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He doesn’t like to think what this ritual, if one can call it that, says about him.
Every year, like clockwork, on the 3rd of November Remus wakes up at first light. He doesn’t linger in bed where his thoughts make a valiant attempt at catching up with him but chooses to jump in the icy cold shower instead. He doesn’t need the cold to wake up, not that day; on the 3rd of November Remus is painfully awake. He rushes through his shower, shaves and carefully brushes his hair. Every year there is more silver strands to discover and frown upon. P̶r̶o̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶a̶y̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ …
The rest of the morning is spent lazily preparing a lavish breakfast, listening to muggle radio and looking through the gossip in Witch Weekly. When the eggs and the bacon are ready, he adds them to the plate alongside sausage, mushrooms, baked beans, toast and grilled tomatoes. The tea is ready and as always it is a traditional blend of black teas originating from Ceylon and Kenya.
Once done with his food, he reads the outrageous gossip aloud in different voices, pretending to broadcast the breaking news to the concerned public, hanging on his every word. He makes faces and jumps around, holding the people’s attention.
It is the only day of the year he purposefully does not wash the dishes nor makes the bed. He likes to ignore the reasoning for that. He likes to ignore the reasoning for the entirety of the day’s routine if he can. And he tries his absolute best, thank you kindly.
He doesn’t drink the tea. His morning drink of choice is foregone for scolding black coffee with too much sugar and no milk. It makes his teeth hurt but he perseveres. He is denied his favourite cinnamon roll and takes a generous piece of raspberry pie instead. It is his solemn duty to finish the whole pie in one day.
Later on he takes a train to Central London. He walks around muggle neighbourhoods, taking notice of the latest fashion of the middle and upper class. He studies the length of women’s dresses and skirts and the cut of men’s suits. He tries to imagine himself wearing these pieces and think of at least of one clever pun. He cannot. He chooses not to focus on the why.
He thrifts a couple of second hand shops looking through every T-shirt they have. Luck is on his side today and he finds a Queen T-shirt from that concert of so many years ago. The memory feels like a fever dream. He wants to drop the shirt and run but knows that he would (could) never do that. He buys it, refusing the change. Next stop is Diagon Alley and he goes straight for Flourish & Blotts. It comforts and hurts him in equal measure just how little it has changed over the years. The door creaks the same, the pitiful sound ringing in the near perfect silence. The only thing standing out is the new blue armchair, replacing the old. He blinks the tears away and stubbornly refuses to remember what happened to the old orange one. Breathing through it, he focuses on the new releases with their colourful shiny book covers and enticing smell and just like that, the sadness lets go of its tight grip on his heart if for a moment.
He chooses a whole pile of books, gets it to the same woman who, it seems, has worked there since the beginning of time. Melodramatic, of course, but he remembers her kindness on his very first visit when he was only eleven and felt like this bookstore was the most magical place in the whole world and held the answers to all the questions he could ever have. He quickly changed his mind upon seeing the Hogwarts Library, of course, but the feeling of wonder and the fondness of the place stayed with him to this day.
Marigold, he remembers. She doesn’t remember him but as soon as he gives his name, she smiles and wishes him a happy birthday. He doesn’t correct her, he never does. She chats away, impressed with the sheer number of books he is purchasing. He doesn’t blush at her attentions but he used to. He gives mostly the same answers he gives her every year and finally all his books are rang up and carefully put into colourful bags that colourfully proclaim that it’s his birthday. He doesn’t sigh but it is a close call. The cheerful Marigold happily says that’s his purchase has already been paid for and he, exhausted with her liveliness as always, quickly finds his escape.
He grabs a bite on his way home. It’s a sandwich from the Lucy’s, and that place has stood the test of time. His mother was the one to introduce it to him after his first ever visit to the Diagon Alley. He remembers that day so vividly. They were never well off but in no way did that diminish the absolute wonder of being a part of the magical community after hiding (himself) from it for so long. He buys a scrimp sandwich, not his favourite but then, this day isn’t really about him, is it?; and a cheese sandwich and wolfs (ha) them down on his way home. He puts on the new shirt, applies the eyeliner and changes into the jeans, ignoring how ridiculous he looks. He always thought it didn’t suit him but was mercilessly overruled.
He goes to that not-quite-seedy pub and outright ignores the interested stares. He knows how his arse looks in those jeans. He wasn’t the one who bought them and even after so many years they still fit like a glove. It probably says something about his eating habits but he writes that to his financial situation instead. He is so very good at lying to himself and getting better by the day.
Today he is after something very specific. He doesn’t always get what he’s after but drinking usually lends its helping hand to take his mind off the disappointment. He looks around, scanning the crowd. Drink in hand, he jumps into the thick of it, swaying the hips, perfectly in tune with the beat and fully aware that he can’t afford all the alcohol he requires to survive this day so he’ll need to earn those drinks one way or another. And, well, he learnt a thing or two over the years.
Six shots and some most definitely inappropriate grinding later, he spots him. A little too broad in shoulder but passable. Especially from the back. Long black hair is curlier than he would prefer but beggars can’t be choosers. The man turns around and notices Remus. He winks at the man, challenge clear in his eyes. Only few heartbeats later he hears an overly confident “Hello” right in his ear. He turns around and finds himself face to face with that stranger. Not him , his treacherous heart whispers. He ignores it with everything he has (and everything he hasn’t). It’s a familiar dance of push and pull and before long he finds himself pressed against the wall outside the pub, the stranger’s hand roaming all over his body. He is sure than he was given the name at some point but for the life of him he cannot remember it. It doesn’t last long, it never does. He keeps his eyes closed the entire time and pretends. Pretends, pretends, pretends, that’s what this day is for. He could open his eyes and still be able to pretend that it’s someone else on his knees instead of that stranger but he is afraid that even the slightest detail will shatter the fantasy and he won’t be able to keep the tears at bay any longer.
After he wanders around, lost in thought. He tries to forget that when he returns home it will be to the empty, cold bed that is still unmade. The tea will have gone cold too. There will be no lingering smell of cigarettes in the flat and no sunflowers in the kitchen. Flowers are the only detail he doesn’t mimic from that day. He tries every year but can’t bring himself to step inside of any flower shop. The pain is overwhelming. But he still tries, every year.
So stubborn, my Moonbeam, he hears his old friend’s voice. Or is it? Does he still remember the rich baritone or is it his imagination at work, supplying the memory that’s started to fade? Impossible to say. The saddest part? He doesn’t know if he would prefer to forget or forever remember that laugh, bottle the memory and draw comfort and warmth from those days. The ones before.
His eyes burn, his vision blurry. Remus hates the 3rd of November.