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When Remus gets the small package in the mail a few weeks after Halloween, he recognises Dumbledore’s neat script on the outside and feels like lead has just settled in his stomach.
He doesn't want to open it. There's only one reason why Dumbledore would be sending him a package right now, and he knows that whatever's inside is something he doesn't want to see – not now, not tomorrow, not ever.
Despite his better judgment, he opens the letter accompanying it, confirming his suspicions:
Remus –
These photos were salvaged from Godric’s Hollow. I thought you might be the best person to have them.
It's short, clearly hastily written, as though Dumbledore couldn't bear to dwell on what he was sending Remus for too long. He tries his hardest to brace himself for what's coming when he opens the box, but nothing could prepare him for these photos.
All the pain he's felt since Halloween is doubled, tripled, and he feels like he's being stabbed by hundreds of searing knives as he lays the pictures out on the table: a photo taken late at night in the common room when they got tired of studying and Peter fell asleep on his textbook; a photo of James and Lily's first date, with a black dog in the background; a photo of the four of them and Lily jumping into the Great Lake on the last day of seventh year; a photo of him and Sirius in the Great Hall huddled close together until they realise they're being watched, at which point they break apart hastily.
Tears blur his vision and he pulls out his wand rashly to remove Sirius from the photos in any way he can – burning, a Severing Charm, anything – and then Sirius from the last photo looks up at him (not really, he thinks, people in photos can't see you, you're being an idiot) and slate grey eyes meet brown and his hand falters.
He can't do it.
His wand falls from his hand and rolls off the table, forgotten, as Remus sinks his face into his hands and finally, finally lets himself grieve. Weeks of suppressed emotion spill over, all his efforts to stay strong rendered utterly useless as he collapses in on himself.
It isn't fair, it isn't right, and he feels foolish for thinking so childishly, because he's well aware that life is often unfair, but this – this is too much. Lily and James laughing, unaware that their lives will soon be cut short, Peter, poor Peter, blown to bits by his best friend, and him, Sirius, how could he do this to them, how could he do this to Remus? He feels sick to his stomach – it's made so much worse by the photograph in front of him, where Sirius has just moved in closer again and put his head on Remus' shoulder. He flips it over. That time has ended, and may as well have never happened at all. With a sense of finality, he takes a deep breath and puts the photos back in the box, with the one of him and Sirius at the very bottom.
He keeps the box of photos in the very back of the top dresser drawer in every house he lives in, never opening it, but keeping it nonetheless. It's a reminder – a memorial. The only remaining pieces of evidence to indicate that once, briefly, there was a period of time where Remus Lupin was not alone.
* * *
Years pass, and one day a letter from Hagrid comes in late May, asking Remus if he has any old photos he could spare for an album for Harry. Harry, he thinks. Baby Harry has finished his first year at Hogwarts, somehow. He wishes, so much, that he could know him. The photos will have to do.
Dusting off the box and opening it feels like having an old scar burst open – the people in the photos are still laughing, blissfully unaware, frozen in time. Remus hasn't laughed like that in years. He feels hollowed out, gutted, empty as he methodically puts the photos in an envelope and prints “Hagrid” neatly on the outside. Just before sealing it, though, he hesitates and takes the photo of himself and Sirius out.
It’s creased, with damaged corners and a slight rip. There’s still residue on the back from when it was once taped to his wall (“What are you using Muggle stuff for when we’ve got Sticking Charms?” rings in his head, from Sirius, seventeen, beautiful, lounging on his bed).
He tries to justify keeping it – this isn't a photo of Lily and James, he thinks, there's no point giving it, Harry wouldn't want it, he doesn’t even know me – but some part of him, tucked away and buried under years of hurt, knows that isn't why he's keeping it. He compartmentalises though, and tucks that away too – this is his way, and always has been.