What does Remus really know about Sirius? About James or Lily or Pete? About anyone?
To think that he was the living time capsule of his friends' true selves was laughably arrogant. Remus's memories are corrupted and biased, glossed over with nostalgia and blind spots. There is only one truth, and that truth isn't something Remus can understand. It's something intangible, something that has already been swallowed by the past, known only to itself.
Remus can carry his friends' candle to the edge of the earth, but there's nothing of them left in the flame. They're lost.
The passive swipes Remus made at death back in November were feeble and tired, but now he's finished shouting into the void—it's time to finish the job he started when he was fifteen.
The decision fills Remus with a deep, quiet peace. He can see the end of it: that yawning expanse of black water, growing steadily larger as he approaches the horizon. He just needs to take a few final steps before he can sink underneath.
Remus goes with the band to Geneva and plays his biggest show yet. He takes his share of the payment and spends it on all the drugs he can buy. He tells Werner he won't be able to play the gig the following day, because he's feeling under the weather.
In his hotel room, he writes a letter to his father and tucks it neatly into his shirt pocket. Dad, it says, I love you and I'm sorry if this hurts you. I never wanted to hurt you.
By the time Remus shoots up the last of the Liquid Lightning, his body is vibrating so hard he can barely even hold the needle. But it's okay, because Sirius is here, solid and warm. He holds Remus against his chest on the cold bathroom floor and rocks him back and forth. Remus's brain slows and softens. He thinks about his friends, their bright, bright laughter, the way he'd wept when they become Animagi for him, the feeling he got when Sirius first held his hand, the crackle of bonfires and cheap bear and little boats gliding over a dark lake up to a great, glowing castle that looked the way home was supposed to feel.
Remus thinks that maybe this is all there ever was.
It's okay, Moony, Sirius whispers. You're almost there. You're almost there.
The first thing he's aware of is the pain. The second is the dark. The third is the shrill beeping in his left ear. It takes tremendous effort to open his eyes, and even more effort to turn his head and investigate the source of the noise. It's a monitoring spell that the patient in the bed next to him has set off.
Fuck.
Somehow, he managed to fail at killing himself again. Zero for two.
Remus tries to swear, but his lips are too numb. There's not much else to do but fall back asleep.
When he wakes up again, he's debriefed on his situation by an attending Healer.
"You've made a bit of a problem for us, Mr. Howell," says the Healer mildly. "The nonmagical doctors didn't recognize the chemicals in your bloodwork, so we had to Confound them and destroy the records of your hospital admittance. You're in Geneva Wizarding Hospital now."
Remus's body isn't in quite so much pain anymore, and he's able to talk.
"Who found me?" he asks hoarsely.
The Healer ruffles through some pages on her clipboard. "It looks like your…bandmate? Yes, your bandmate Werner came to your hotel room to bring you some Tylenol—apparently, he was under the impression that you'd taken ill—and when you didn't answer the door, he panicked and had the hotel staff unlock it. From there…the ambulance was called."
Poor Werner. Remus can't imagine what a sight he must've been. The poor guy had never been anything but sweet and gracious, and Remus repaid him with a nightmarish visual that was probably seared into his retinas.
The Healer must read the distraught look on Remus's face, because she hurries to say, "Werner and the rest of your bandmates wish you a fast recovery and say your place will still be there when you're feeling better. Apparently, you're a much better piano player than their last guy. They wanted to visit you, but being Muggles…"
"I understand. Thank you." He clears his throat, which is suddenly thick with emotion. "When can I, um—how soon can I be discharged?"
She gives him a sympathetic smile. "Well, Mr. Howell, you're very fortunate you were found in time—any longer, and you'd be suffering permanent physical impairments. But with the potion regimen we administered, your body should feel fully restored by the end of the day."
"That's great to hear," says Remus. "Thank you very much."
Apparently, though, the Healer wasn't quite done.
"However," she says, "it's our policy to hold patients admitted for a suicide attempt for at least seventy-two hours."
"Wait, wait," says Remus. "I think you're misunderstanding. It wasn't a suicide attempt—it was an accidental overdose."
She doesn't look surprised by his denial. "With the amount of drugs in your system and the…note…that was found on your person, I find it highly unlikely this was unplanned."
Remus doubles down. "No," he insists. "The note you found—that was a "just in case" note. I knew I was gonna take more drugs than I probably should, so I figured I'd just write a note for my dad in case things went south. Which, I guess, they did."
"Mr. Howell," says the Healer sternly, "I'm not here to judge you or punish you. This is just hospital policy—we want to keep you safe."
"But I—"
She holds up a hand. "I'm afraid I must continue my rounds, but I'll send another Healer over to discuss this with you further. In the meantime, just relax and try to get more rest. Your body has been through an awful shock."
Remus senses something off-balance about his face. Tentatively, he raises a hand and feels around.
"Where's my earring?" he asks.
"Patients who are deemed a danger to themselves or others are not permitted access to sharp objects."
Remus feels his face growing hot. As a twenty-two-year-old, he finds it incredibly demeaning to be treated like a child running with scissors.
"It's just an earring," he protests weakly to the Healer's retreating back.
"Yes," she calls over her shoulder. "A sharp earring."
Remus tries everything.
