is painless, and what my shrivelled heart screams out to me.

Above and beyond the foreboding that tinges this final meeting, this summing-up of a decade of laughing, and joyous abandon, and…God help me, love, hovers something nastier, more sordid.

I know, with an acrid taste at the back of my throat, that I have been cast out once again, that, beloved though my patches and my easy smiles are, I am no one's best friend. Almost a commodity. And this has been forced before my opened eyes with unintentional brutality.

I cannot fool myself, I knew the first time I heard James mention the Fidelius Charm, I knew (though a painful knot tightened in my gullet) that I would never be the one to show my loyalty and friendship. I would not be the one to die with fire in my eyes, thankful to sacrifice for my friends' safety, and the son that I would wish to have.

But in all honesty, there was some relief. Hmm…I would only die for one person.

And he is vanishing away from me, retracting the hooks he slid into my flesh the first time he grasped my forearms tightly and pulled me towards him. I can feel the roots I thought were eternal ripping away, and there is no sugar to coat the pain – I crave some placebo, a salve to rescue me in my isolated distress.

But oddly, for the first time, I cannot see through the suave, sexual façade he so loves to erect, and it seems that once more his heart is private property.

He rises with James from the table, with Peter trotting predictably at their heels, and I am left alone with Lily. For once, this is little solace. He went without looking at me, without a sly wink or the pressing of a foot against my thigh.

She is clearing plates, her hair falling across her face and catching the amber light of the candles.

'It's okay, Remus. It's only for a while, a few years at most. You know…it's hard for him, too. Not that sentimental, is he, Sirius? It's killing him…you know that, don't you?'

She is always my rock, she is my balm when seas rage in my head, yet for once she fails to comfort me, for there is mistrust marring this last evening, and I do not know what I have done to have these cruel daggers aimed at me.

I would tear the stars apart, confusion tore that pounding heart with certainty that things weren't right

I am acting for all I am worth, as I help her stack plates, and collect empty bottles. My eyes catch hers from time to time, and she blushes like autumn. I have not made her blush for years.

I used to make her heart sing, she told me once.

But there are teddies and plastic figures littered around the house, and smiling wedding photos, and letters with Mr and Mrs J Potter written on them. She has found someone else to make her their angel. And so have I, though his back is turned, coldly.

Harry is asleep in an old-fashioned wicker basket when we stagger into the house under the weight of huge glass bowls and trifle dishes. We lean over him together, with his soft, misty eyelashes and curled fingers. Our heads are so close together, I can feel her breath shaking the lace around his cradle, and with the silence of the night around me, and nothing else to do in this hideous limbo, I imagine we are together.

There were times, not so long ago, when I could dream idle thoughts without having to anchor myself in the truth. It could have been…if not for my reprehensibly idiocy. My shyness, my tendency to hide my youthful blushes behind a book, shielding myself with shaky knowledge, with long-dead poets and wizards who faced dragons and carried off fainting girls.

I think my friends would have preferred me to be a book. A thick, leather-bound tome beckoning readers with its faux-gold clasp. The pages would be spotted prematurely with damp and mildew, but the cramped writing would be sarcastic, witty, occasionally comforting. I would be a guide to those without a light.

But in my present form, I am worthless.

I'd read all that student stuff, read it till I'd had enough, then making up my own mind - think it, feel it

There is a charge between us, but it is dying, inevitably, for our rationality reminds us that this is our last night.

Wine glasses chink in the kitchen, and Lily glances at me, no doubt seeing the disappointment and solitude flit across my papery face as I look down again at Harry. And I want to make them hurt, even though it was sweet bliss to spend brief moments of domestication with a woman I never dared quite hard enough to love.

So I stride through to the kitchen, all guns cocked to blaze a volley at those who are casting me out. They stop talking, abruptly, with shifty, anxious glances.

And again the feeling washes over me that I have done some great wrong, some evil that predates all of our memories and stories together.

And so it ends.

It is time to go home now, to a cold, narrow, empty bed, and pour cups of coffee that leave rings on stacks of dependable books. I will lie in bed until they return for me, watching the sun rise and fall while dust gathers on my photographs and cobwebs fracture the window. I will live, without them all, but I know it will be less than existence. I face these years of warfare, I face vicious battles with men I knew at school, and once again, for the first time since I was eleven, I am alone.

I throw my arms fiercely around their necks, one by one, hoping the tears in my eyes show that I love them and condemn them for barring me in this most important of decisions. I suppose it hurts all the more because Peter, little, weak Peter, is their confidant. And not me, for whom they did so much. I would listen to them, I would wish them well on their descent into secrecy.

I cannot look Sirius in the eyes as his arms stroke my back lightly.

By the front door, while I hear the three of them resume their conversation as though I am no one, Lily catches my hand and kisses it. As her eyes connect with mine, I see that she too is fighting back a flood of tears, for all those she is hiding herself from after tonight.

It is goodbye, forever or for only years that will seem endless while I live them without them…

The night is black now, and frosty around my ears as I walk home to traipse the bright stairs. I am not ashamed to admit I am crying.

But why, I cannot explain.

There are too many things lost tonight for me to pick apart my feelings with any rationale.

I believed I'd never die, when I was young

AN: hands up who wants more? Just as a lil' summary, the next chapters will cover Sirius' visit to Remus' flat that same evening (no fluff 'n' smut AT ALL), Remus' way of avoiding his loneliness (ie the OC), Dumbledore's news, and Remus' rather Iliadic quest for vengeance. So there you go, if that's whetted your appetite, do drop me a line. And I will send you flapjacks.

Also, do you think the whole Sirius/Remus thing was a bit much? I don't know if I meant it to be so unsubtle. Ah well…I must go where my psycho loony Muse takes me. 'Till next time (I hope), DD xxx