Chapter Text
It's taken him a few hours, but Remus has finally worked up the motivation to make himself a cup of tea. His hand trembles as he lifts it to his lips. It doesn't make it all the way before all the energy goes out of his arm, and he lets his hand drop at his side. He hears the cup shatter on the floor a million miles away. It's been a bad day. But then, most days are bad days.
*
He hasn't left the house for a while. Not since the moon was full and the damnable curse pulled him out of himself for a few hours. It should have been a relief, perhaps. Certainly the rabbits were some much-needed nourishment. But the return was a bleak reminder of how absolute his loneliness is, and the whole horrid business had come crashing down around him all over again. All of his friends, dead by the end of a single night. All except Sirius, the one who murdered them. It's been nearly two weeks now since it happened, and Remus is still numb with the shock of it. His brain goes to static whenever he attempts to process any of it.
He presses his hands into the kitchen table and his head hangs, a heavy weight on his neck. His mind is a swirl of wordless feelings and memories and twitches of ideas, none of which he allows to become fully formed. It is this indefinable, unhappy maelstrom that he is jolted out of when his front door bangs open and Minerva McGonagall strides into his home.
Even if his depression had allowed him to summon words to greet her, or to ask why she was no longer observing the rules of polite society, his shock ensures his silence. Never mind the suddenness of her appearance—at this point the mere sight of another human being feels almost alien to him. He is further rendered speechless when she, the strict, stern Head of Gryffindor House, pulls him into a tight hug.
They stand like that for an awkward moment. Remus licks his lips and swallows and prepares himself for speech. He hasn't spoken to another person for a fortnight, or indeed spoken at all, beyond a single, private rage the night Sirius was taken to Azkaban.
Fortunately, it's McGonagall who speaks first. 'Oh Remus,' she says, breaking away from him and regaining her composure. She takes a seat at his kitchen table with a motion that invites him to do the same. 'Such terrible news.'
He sits down. 'Yes,' he manages. It comes out as a rasp. He clears his throat and tries again. The word sounds better, but it's still only a single word. 'Yes.'
'And of course, the turmoil after it happened—no one quite sure what was truth and what was rumour. I had to confirm it myself with Dumbledore. He Who Must Not Be Named, defeated at last, but at such a cost...' As she speaks, McGonagall produces a slab of Honeydukes chocolate from her robes and begins to break it into pieces with surprising strength. She pushes the pieces toward Remus, who tries to refuse them, but she gives him such a look that he could very well be fifteen and rebellious again. He meekly accepts the chocolate.
'I would never have believed such a thing of Black –' she continues, but hitches upon seeing his face darken. Never long to be lost for words, even at times such as these, she takes a different tack. 'How are you, Remus?'
He puts a large piece of chocolate in his mouth to delay his answer. As he chews, he begins to feel alive again, just a little. He's dismayed by the feeling; it was easier being numb.
'I am... glad that Voldemort has fallen.' It's not a lie, though 'glad' is a foreign emotion at the moment.
McGonagall purses her lips. 'I told Dumbledore that someone ought to look in on you. Heaven knows war isn't an easy time for anyone, but here we are at the end of it, and suddenly everyone is acting as if it never happened. We've lost so many good witches and wizards. But some of us have lost more than others.' Remus isn't looking at her, but he can feel her studying him. 'When you didn't reply to any of my owls, I felt I had to take matters into my own hands.'
He has a vague memory of an insistent tapping at the window. It could have been yesterday. It could have been years ago. He hadn't answered it, and whatever it was had given up, eventually.
'Dumbledore came to see me, just after –' He can't form the words, but McGonagall gets the gist.
'And he was warmth and comfort personified, I imagine,' McGonagall says dryly.
Despite himself, Remus chuckles. The sound barely catches in his throat. 'No, he was all business. Didn't seem to believe that Voldemort was gone forever. Had the air of a man braced for aftershocks. Wanted to know what I knew about Si–' This catches. The name. He twists his fingers together, so tight that it hurts, and then before he can stop himself, words come bursting out of him. 'There couldn't have been a mistake, could there? You said it yourself, you'd never have believed it of – of him. He didn't have a trial! Maybe the witnesses were wrong. Maybe he was Imperiused. He was their best friend, Professor. He was – he was my –'
It's all too much. Remus collapses backwards in his chair and presses his hands over his face and just sobs. McGonagall makes no attempt to stop him, and lets him carry on for quite some time, until there are no tears left to cry. He hiccoughs as he pulls himself together again, and sees his old teacher politely ignoring him over a cup of tea. There's one for him as well, and as he takes it he returns the favour, tactfully ignoring McGonagall's red and puffy eyes.
They sit in silence for a while, drinking their tea, listening to the rhythm of the clock on the wall and the bustle of life out on the street. Remus glances down at the floor and remembers his earlier attempt at tea only by the absence of its remains. McGonagall must have cleared it away while he was absorbed in his misery.
Once the tea is drained from their cups, McGonagall takes her leave. She sternly makes him promise to look after himself, to keep in touch, empty promises he has no intention of honouring. At the door, she moves as if to give him another hug, but hesitates just for a second, and the moment passes. She settles for a searching look and a nod. And then she's gone, and Remus is alone again.
*
It is their final day at Hogwarts. Exams are done at last, and the weather is as glorious as the Marauders feel. The four of them stroll down the lawns away from the castle, and throw themselves under their favourite tree by the lake one last time.
'So what are you going to do now, Padfoot?' James asks Sirius. 'Have you decided?'
Sirius shakes his head. 'Not yet. I'm still trying to figure out what will piss off my parents the most. Maybe something in Muggle Liaisons. My mother would die. If she hasn't already,' he adds, as a bitter afterthought.
The Marauders laugh, and Sirius fires back, 'What about you? Still going to become an Auror and save the world from dark wizards?'
James nods. 'The training starts in September, so I've got the whole summer to regret my decision.' Sirius grins at him, but James cuts him off before he can properly start into the teasing. 'And you, Wormtail? Did your mum get you on as a clerk in her department after all?'
Sitting up a little straighter at the novelty of being addressed directly, still, Peter replies, 'Yes. I start the week after next, actually.'
Conspicuously, no one asks Remus about his plans for employment. Sirius slings an arm around his shoulders in a way that is almost casual, and says wistfully, 'I'm gonna miss this place.'
There's a lot of feeling packed into such a simple sentence. Hogwarts has been home in many ways for many years, for all of them. They are adults now, and without the protection of the castle, they will have to face the full horror of the war being waged outside its walls. It's a topic they've often managed to avoid, and no one is willing to broach it now. Instead, they lapse into silence, the idea of a war incongruous with the brilliant sunshine.
None of them have any idea of what is in store for them.