Chapter Text
The prank had torn down the marauders. It had sunk its teeth in and tore the flesh until the marauders fell. It had caused great pain.
For James?
It had torn his friends apart, piece by piece. He had to figure out how to be on everyone's side at once.
For Peterr?
He had to deal with not being able to decide who was wrong and wrong. To a certain degree, Sirius was wrong. But was Remus taking this too...deeply?
For Sirius.
Sirius had to see the true depths of Remus' hatred. Because Remus had so much hate and anger from the world, and he channelled seamlessly into Sirius. He had to know he had attempted to kill a man, and he was just as bad as his blood suggests.
And finally, for Remus.
Remus had to know he had almost killed a man. That once again, he had been betrayed by those he held close. He had to feel his hands shake and know deep down they could've been covered in blood without James.
Remus had been staying with an upperclassman friend. Haven Smith.
A good guy, always high though.
But it seemed these days Remus had been too.
The weed made everything blur out and disappear.
Even, for that first breath, Sirius didn't try to make him a murderer.
But then the second breath reminded him that Sirius did. And he hated Sirius. Sirius was a monster. A devil.
No, that was him. If Sirius were a monster, he wouldn't have had to take Snape to Remus.
Remus was the monster here.
Remus tried to speak to Snape on seven different occasions. He hadn't succeeded. Snape was scared of him.
Of course, he was.
Remus was afraid of himself, too, after all.
Everything went downhill.
He drank more. He stayed high constantly.
Was he high right now? Not a clue.
He couldn't look in the mirrors anymore. He stopped eating. He stopped drinking water.
He hadn't drunk any water in days now, only firewhiskey.
He didn't do his work. He didn't breathe.
What was the point?
Didn't go outside. He stopped reading.
The stars were outside; he didn't need that cruelty stuck with him.
He stopped listening to music.
He just stared at the ceiling with no thoughts.
In his dreams, he still smiled at Sirius.
He still ran to him in those dreams.
But in real life, he was running away.
What is the point of living, after all?
If you truly have nothing, why aren't you nothing?
Why do you still draw breath when you just want to drown?
It's not that Remus wanted to die; he just wanted to fall asleep and fade from existence.
It had been a lingering feeling all his life.
Nothing too serious made him think anything would emerge from it.
But now the need to fade clawed at him harder than the wolf could.
He sank to the floor, back against the wall.
He needed more.
He didn't know more of what.
He didn't have antidepressants, though; that's what he reached for as he leaned towards the cupboard.
His hands fumbled through meaningless medications and lotions.
He cut his finger on a stray razor. He did not notice.
The only way he knew was the blood staining the light wood.
His head spun. He crawled out of the bathroom.
Remus was far too drunk to stand. He couldn't...He wouldn't.
A letter was slid under the dorm door at that moment.
Not my dorm, Remus reminded himself, Havens.
Either way, he crawled over. He reached out, but he couldn't get it. His fingers shook.
He bit his lip and dragged his body forward.
He couldn't feel his legs.
Was he high as well?
He didn't remember smoking a joint, and his head was busy.
So maybe he was just shit drunk?
The letter.
The letter.
He reached again.
His middle finger landed on the edge, and he dragged it over.
Sirius handwriting.
He vomited.
Was it because of the handwriting, or the drinks?
He felt so weak.
He fell into it.
The smell choked him.
He awoke twenty minutes later, though he didn't remember falling asleep in the first place.
He sat up, clutching his head. He felt gross.
He cast a cleaning spell.
The letter was still on the floor. He leaned over and grabbed it. He slipped it under the makeshift bed he was using.
He took a quick shower.
Blood went down quicker in the shower.
He cut over old scars, so they wouldn't be noticeable in a few days. Scars heal quickly. Perk of lycanthropy.
When he got out, he wrapped them. Carefully. The way Sirius had done for him once-...
No. Not Sirius. He wouldn't think of Sirius. He had just cleaned himself up so neatly.
Clean. Neat. Good.
