A/N: A miserable fic because I'm miserable. And no, this is not Wolfstar. I absolutely despise that ship. If you want to know why, PM me and I'll send you a long anti-Wolfstar rant. Otherwise, just know that I'm not homophobic.
Remus locks the door and takes off his coat, hanging it on the hanger nearby. Sighing heavily, he takes off his shoes and makes his way to the kitchen. Once he has the water boiling, he cooks himself a simple dinner consisting of pasta and some vegetables. As he eats, he stares dully at the table, his fork slack in his hand, too tired to really do anything but the barest necessity.
That's how he's been for the past five months — tired. Except at nights, when he's either in the living room, trying to distract himself from the truth, or lying in bed in pure agony, unable to do much more than hug his pillow tightly and hope that one day, the pain will stop. Even though the hope is becoming smaller and smaller with each day. Whoever said that time heals must have never felt true pain, because it seems to get worse with each progressing day. For that reason, Remus has begun to look forward to full moons. As a werewolf, he can forget everything; forget that two of his friends are dead and the third has turned traitor.
Remus draws in a sharp intake of breath and drops his fork, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. Giving up on finishing his meal, he stands up and puts it away in the fridge, along with five or so similar plates of food that is too old to be finished but too good to be thrown away. They'll keep piling up like this until the next moon, which is in two weeks, when the wolf can finish everything. Because the wolf doesn't care if the food is stale. It doesn't care if Remus has pretty much lost his once huge appetite because the three people who found it amusing are gone.
The wolf doesn't care about a lot of things, Remus observes as he makes himself a coffee and sits down on the sofa in the living room, not bothering to turn on the light. Dust rises up around him, yet another reminder of how much he has neglected himself since that night. He doesn't remember the last time he's properly cleaned his home; it must have been more than a month ago, and even then, he only did it because his house painfully reminded him of the Shrieking Shack, not out of any real care for his hygiene. He'd stop washing his hair and body too, were it not for the fact that he'd be swiftly kicked out of any job he could find, even if he used Cleaning Charms. Besides, his hair becomes itchy when it's dirty, and, though he doesn't care about himself much, he cares enough to keep himself free of such annoyances.
His living room is bare, devoid of anything personal. It's gotten to the point that he can't remember how it looked five months ago, only that his mantelpiece and walls were filled with photographs and decorated for Halloween. Some of the decorations have stayed, but he broke and ripped all the photographs into pieces in his rage within the first few weeks. It's one of his many regrets now, since, though he repaired the photographs the next morning, the memories that accompanied them are gone.
Remus hopes that the traitor isn't having an easy time in Azkaban, because right now, he doubts even Azkaban can compare with what he's going through. After all, Black fucking laughed when he killed poor Peter. No doubt, selling James and Lily to Voldemort was one of the best days of his life. Whatever "worst memories" he may have, nothing will ever compare with finding out that James, Lily and Peter are dead and Sirius Black, the bastard, caused it all.
And Remus had had to find out all this from the Daily Prophet. Apparently, by the time he woke up from his transformation, everyone was under the impression that someone else had told him, or just didn't know about his condition. He hadn't even been told where Harry was, only that he was safe. Dumbledore smiled condescendingly, a touch of pity in his eyes, and told him that it would be best if no one, not even his parents' closest friends, knew where Harry was, but Remus knows that isn't the real reason. He could see it in the way Dumbledore had avoided looking at him, instead choosing to look at the wall behind him, the way he'd blinked just a tad too often. The old man is scared; scared that Remus would try to take Harry away and end up accidentally killing him or making him one of them.
And it is for that reason that Remus doesn't even attempt to fight Dumbledore's decision to keep him in the dark. He knows that if he finds out where Harry lives, then he wouldn't be able to resist the temptation — the wolf inside of him wouldn't. And he doesn't think he can handle it if he does something to Harry. Besides, he can't even properly care for himself, who's to say he can take care of an infant? Even if he was to simply visit Harry every once in a while, all that would do is cause Harry to ask him why he didn't take him in. And Remus doesn't have the heart to tell a child that it's because he's too much of a mess.
He knows he'll have to face Harry eventually. He'll start asking questions about his parents and their friends, and then Remus would be brought up. And as Harry grows older, he might want to meet him in the hope that he can tell him more about them. After all, the only person who knows James and Lily more than Remus is Black, and it's that which got them killed.
Remus snarls and slams his mug down, spilling coffee on an old copy of the Daily Prophet. That Black is on the front cover, along with the people whose lives he ruined, only rubs salt in the wound. He takes a vindictive pleasure in seeing Black's laughing face slowly turn brown as the drink spreads, imagining that it's dried blood coating the traitor. If he tries, he can even pretend that it was he who dealt this blow. Oh, how he would love to get revenge. For the first time since he got bitten, Remus doesn't mind the wolf's viciousness, taking comfort in the roaring anger that blossoms in his chest.
'You killed them,' he says to the wet paper. 'You did this.'
Gone are the first few weeks, when he hoped against hope that maybe Black wasn't at fault after all, that he'd been framed and that he hadn't misjudged him. That they all hadn't misjudged him. No, any love Remus may have left for his "brother" is buried deep under grief, hate and the desire for revenge. The logical part of him tells him that he isn't thinking clearly, that he just hasn't come to terms with everything yet, but when will he ever? Remus doesn't think he'll ever accept what happened, or – Merlin forbid – find himself new friends. Whatever relationships he may have in the future, they still wouldn't be the same as what he lost. Even if he somehow manages to get Harry to not hate him for abandoning him. Harry isn't James, nor is he Peter, nor Black.
