Chapter Text
He sometimes wonders, especially at night when he lays awake in his bed, staring at his rippled, nauseating ceiling, if life is really worth the trouble. It doesn't seem to be so far, not from what he's seen in his thirteen years. People are cruel, judgmental, scalding with their harsh words. Even those that are meant to love you above all else have their dire flaws that leave scars the naked eye will never see.
There's no reason to it, or so he can find. It's all shadows with hooked, ragged claws, encroaching, creeping in, stealing away what should be good and right in the world. It's monsters in the dark, locked away in boxes, the tops creaking open as they work their way free, exposing glittering eyes with evil intent, low growls in the dead of night when everything is still and quiet and the fear sets in too deeply to ever go away again.
Remus hates his life, almost every part of it. He doesn't think this is how it's meant to be, how it is for most others his age. They seem happy in their little clusters around his village, at school during meals, gathered together, chattering animatedly, blocking him out just as they always have. Even the children at the large, prestigious school up the hill are the same, Remus studying them whenever they venture down, invading the shops and the twisting streets like the most interesting of parasites. They're bright, filled with laughter and rough shoves to grinning friends, banter reigning and echoing between tightly built buildings. Remus sometimes finds himself trying to mimic them when he's alone, but he never can, too closed up within himself, too shy and reserved, too lacking in everything important.
And there it is, the proper word, found now, held in a gripping chest. Lacking. It's what they all see when they look at him, what his father has seen since his birth, what he knows his mother sees, though she tries desperately to hide it away behind bright smiles that don't quite reach her eyes, behind never-ceasing music that Remus allows himself to fall into because it's easier than the rest of it. He ignores his father's gruffness most times, overlooks his mother's dulled expressions of what Remus seems to think now is some form of misery she won't admit to holding.
Instead of looking at it all nearly constantly, Remus wastes most of his days away within the village, keeping his distance from others except the few shopkeeps that don't knock him away with their brooms. The children mock when he comes too close, his clothing also lacking, just like everything else, his hair too odd and chaotic over his head, his eyes too funny mixed amongst the freckles he hates and wishes he didn't have, sometimes staring at himself in the mirror and pondering the damage that would be caused if he burned them away, and if the action would make things better or worse.
He feels eyes on him wherever he goes, people tracking his movements like he's searching to create trouble. Remus doesn't understand the wariness in their eyes. He's lived here his entire life, never done anything that mattered much. He sometimes wonders if it has something to do with his parents, if people know something about them they shouldn't, about how unhappy they are in their lives. Is that why none of them trust him? Do they think his family is only filled with liars?
Remus sequesters himself away from the main view of the happenings around the village. There's a low stone wall, crumbling in places now, marking the property of a vacant cottage, the owner having gone to live with his son somewhere else a couple of years before. Some of the kinder townsfolk look in on the place from time to time, make sure it's still in working order, at least until the family can sell it. It's because of this that no one seems to mind much that Remus chooses this spot to spend his time in solitary. What harm could he do to an empty house?
"Oh, my darling," says his mother one morning when he's confined in a corner of the kitchen, book in hand but staring into the distance, not really reading anymore, "I do wish you could make some friends."
She moves to him then, placing gentle hands on both his shoulders, staring down him, though he's nearly as tall as she is now as he stands to meet her. One hand lifts slowly, a careful thumb running over his cheekbone with delicate precision, like she's scattering freckles into the wind as effortlessly as dandelion seeds.
"But that's all right," she continues when he doesn't speak, her features and eyes warm, but Remus can see the underlying disappointment. Not good enough. "I can be the friend you need until we get you another. My sweet, lovely little Moony. Head always floating about."
She isn't trying to hurt him. Remus understands what she's doing, attempting to reassure, but he can also read the words between the lines that his mother doesn't say, never says. This isn't the life she'd wanted for him, this bland existence filled with nothing but books and music and the telly when he tires of everything else. It isn't him spending most days and nights holed away in his room, staring out the window, watching the other children pass by in their little groups, never participating, never welcome. Hope had wanted more for him, but she'd also wanted more for herself than the half-life they seemed to have found themselves existing within.
It's with this knowledge in mind that he ventures out that afternoon after spending hours in his room talking himself into it and then back out. He'd paced a groove in his floor, he's sure. He hadn't checked. He'd been too nervous.
But Remus thinks that just one more try, one final valiant attempt, and maybe, just maybe, they'll grudgingly accept him.
