Screed: A long discourse or essay, especially a diatribe
February 9, 1985
A candle burned upon a rickety table, guttering in a chilly draft as it slowly sank into the pool of hot wax that had already collected at its base. A small window rattled, the patched curtains that covered it fluttering in the late-winter storm that howled on the other side of the glass. The room was dim with just that one guttering candle and a small lamp across the room. A few pieces of worn furniture surrounded by a neat clutter of books and papers, a tea kettle, a stack of clean dishes, and a few other nick-knacks filled the small space.
And in the corner, beside the candle, a young man was bent over a scroll of parchment, scribbling away furiously with a rather ragged-looking quill. Ink splattered his parchment, his fingers, even his nose, as his hand sped across the yellow parchment. His handwriting spilled in remarkably straight lines, neat and looping and steady at first, but growing increasingly hurried and sharp. Already the top edge of the roll was dangling off the table and still the man wrote.
His light-brown hair and slightly stretched-looking frame indicated youth, but his face looked older, his eyes sadder. His anger, though, seemed young in its vigor.
At last he seemed to have run out of things to write. He finished the last line with a final, sharp flourish and scrawled his name underneath it: Remus J. Lupin.
Then he stood and stretched and pulled back the curtain enough to peak at the raging storm outside. He had barely noticed it. How many evenings had he spent bent over that table, scribbling away? Too many, probably. But what else was he to fill his evenings with these days?
He must walk around in the world day-in and day-out calmly, offering pleasant smiles to strangers, helpfully lending directions to the lost and offering his seat on the bus to little old ladies with their shopping. He was too mature to be consumed by bitterness, and too determined to prove to them that he was a good person, an asset to society.
But this rage, this frustration, this bitter injustice that swirled in him would not go away, and he had nobody to release it on, no way to get it out of him except by writing it down. To keep his own sanity, he put every ounce of the anger tightening his chest and threatening to burst out of him into the ink.
He wrote to the Ministry about their corrupted system, about the laws meant to keep him barely scraping by due to bigotry and inflated fear. To Black for all the damages and destruction he left, for his deceit, for leaving Remus here alone. To Dumbledore for sending Lily and James's son away, making him into just another thing to be used when the fighting broke out again as he seemed to think it would. Sometimes to James for trusting without reserve. Sometimes to Peter for abandoning him for some idiotic show of nobility. Sometimes to himself for letting down his guard, believing he had found friends who would never leave him.
He picked up tonight's letter and rolled it into a tight scroll, like he did with every other. He sealed it with wax from his dripping candle, then carefully lowered an end into the hungry flame and watched as the fire ate away his fury.
A/N: I didn't realize this challenge would require me to flit to so many different characters. I'm generally attracted to Potters, but I've spent comparatively little time on Harry so far, haven't I? Anyway, thank you so much for those who review! Please let me hear your thoughts! It helps to keep me going, really it does! :)