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The fire in the hearth had gone out hours ago, but Remus hadn’t found the strength to rekindle it.
He had simply pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and stared into nothing.
Winter crept in through every crack of the small cottage, and his breath mingled, misty and pale, with the cold air.
On the little table before him lay a forgotten book he hadn’t had the heart to read.
The full moon had been only a few days before, leaving him wearier than usual, which was saying something.
He had tried to heal the worst of his wounds, as best as he could. It was all he could manage this time: he’d run out of pain-relief potions months ago.
When the owl came, beating its wings against the cottage window, Remus took a few seconds to recognise the sound.
He hadn’t received a letter in months, perhaps years. He had simply grown unused to being written to.
The owl, for its part, kept tapping insistently at the glass, clearly annoyed at being ignored. With a sigh, Remus rose from the sofa, leaving the blanket where it was, and opened the window with numb fingers.
The bird, looking rather impatient, held out a thick, crumpled envelope, the handwriting large, uneven, almost childlike.
Remus recognised it at once.
Hagrid.
A sudden heaviness filled his chest as he stared at the envelope.
It was no exaggeration to say that he no longer received mail; he had no human contact at all, save for the grocer in the village and the few people who still bothered to nod politely when they passed him.
He couldn’t really blame anyone. Who would want to befriend the shabby, strange man who lived alone at the top of the hill, in that ramshackle cottage that looked as worn as its owner?
So to find a letter, a real letter, from Rubeus Hagrid of all people left him utterly bewildered.
What possible reason could the gamekeeper of Hogwarts have to write to someone who had long since severed every tie with the world? He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. Before he even began to read, his eyes caught on a single word. A name.
Hiya Remus,
Blimey, it’s been ages since I heard from you! Hope your doin’ all right.
Don’ know if you know, but Harry started school this year at Hogwarts! I been thinking of making something for him, but I ain’t got no pictures of James and Lily. Then I thought maybe you might have some. I thought of writing other folks, but truth is, there ain’t many left, and I dunno who’s got anything. Maybe you still talk to some old Hogwarts friends, eh? Would be nice to make Harry a little book, you know? Poor lad didn’t even know how his mum and dad died, can you believe that? Grew up with Lily’s sister, an’ she never even told him he was a wizard! He’s got no idea what they were like, and I think he oughta have some pictures of them. If yeh find any, send ’em with the owl.
Take care o’ yerself.
Hagrid
Remus stayed still for a long time, the letter clutched, perhaps too tightly, between his fingers.
Only when a drop of water blurred Hagrid’s signature did he realise he was crying.
Harry.
Harry had started school.
He was eleven.
He was at Hogwarts.
Years without Harry.
Years without James and Lily.
Years since Sirius…
He crushed the letter slightly in his hand, forcing the thought away.
He stared into the void again, ignoring the owl that pecked at his fingers, perhaps hoping for a treat Remus didn’t have.
The window was still open, the cold drifting in like punishment. He didn’t have the will to close it.
He sat back down on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ashes in the fireplace. He didn’t know how much time passed — minutes, hours, maybe a whole day.
He’d learned long ago to ignore hunger, thirst, pain.
Only when the owl returned, persistent, pecking again at his hand, did he stir.
He rose, slowly, and went to the only place in the cottage where he might find what Hagrid had asked for.
In the years, that drawer had never been opened. There wasn’t much he needed anymore, lonely as he was. Quills and parchment lay scattered across the desk, dusty and unused. Books filled the shelves, though none called to him these days. But that drawer — that drawer held things of no practical use, things that could still hurt. Things that could remind him of his wrongs and sense of guilt.
Not only photographs. Memories. Small relics of a past he couldn’t bring himself to bury. He opened the box with trembling fingers. There were still photographs, Muggle ones, of his childhood. Of his parents, of a boy who had grown up too soon.
And the magical ones, from later years. From a time when he had believed he might have a normal life, after all. When he had believed he deserved friends, laughter, happiness, love.
Pictures of James, Peter, Sirius. Of Lily. Of Mary and Marlene. Faces that were gone, yet still alive in those moving frames.
James laughing, his hair wilder than ever, the Snitch flashing by his ear, its golden glare in his friend's glasses.
Lily and Mary after their fourth-year exams, Marlene in the background.
James and Lily in an autumn embrace in Hogsmeade.
James and Sirius after a Quidditch match, Peter looking at them in admiration.
Sirius.
James and Lily on their wedding day, Sirius behind them pulling a silly face.
And then one — him, Remus, and Lily, caught mid-laughter as James and Sirius threw themselves into the frame, arms around them all.
He held that last photo in his hands for a long time. He hadn’t seen their faces in years, but guilt had never let him forget them and all the details. He could still feel Sirius’s hand on his shoulder, steady and warm. He could still hear James’s foolish joke, and Lily’s laughter, her head thrown back. He remembered everything about that moment: the peace, the certainty that nothing, not even war, could tear them apart.
His fingers trembled.
In the end, he did the most masochistic thing he could. He placed that one photograph on the mantelpiece and gathered all the others with James and Lily into a neat pile. Then he took a sheet of parchment and began to write.
Dear Hagrid,
I’m fine, thank you. I hope you’re well too.
I’m sending you every photo I have of Jame and Lily, except one. I hope you’ll understand. I don’t know of anyone else who might still have pictures of them, but I hope these will do. Your idea is wonderful. Harry deserves to know the happiness his parents carried with them.
I hope he’s well, and that he’s settling in at Hogwarts.
Please, if you can, don’t tell him about me. I can’t be of any use to him, except for these photographs.
And I don’t think I was the friend his parents deserved
Take care, and keep an eye on him for me.
Remus
He slipped the letter into the envelope, tied it to the owl’s leg, and watched as the bird vanished into the quiet night.
Then he took his blanket and stepped outside, sitting on the cold stone steps, the photo again in his hands.
Moonlight touched the faces of the friends he had lost.
From the doorway, the sky was clear and full of stars.
He tried not to look for familiar constellations, not for that one, particular star. Everything in the sky only reminded him of a love that had turned to pain.
Somewhere, an old wolf howled in the distance, and Remus didn’t know whether the sound came from outside or from himself.
Sitting there, wrapped in the past, the cold didn’t touch him at all. And through the tears, a laugh escaped him — maybe madness, maybe relief.
When a storm began to roll in over the hills, tears now hidden in the rain, Remus whispered, barely aloud,
“Goodnight, my friends.”