He tries to square his shoulders as he approaches a small group of them standing on the outskirts of the sweets shop, attempts to make himself larger instead of his lanky, thin self with a curving spine and tucked head. They're all talking loudly, boisterous laughter intermingling between them, the girls squealing as the boys tease. It looks like fun, the type Remus has never really experienced himself. That feeling of camaraderie, of belonging to something larger and warmer than himself. He pauses at their edges, inhales a deep breath before they take notice of him hovering, then steps forward once more.
"H-hi," stutters Remus, sweat trailing down the back of his neck and trickling under the collar of his shirt, though it's the beginning of October and cold. No discernable reason for sweating. Less reason for his shaking hands and weak knees.
A couple of them glance his way, pausing in their conversation. The others ignore him until they receive nudges from elbows and not-so-subtle kicks from purposeful feet. They stare at him, one or two sneering disdainfully.
"Sorry," says a boy nearest to Remus, face and body cocky, an easy slouch to it, commanding attention, "are you talking to us?"
"Why are you even talking to him?" questions a girl snidely, turning critical eyes Remus' way, gaze roving over him disapprovingly. "He always looks dirty, like he never bathes."
"He looks like there's mud splattered on his face. It's just gross," speaks up another girl near the back of the group. "I've never seen freckles like that before. Were you scarred at birth?" The others laugh around her, staring at Remus mockingly.
He begins to back away slowly, instantly regretting his decision, but the boy that had first spoken reaches out, gripping around his elbow as he snakes something from Remus' pocket with quick-moving fingers. Remus lunges after it, but it's too late. The boy untangles the wires and sticks one of the buds in his ear.
"Oh, look at that thing!" squeals a girl, leaning in closer over the boy's shoulder, gaining a better look at the music player. "It's practically prehistoric. Does it even hold more than twelve songs?"
The others chitter around them, and Remus feels his cheeks heating under their cruelty. He tries to reach for the thing again, but he's knocked away roughly.
"Relax, Loops," says the main boy sweetly, his teeth bared wide and threatening. "I just want to see what you listen to all the time. You've always got this thing with you at school. I've seen the teachers confiscate it from you. There's got to be some good stuff on it to risk that."
He hands the loose bud to the sneering girl hanging over his shoulder, and then he presses play. They listen intently for thirty seconds before slow, wolfish grins blossom over their faces, the boy's tingeing with ridicule.
"Blimey," he cries, ripping the bud from his ear forcefully. "I can't take anymore. Even his music is ancient. Did this come out before we were even born? Who listens to this stuff besides our parents?" He glances at the cracked screen, watching as the lettering scrolls. "Smashing Pumpkins? What sort of name is that? I'd like to smash their pumpkins. Make that bloke's voice a little higher."
The others laugh callously around him, jeering and almost vicious in their mirth. The boy throws the player to the ground, raising his foot to bring it down over the device, but Remus quickly stoops and picks it up, moving it to safety.
"Get out of my sight," the boy hisses, leaning in close and sneering at Remus again, all signs of humor now gone, "before I do smash that thing and parts of you to pieces."
Remus stares around at them all for a long moment, clutching the player in his hand tightly, protectively. He can still hear faint music streaming from the dangling earbuds, the wires knotted and tangled once more. It's only when the larger boy lunges forward a little that Remus takes a scrambling step back, nearly tripping over his feet, eliciting more cruel laughter from the group.
He turns on his heels and flees, their taunting voices following him until he's too far away to hear them anymore. But they still linger inside his head, echoing and rattling around, hitting the sides with sharp stings, causing him to flinch as they hit and hit and hit again. His shoulders hunch and he keeps moving until he reaches his spot, the one that no one ever disturbs, never has reason to venture near, right at the edge of the village, far away from all else except that vacant cottage.
There aren't watchful eyes here, and Remus breathes a small sigh of relief as he settles on the stones, his legs dangling, toes barely brushing the dirt beneath. His fingers work to untangle the thin cord of the earbuds again before he growls angrily to himself and shoves the entire thing back in his pocket.
The laughter still rings in his ears, and Remus stares ahead, trying to feel vengeful, enraged, but he only feels miserable. Why had he tried that? Why had he thought it would be a good idea? Anytime he interacted with other people, he only managed to feel worse about himself. He's not sure why he ever expects that to change simply because he tries. He's tried his entire life, at so many different things, always failing. His parents' disappointment for who he is, who they'd landed as a son, swirls hotly inside his head, slipping down, settling in his chest like the heaviest of weights.
