Chapter Text
The mirror above the sink is cracked where Remus punched it some days ago, and he hasn't bothered to fix it. His reflection stares back from between the jagged, broken pieces, gaunt and hollow with eyes rimmed in red. He washes his hands with numb, mechanic motions.
Everyone is gone.
He doesn't know how many days it's been. He hasn't left the flat, has barely left his room. His head is one pounding ache and the cuts on his hand haven't stopped stinging. He had something to eat, a couple of times. Washed his face once, changed his clothes.
Everyone is gone.
He hasn't spoken. His throat is scraped raw from the screams and the tears, but he hasn't said a word since he returned home days or weeks or lifetimes ago and found his entire world in shattered pieces.
He doesn't know how long it's been. Long enough that he stopped being surprised each new time he started crying again. Long enough that he doesn't fit inside his skin, that he feels like a ghost made of cobwebs and shadows and a hollow, biting wind.
It doesn't feel real. Except that it does, because that's where the pain and the tears are coming from. They're all gone, dead or in jail, and his heart is a pile of splinters inside his chest.
He's not sure if it would be easier, if they were all dead. His fingernails scratch against the smooth ceramic edges of the sink and he holds onto it as if it will stop him from collapsing. He's not sure of anything other than the pain but it's been long enough that it's crawling underneath his skin and he needs to make it real, needs to make it all into something he can hold.
He runs the tap again, and lets go of the sink long enough to splash water on his face. He rinses his mouth, spits, tries to meet his own eyes in the mirror.
If he says it out loud, it will become real enough to hold.
It's a trick that he's used many times through the years. Say it out loud, remove it from the inside of his head, make it into something he can either deal with or simply accept. He opens his mouth, and rasps, "James—"
He's shaking, he can't breathe, his teeth are clenched together to keep the sound inside. His broken reflection shudders across the jagged pieces of glass and he shuts his eyes tight, fingers curled against the cold surface of the sink.
"James," he says again, his voice a hoarse whisper. No, having his eyes shut is worse, he doesn't want to see his friend's face. He stares at the tap, its tarnished silver with limescale crusting the rim. "James," he says again, and his voice is in almost as many pieces as the mirror after so long unused for anything but screaming.
"James is dead," he chokes out.
"James is dead," he repeats, forcing the words out until he gets used to the way they taste like blood on his tongue. "James is dead, James is dead. Lily is dead. Peter is dead. S—" and his breath leaves him in a broken exhale. "S—" he tries again and makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a sob.
He starts again. "James is dead. James is dead, Lily is dead, Peter is dead, Sirius is in Azkaban."
He can feel tears on his face. He's not sure when he started crying.
It's not the whole truth, it's not the truth he'd intended to say—Sirius killed James—but it's a start. It tastes like blood, feels like a knife in his gut, but it's real enough to hold, now. It's a start. He says it again, "James is dead, Lily is dead, Peter is dead, Sirius is in Azkaban." His voice is firmer, colder, emptier. "I am here," he adds. I was not there, he does not say.
He lifts his head, drags his gaze up to look at himself in the mirror. "James is dead," he tells his fractured reflection, and ignores the way his voice breaks, "Lily is dead, Peter is dead, Sirius Black is in Azkaban." It's easier, a little, to make him sound like a stranger, like a headline in the news. "James is dead, Lily is dead, Peter is dead," he tells the pieces of the mirror, the pieces of himself, and he ignores the tears that slip down his cheeks, "Sirius Black is in Azkaban."
They hurt, these pieces of truth, as he holds them in his hands. He doesn't know where to put them, how to carry them, he doesn't know how he'll ever learn to carry them and still live. He knows there's more, too, more pieces he'll need to carry when he adds the memories of his friends to their names.
But he will hold these ones, for now. It's better that he can hold them. "James is dead," he says one more time, "Lily is dead, Peter is dead, Sirius Black is in Azkaban."
He washes his face and still does not fix the mirror. His legs don't quite feel like they belong to him but he makes it to the kitchen and has a glass of water. It's quiet, in the flat, other than the low static hum of electrical appliances. He still feels a bit like a ghost.
There's food gone long past stale and mouldy in the fridge, but that's far too much to deal with right now. He's made a start, he's got pieces he can hold, that's enough. Remus finds a bar of chocolate in one of the cupboards, breaks off a piece and lets it melt on his tongue. He ignores the lingering taste of salt.