He changes his story over and over, trying to recontextualize the circumstances of his overdose as a silly, stupid, not suicidal drug experiment gone wrong. To his mounting horror, nobody buys it. Remus had assumed these Healers would be like his old therapist—well-meaning, but gullible enough to manipulate into letting him run free. But here, he's quickly learning that he's not the first patient to be held involuntarily. Unlike St. Mungo's, the Geneva Wizarding Hospital has an acute mental unit, and Remus is shuttled down the hall to the locked ward as soon as he's able to walk to and from the bathroom by himself. They give him a pair of soft grey sweatpants, a loose white shirt, and slippers. They tell Remus that he's being transferred.
"You don't have to do this," he pleads with the Healer escorting him.
"I'm afraid I do," the Healer replies. "I know it's frightening, but you're going to be just fine."
Remus freezes up in the doorway, and the Healer has to give him a not-to-gentle push over the threshold. After they're done processing him—still under the identity of German indie band pianist John Howell—he's put in a room with his assigned counselor, a middle-aged man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, who introduces himself as Anton.
"There's been a big mistake," says Remus the moment the door closes. "I'm not suicidal. I'm not depressed, or—or anything. I took too much and accidentally overdosed. That's really all there is to it, but nobody believes me."
Anton lets him rant. "I understand, Mr. Howell, that you must be feeling very overwhelmed. However, as my colleagues have said, this is just hospital policy. If, after the seventy-two hours are up, we no longer believe that you pose a danger to yourself, you will be free to go."
Remus leans forward. "How do I prove I'm not a danger to myself?"
"Frankly, Mr. Howell," says Anton, "your file indicates that you may have some trouble proving that. Your bloodwork suggests long-term drug use and malnourishment, and the diagnostic charm that was cast upon your arrival revealed a number of self-inflicted wounds, some of which are only a few days old."
Nobody has mentioned the cuts yet, and for the first time, Remus stumbles.
"It's not what you think," he says after a too-long pause. "I can explain the cuts—it's just that I—I—"
"Mr. Howell. I wasn't born yesterday. I've been doing this for quite some time, and I know habitual self-injury when I see it."
"I didn't even know this was a profession in the Wizarding world," says Remus, switching from defense to offense. "The first time—well, when I was in school, a friend of mine had to go see a Squib psychiatrist. There wasn't anyone in our magical hospital who could help him."
"I see. Well, the Swiss Ministry of Magic has invested quite a lot of money into mental healthcare in the past decade to catch us up with our Muggle counterparts—I'm afraid we're a bit behind the times. Might I ask what caused your friend to be referred to that psychiatrist in the first place?"
This guy is good—too good. Remus switches tactics again.
"I'm a werewolf," he blurts out. "You must know that from my bloodwork, right? You don't want me here—I'm dangerous."
Anton chuckles. "Mr. Howell, you know as well as I that a hospital cannot discriminate against a patient based on—"
"Well, that isn't how it always works out, is it?" snaps Remus.
He knows he's being rude, but he doesn't care. He feels the beginning of a panic attack tightening his chest and throat, and he tries to keep his breathing steady.
"Is there something you can give me?" he asks, trying to seem nonchalant. "I've got a bit of an anxiety issue—nothing serious—and I, um, I have a prescription. For the Calming Draught. And Xanax, but I don't know if you have that."
Anton crosses his ankles. "Unfortunately, Mr. Howell, I'm not able to provide you with any controlled substances. I can give you a low dose of Dreamless Sleep every third night, but other than that—"
"But why not?" asks Remus. The panic is fully shrouding him now, closing in on the edges of his vision. "I told you, I've got a prescription—for Prozac, too, but I haven't taken that one in a while—"
"We can get you Prozac, Mr. Howell, but we cannot administer more strictly regulated medications to patients who indicate patterns of substance abuse."
"Well, that's bullshit," says Remus. He clutches at his chest, trying to slow his jackrabbit heartbeat. Sweat is dripping down his forehead, but he feels ice cold.
"Mr. Howell," says Anton softly, "I need you to take a deep breath."
He shakes his head. "Can't—breathe—"
"Yes, you can. Follow my lead, alright? Breathe with me."
Anton takes a series of long, slow, exaggerated breaths, and Remus tries to match his rhythm. It takes nearly five minutes, but eventually, the panic ebbs, and Remus slumps back in his chair, panting.
"That was excellent work," says Anton kindly. "Panic attacks are no joke—I've had a few of them myself, and every time, I was sure I was going to die. You're very brave."
Remus shakes his head.
"Not brave," he croaks out. "I'm a fucking coward."
Anton frowns. "Why do you say that?"
Remus swallows hard against the lump in his throat. Then, inexplicably, he begins to weep. Anton hands Remus a box of tissues, and he wipes furiously at his eyes.
"Why do you even care if I'm suicidal?" asks Remus, voice shaking. "Why does it even matter? If I was—which I'm not—wouldn't it make more sense just to let me get on with it? Maybe I—what if I had a good reason?"
Anton watches him silently for a moment.
"My daughter, you know, took her own life," he says quietly. "When she was just a year or so older than you. She didn't think she had anything to live for, but it wasn't true—her mind had trapped her into thinking that her world was so much smaller than it was. All I want is to help you see things clearly, Mr. Howell. That's all. A shift in perspective can make all the difference. And I think it'd be a shame if you refused yourself that opportunity."
Remus asks again if he can have something to help him calm down.
That night, when Remus begrudgingly settles into his new bed, he glances at the window. It's not a real window, but it's been charmed to show whatever the viewer wants to see. When Remus looks at the window, it swirls gray and blue for a moment before smoothing out into a clean, empty night sky. No stars. No moon. No planets. No light.