Precise?
Precision is good. Good.
Good Good Good Good Good Good--
The letter.
He ran back out, his brain still felt jumpy.
Mania—James’s word for the racing.
Was this racing?
No.
He wasent.
He was fine.
He was just angry.
He was on his bed, and he tore at the envelope. Sirius hadn't even put on his fancy wax seals. He must be desperate now.
A cruel part in Remus, the part that had bloomed that night, revelled in the concept of his horror and desperation. He felt a grin on his face.
Or he thought it was a grin. He hadn't been in control of his facial expressions for a couple of days now. He dragged his hands over his lips to check, but came back inconclusive.
The letter.
He stood up, then sat back down on someone's bed.
He didn't know whose.
He never cared for their names, nor their pity.
His handwriting was sloppy; he used every inch of the page that he could have. He barely even had spacing between his words.
Remus, I'm so so sorry, I'll do anything to prove that to you. I need you to just talk to me. You can be angry, you ARE angry. I need that rage. I can handle you ignoring me. Scream at me! Punch me! Hit me! Tell me I'm the evilist person you've ever encountered, thatI'mm just like my family, and everyonwho'sos hurt you before! I would do anything for that right now! I would rip open a vein, I would cast an unforgivable curse on myself. Anything for your rage. Every time I try to remind myself to imagine everything from your point of view, I can't. Because I did a bad, bad thing. I fucked up big time, Moony, and I'm afraid I've lost you forever. I'm evil, aren't I? Say I'm evil, to my face, I beg of you. James is scared for you; he says you won't speak to him either. Peter is too scared to try. I feel like I'm too far away for you to speak to me. Please don't blame them for my fault. They did not betray you; I have. They would never betray you. Only I have the stupidity and hatred to be able to hurt you. Hurting you has always been a wild, impossible concept to me. Maybe that's why I kept pushing it, to see the impossible. I'm sorry, Remus. Please scream at me.
-Sirius.O.Black.
Had Remus' hands shaken like this before?
Maybe he did smoke a joint earlier.
He picked up another one; if he had smoked one, it was not enough now.
It wasn't giving him an effect quickly enough. So he reached into the trunk he had dragged in here, and rummaged for a bottle.
He came to utter weariness when he found he had drunk them all.
Nothing was enough.
He didn't remember crawling to the bathroom or falling again in the first place.
He didn't remember grabbing a knife--or where he got it from originally.
He did remember the first cut.
But not the second.
All he knew was that his arm was soaked in blood. Nothing but blood. He couldn't see the cuts--How many had he inflicted?
Oh, his joint.
When did he stand again?
He stumbled over to the bedside. He had dropped his smoke.
Remus took a drag, then a second.
Not enough.
He was shaking. He didn't know whether that was caused by the weed or something else.
He coughed. No blood. Good sign.
Bad sign, maybe? He wanted blood.
Maybe that was the wolf in him, thirsty.
Was he back in the bathroom? He couldn't tell anymore. His vision was too blurry.
He reached for a bottle.
He didn't know what kind. But he knew they weren't his.
Child-proof cap.
DAMMIT.
He vomited. Did he? he knew it was something liquid...Semi-liquid and hot came out of his mouth.
Blood?
He looked down at his feet. They didn't feel like his feet.
Not blood; vomit.
He felt his organs try to slip down to the ground. His bones tried to rise to the ceiling.
He felt dizzy
He finally opened the bottle--what were these for?
He turned the bottle with shaky hands.
He couldn't read it, vision too blurry--Ow, he hit his hand.
He felt something. Something touching him. he turned around fast, dizziness increasing. It was only the laundry basket. Not Sirius. Nobody was here to save him.
He was swallowing something. So much. he choked a bit. He spat it back up.
No. He vaguely knew he wanted to swallow it.
He took more. More. He poured the bottle into his mouth, then washed it down. He didn't know with what. Salty
His arm was in his mouth, with blood, it seemed
He didn't remember passing out.