Not for the first time, he wonders why he even bothers anymore. His life has, quite literally, gone to the dogs — or dog, in this case. He hasn't told anyone about what Black is, but it's only a matter of time. Someday, he will work up the courage and tell the world, even if it costs him Dumbledore's trust and his secret. And once people know what he is, he would have nowhere to go. No jobs in the wizarding world accept beings like him, and he doesn't have a good enough Muggle education to work as more than a fast food or retail worker. And a future spent selling buns to overweight Muggles like Lily's brother-in-law isn't a future worth living.
So, for now, Remus stays quiet and hates himself for it his every waking moment. He knows that if Black manages to escape Azkaban, then it would be his fault, knows that he will regret his decision to not say anything immensely later, but he still doesn't tell anyone. He's honestly surprised that Black hasn't escaped yet. Surely, five months in Azkaban are enough to starve him to a stick, and then all he has to do is transform and slip through the bars of his cell, and he would be free. The only reasons Remus can think of that might explain Black's inaction are that either he's already given in and succumbed to madness, or he's come to regret his actions and thinks he deserves the foul place.
But that's impossible. Of course Black wouldn't regret anything. Even when they were children, the line between good and evil was way too blurred for the traitor, Remus remembers with a scowl. When Black had sold his secret to Snape, he'd apologised only because he wanted his friend back, not out of any regret for his actions. Remus had let it go back then, thinking that, with time, Black would understand, but it appears that he never did. Looking back, Remus doesn't understand why on earth he'd forgiven him. Oh, how blind he'd been. How blind they'd all been.
If Remus digs deep, beneath his hate, he can feel a small bit of pity for the traitor, the sort of pity he feels for Voldemort and his followers. And it is all the more reason to hate himself, to scratch himself extra hard on full moon nights in the hope that such thoughts would disappear, because it's not normal to still feel some lingering affection for the man who'd betrayed them all.
'Don't be sad because it's over, be happy because it happened,' Remus recites to himself softly, having read that quote in one of his Muggle novels. Come to think of it, Muggles seem to have a lot more positivity than wizards. He wonders how they manage it, when right now, his life is anything but positive. Miserable, painful, unwanted and pointless are all better words to describe it as.
'Bullshit!' he says, slightly louder than he intended to. How on earth is he supposed to be happy about their friendship with Black, when, had it not happened, James, Lily and Peter would still be alive?! All they are is empty words, and words won't help him. They won't turn back time. Perhaps some obscure potion or curse can help him, but Remus would be dead by the time he finds it, either naturally or because he finally breaks and commits suicide, unable to deal with everything.
Indeed, what he once hadn't dared to even consider doing, a forbidden territory, is now often his only comfort — that it'll all end soon, if only he can find the courage within himself to do it.
'Some Gryffindor you are, Remus Lupin,' he mutters bitterly. He remembers how he'd once sworn to himself as a child, once he was too old to understand the concept of suicide and mental illness, that, no matter what happened to him, he still wouldn't do it. That he'd be strong enough not to do it. Of course, back then, he'd thought that he'd have his friends and family to help him through the tough times. As an eleven year old, he'd been so, so naive and taken way too much for granted. Including the people he loved.
And look how he ended up. Remus' breath hitches in his throat and he looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. You're a grown man, you should be stronger than this, he tells himself, to no effect. The tears just keep on welling up in his eyes, no matter how hard he tries to control himself, because he's not supposed to be this weak; and he knows that James and Sirius would no doubt laugh if they saw him now and exclaim, 'Moony, you crybaby! Why so sentimental?' while laughing merrily, as though nothing has changed, as though they're still friends...
And Remus can't help himself if he pretends, only for the barest of moments, that it is true, and that things are how they used to be. It's the only way he can get himself to go to sleep without tossing around in agony for hours, only to be woken up by nightmares in the wee hours of the morning, dreaming of all the gruesome ways Black might have disposed of his friends' bodies — after all, surely there must have been a reason they'd kept the coffin lid firmly closed when Remus went to their funeral? Perhaps they'd even faced the same fate as poor Peter, whose finger was all that had been left of him after Black had finished with him.
Before he can stop himself, a scream tears it's way out of Remus' throat and he's suddenly glad for the Silencing Charms that are put up all around his home, so that not a single soul can hear him as he breaks down completely, his wounds so old yet so raw. Soon he's sitting on the floor, clawing at his skin desperately as he sobs into his knees, because whoever said that time heals just doesn't understand; doesn't get that Remus can't live without them, even the traitor as he used to know him. The pain feels as though it's encompassing him like a dark cloud, cutting him up on the inside like a knife, slowly killing away the remainder of his sanity, each minute of it bringing him one minute closer to his inevitable death—
Werewolves are pack animals, so who can blame Remus if he can't seem to keep his eyes away from the knives that are lying innocently in his kitchen drawer, or the wand that's sticking out of his pocket, just begging to be pointed towards it's owner, when he's lost all the pack that he's ever had in the span of two days' time?
Eleven year old Remus swore to himself that he wouldn't, but this Remus is twenty one and people change. True, his mother told him once that you go to hell for committing suicide, but is hell any different from this? Remus certainly doesn't know, but he's willing to find out, because surely hell can't be much worse than his current existence, can it? And if he meets James, Lily and Peter along the way, well, that's just luck.
And as Remus picks himself up from the floor, wipes his face resolutely and goes to sleep, not even bothering to undress, he knows that all he has to do is gather up the courage and try.