Remus is nothing. Not good enough for friends or even family. He's too awkward, too quiet, head always in the clouds, or so his mum claims often enough. She thinks that's his problem. Remus doesn't. He thinks the problem is every other thing about him, off-putting and worthy of nothing but degradation. The longer he sits, the more his shoulders slump, body caving in on itself, face falling, because who's around to notice or even care now? No one. There's never anyone.
"Biscuit?"
Remus startles at the voice that's entirely too close, having not heard anyone approach. His head jerks up, eyes snapping to a boy with his hand outstretched, bulky paper napkin clutched in his long, pale fingers, dark crumbs under his nails. Remus stares, taking him in, frozen in place. His black hair is nearly too long, almost brushing his shoulders, windblown and a little haphazard. He's got high cheekbones, and a jaw that's slowly starting to strengthen. He's tall, taller than Remus, something he can tell just by looking, and thin, but not like Remus is, filled out more, looking far more comfortable in his skin than anyone his age has the right to be.
The boy gazes back at him, a small frown forming, tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth. But Remus can't focus anywhere but his eyes, so pale in the half-sun peeking through the overhead clouds that it's almost frightening to witness.
Remus feels his body tensing, not understanding who this person is or why he's here, why he's offering what's apparently a biscuit contained in the paper within his smooth-skinned hand, so unlike Remus', void of freckles or any sort of identifying marks. He can't make himself move, can't even react, wanting to run or speak or do anything at all, but he can't. It's only when fingers move slowly and flip the napkin open that Remus shows any acknowledgement at all to what's happening.
His eyes fix on the dark sweet contained under the paper, the smell blowing on the light breeze and filling his nose. Chocolate. Remus loves chocolate, always has, eats biscuits like this often, the one somewhat luxury his parents always allow him to have, always keep on hand. But it's not so much the biscuit as it is the boy attached. He doesn't know Remus, has no idea who he is, where he's come from, no more than Remus knows him. But here he is, standing in front of Remus, offering something he has no reason to ever share.
Remus can only continue to stare at him, uncomprehending, mind blank and running faster than the speed of light. The dark headed boy hesitates for only a second before he seems to come to some form of decision, and then he's moving, Remus not able to stop him as he drops down on the wall beside him, feet planting firmly on the ground. He's still holding out the small bundle of treats for Remus to partake in, but he snags the top one for himself, inhaling half of it in one go as Remus watches in stunned silence.
"These are good," he says conversationally as he chews a large mouthful, Remus now nearly gaping at him, eyes still wide. "Best I've ever found, really. My mate and I love them. We ran out of our stash, so I had to come and get more so he'd stop whinging at me about them."
Remus listens as he speaks, his voice low, only faint tinges of childhood linger at its edges, a crack present as he says a few words. He thinks he likes it, this voice of a stranger that's soft and comforting and just a little bit posh. He still doesn't take a biscuit, not until the boy has finished his first and then a second, his hand still hovering between them as he chatters. Remus finally reaches up and wraps his fingers around one slowly, lifting it to his mouth, taking a small bite. The other boy smiles happily, then he's shoving the remainder into Remus' free hand, gripping around his wrist without hesitation, skin cool where it meets Remus' own present heat.
"Take those," he insists. "I've got loads more." He pats his pockets, a grin overtaking his easy smile, looking a little impish, fascinating Remus, drawing him back in as the boy turns to look at him properly.
Remus can see now that they're closer that his eyes are grey, pale when the sun hits them but darker without it, like the beginnings of summer storm clouds on the horizon. His mouth works as the other stares at him openly, seemingly not expecting anything. He's suddenly reminded of a song his mother listens to a lot by what's becoming their favorite band. Remus has never liked the song all that much, but now he's beginning to see its merits.
"Your eyes are like ghost lights!" he suddenly bursts, and then he's mortified as the other boy blinks at him in surprise. Remus can't believe that's the first thing that's come from his mouth, and he wants to beat his head against the stones beneath him, run away in shame and hide, never come out again or talk to another person for the rest of his life. He feels heat creeping over his face, setting him to flame. "They're nice," he says, tone more meek, quieter as he looks away, down at the ground, trying to hide his growing embarrassment.
It's silent between them for what feels like ages, eons, time passing so slowly but also hurtling by, ripping the breath from his chest. But then the person beside his is laughing, throwing his head back, the sound like a dog barking at first and then spreading out, a harmonious trill that has Remus transfixed as his eyes dart back up to stare.
