The Mood That Passes Through You

The room smelt old, unused. The odd rodent bone, the odd piece of straw lay between the grooves in the old oak floor. The evening sunshine filtered in through a solitary curtain covered window revealing the dancing dust motes. The fading light showed three square patches on the opposite wall, a darker colour than the rest of the walls. Paintings that have been hung and then, after an age, been removed.

Remus took no notice of the aesthetics of the room from his place on the floor. Long legs bent up towards a slender chest, thin wrists dangling on bony knees, a straight back not quite touching the wall behind. His head did not drop forward but was rigid on top of his neck, forbidding himself the pleasure of relaxing his muscles. Golden eyes were fixed straight ahead on the curtained window, unseeing.

It hurts he thought. He could not remember thinking of much else upon entering the room. The heaviness he had felt in his chest since that Thursday in June hadn't eased. No. It had got worse. He felt suffocated, drawn out of breath by a weight that used to be a blanket of warmth and protection

He cleared his throat. And winced. That hurt too. I suppose everything hurts when you don't use it for a while he thought grimly. He tore his eyes away from the window, focusing on his hands. Hands with no fuss nails, cut straight across, a habit his mother had drilled into him. A that was difficult to fall out of. Hands with cracked skin on the knuckles that produced a similar pain like that of a paper cut. Hands that would never again slap a dark-haired someone on the back. Hands that would never rest on a brother's shoulder in a quiet plea of restraint. Hands that would never weave through hair like soot, holding a slender built friend in place.

"Stop it," Remus whispered as those hands slid from his knees into his hair, clutching fistfuls of the straggly, prematurely greying locks. A cut that had not been kept for many months. A cut that brushed his white collar at the back, his ears at the side and fell into his eyes at the front. He clenched them shut. But the images did not stop.

Two dark-haired boys smiling at him, hoping to ease the nervous knots in his stomach. The first day of school. Three pairs of eyes staring at him, two full of worry and sympathy. And the other full of fear and contempt. Telling them about his lycanthropy. Himself watching his friend closely, noting the lines of laughter about his eyes, the hair that felt softly into them, the straight nose, the strong hand that cupped his chin whilst regarding the common room, and quickly looking away when he was caught in his observation of his friend.

Remus blushed from the memory of it. And that was when it started, he thought. He raised his head and resumed the staring at the window. He watched the thick, velvet curtain sway slightly in the strong evening breeze through half closed eyes. A strong gust suddenly made it ripple.

Remus frowned. He didn't like the way it had just moved, as if it brought up a particularly bad memory...

Remus was on his feet, striding towards the window. His muscles protested at the sudden movement but he ignored it. He wrenched the curtains back, trapping them firmly to the wall to stop them from escaping, forbidding them to move in the way that veil had moved. Still moved.

He glanced out of the window. Looked down into the ill kept gardens of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He was breathing heavily through his nose, the thin chest rising and falling. You stupid sod, he thought, you've even got to remind yourself to bloody breathe. He closed his eyes. The city birds were chirping their song. He couldn't appreciate it. It felt out of place, unsuitable. The breeze moved his hair, blowing it into his eyes. Ignoring it, he pulled his green jumper down over his white cuffs, over his hands. When will this stop? he thought.

"Remus? REMUS!!," a voice yelled from the lower landing. "Dinner's on the table, you'd better hurry if you don't want it cold!"

Remus listened for the sound of retreating footsteps. There were none. Damn.

"Be right there, Molly!" he called. He turned away from the window pulling his hands out of the jumper. He brushed them sharply down the back of his brown cords, removing any dust that clung to him and strode through the door to venture into the fray of conversation that the house now contained.

And it hurts.