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As someone sets light to the first fire of autumn
We settle down to cut ourselves apart.
Cough and twitch from the news on your face
And some foreign candle burning in your eyes
Remus remembers the first time he saw Voldemort.
Despite the rags and the dirt and the press of stinking bodies between himself and the Dark Lord, he felt as if he was incandescent with intent, a blazing torch of deceit and treachery. The occulumency that he had learned was thin and inadequate; he kept his head down and tried to concentrate on immediate things.
The pain in his bare feet from crossing four counties in the past week, always moving at night.
The cold that made his skin crack and bleed.
The last meal he'd had, four days ago, and the foul-tasting tea that the pack brewed to kill the hunger.
The arm that had been broken this past change and hadn't healed right, his fingers unable to open or close.
He tried to concentrate on his sheer wretchedness, and when he dared to raise his eyes Voldemort had moved on.
For that we fought to get here? he thought angrily, but for many of his companions, poor, illiterate, and despairing, it was enough. It was enough to see Voldemort take Greyback's hand. To hear the promises of jobs, homes, school.
That simple act of seeing and being seen was enough to buy their loyalty to the end.
He had dreamed of hot showers billowing with steam. But when he turned the taps, he found that he could barely tolerate lukewarm water. He scrubbed off two week's worth of dirt, scrubbed until he bled. The soap stung. When he washed his hair, handfuls of it came out, making an ungodly mess. Towelling off, he looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. He pulled on his underclothes and rebandaged his wounds.
He was in the kitchen contemplating a dinner of toast and chicken broth when Sirius came home.
"I thought you were getting here last night," Sirius said, leaning in the doorway, and he didn't hide the suspicion on his face very well.
"I meant to," Remus said. "The mediwitch had other ideas."
"You might've owled."
Remus did not want to have this conversation. He wanted warmth and caresses so strong that they hurt. He sat down at the table, his knees shaking. "I should have. I was… preoccupied, and then I fell asleep."
"Well," Sirius said. He raked one hand through his hair. "I made plans with Jamie and Peter tonight. We haven't gotten together in a while, all of us, and I didn't know when you were coming back."
"Go ahead," Remus said. "I'll stay here and sleep."
He couldn't bear to see James and his happiness, or Peter, who always had questions about Sirius that Remus could no longer answer. 'Keep a leash on him,' Peter'd snarled back in June, 'I can't be responsible.' Remus had thought that he could, that he was holding things together. But he felt his failure spread through him like acid now, listening to Sirius change clothes, listening to him leave.
He ate his dinner, cold as the room, then threw the lot up. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled, and then sat on the sofa and read the flatmates wanted adverts until he fell asleep. It had become painfully evident that this was Sirius' flat again. And he was not welcome.
He woke in the cold and dark and left without checking if Sirius had come home. The corner cafeteria sold vile coffee, but at least it was warm. He took the paper and moved to the pay phone to start his calls. He was discussing utilities with a man named Chris when he saw a familiar dark head and black leather jacket down the road, moving through the morning crowd.
He collapsed against the window, sliding slowly down, clutching the telephone like a lifeline that pulled him away from the treacherous dark waters of desire.
He knew exactly how it felt to see, and to not be seen.