"So're yours," he finally says through his still bubbling laughter. He fixes Remus with his own intense gaze, studying him, head tilting a little as he does. "Sort of like honey with bits in. The freckles make them pop." Remus feels himself flush again, thinks he should be embarrassed, try to hide his face away, but the boy doesn't speak about the marks on his skin with ridicule, doesn't look at them like they're disgusting. In fact, he seems almost intrigued, his eyes shifting over them like he's drawing a map or counting. "There are a lot of them. That must be fun. I've always wanted freckles. I've got almost no marks at all on my entire body. Horrible genes. I should be so lucky."
And now, it's Remus' turn to laugh. It rumbles through his chest, shakes his shoulders, vibrates his abdomen. The other boy watches him with delight, eyes bright, hair falling over them in a graceful way that Remus distantly thinks there's some sort of poetry in, but he can't manage to find the words to it. He's struck with the ridiculousness of it all, of this strange boy that's suddenly invaded his space and time so effortlessly, showing no signs of wanting to leave and separate. Remus doesn't understand, has so many bubbling questions, but he bites them back, let's the mirth take him over, not remembering the last time he's truly laughed like he is now.
They finish off the biscuits the other has shoved in several different places, the pockets of his trousers, the ones existing on his jacket, even a hidden one within. Their hands are smeared with chocolate that they lick away and then wipe carelessly on the browning grass behind the wall. The boy continues to prattle away, Remus listening aptly, not saying much in return, but that's okay with him. He doesn't have much worth saying, not like this person that's so brimming with life beside him, who seems to want to tell him every last bit of it.
It's only when the sun has dipped low in the sky that the boy's dark head ducks down, hair falling over his face as he looks at the watch adorning his wrist. He snaps it up quickly again, leaping from the wall like a spring jumping forward from a tight press.
"Bugger," he mutters. "I've gotta get back. My mate will come looking for me soon. Or assume I've died."
"Your mate?" asks Remus slowly, a little baffled. "What sort of mate would think you've perished just because you've been gone for an hour? Are you here visiting them or family?"
"No, not…visiting," hedges the boy, eyes shifting around before settling back on Remus.
He frowns at the other standing in front of him, but Remus really takes him in now, studies his appearance and clothing. They look expensive, his hair well-managed, like he uses the best products, movements far too graceful for most his age. Everything about him screams wealth and luxury, and that's when it connects for Remus.
"You're from Hogwarts!" he exclaims, but the boy flaps his hands around as he steps forward, one of his palms settling quickly over Remus' mouth as the other wraps around the back of his head. Remus' eyes widen in shock at the unexpected contact, something inside him squirming uncomfortably.
"Shh! Yes, all right? Keep your voice down." The boy slowly removes his hands after a moment, like he's only just realized what he's doing, though he doesn't look bothered by the touch to a complete stranger. "I snuck down. I do it a lot." And now there's a wicked sort of grin spreading over his face as he looks down at Remus. "Surprised I've never seen you before."
But Remus has seen him, he remembers now. He's watched him before, mingling in with his own group during the weekends when the students in attendance of the large school were allowed to freely venture down to the quiet village to eat and shop. He's one of the friendly shovers, always surrounded by a cluster of boys and girls alike. Remus isn't sure why he hadn't noticed until now.
Remus only shrugs in reply, the boy watching him with his pale eyes, something curious within them. He seems to brush whatever it is away after a brief moment, a small smile tugging back into place.
"Right, yeah. All right," he mumbles, backing away almost reluctantly. "I really do need to get back before someone important realizes I'm gone. I'll come back, though. I'm here a lot. We've got a school-sanctioned visit in a few weeks if I can't manage it. I'll find you."
He turns then, seeming a little more frantic now, waving over his shoulder, but just before he rounds the corner and disappears up the smaller section of the lane, he stops. Remus watches as he spins on his heel abruptly, fixing Remus with another curious gaze.
"What's your name?" he asks, face serious, like he really wants to know, only baffling Remus further. "I'm S – " He cuts off suddenly, eyes dropping to the ground briefly, thoughtfully, before he looks back up. "Padfoot. You can call me Padfoot." His head tilts again, expression once more open and inviting, like he's got nothing in the world to hide or that he wouldn't offer willingly.
Remus debates for a few seconds, but if Padfoot isn't giving his real name, maybe Remus shouldn't either. And there's no reason for him to know, for him to be able to delve further into his life if the mood strikes him, find all the secrets Remus keeps guarded so close that the entire village already seems to know.
"Moony," he says finally, voice small and shy, a reserved tone.
But Padfoot smiles, and it's a burst of light, silver streaking through it. "See ya, Moony," he murmurs, and then he's gone, vanishing from sight as he races away.