In Silence Easy

In Silence Easy

Before dawn, Remus lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince himself that he isn't a coward.

The house is quiet. He heard the door across the hall open about an hour ago, then his father's heavy footsteps descending the creaking stairs. Through the open window by the bed, he can smell the cool spring air and the pre-dawn promise of a warm and pleasant Easter Sunday.

Taking a long, slow breath, Remus sits up and winces. Christian calendar traditions do not favour lycanthropic British schoolchildren; an entire day on the Hogwarts Express so closely following the full moon is not the best way to begin the Easter holiday. He rolls his shoulders to relieve the stiffness in his muscles, then climbs out of bed and rifles through the jumble of clothing spilling out of his trunk. Settling for reasonably clean denims and a faded yellow Sumbawanga Sunrays t-shirt (Sawasawa Tanzania!), Remus dresses as slowly as possible, then sits on the edge of his bed, staring blindly at the scattered books, shoes, parchments and robes that threaten to suffocate his bedroom floor.

I can wait until tomorrow, he thinks, then promptly shakes the thought away. Remus stands and walks across the room, cursing quietly when he steps on a quill and feels it snap beneath his bare foot. He pulls the door open. Music drifts up from downstairs, too faint to identify but definitely from a recording and not one of his father's instruments.

The hallway is dim, but he examines the pictures on the walls as he passes. They are his mother's Muggle photographs, moments frozen in simple wooden frames, a varied collection of vibrant colours and sombre black and whites: a striking Hebridean sunset, a proud African warrior, a sunburnt Sicilian village, young Americans burning bras and draft cards, clouds gathering around the snow-capped Dolomites, a line of mourners bowing their heads over a street in Belfast, and the fierce New Guinean cannibal whose glare had scared Remus senseless for much of his childhood. Remus knows the story behind every one of these photographs, though now the words and details are blurred, his mother's rapid voice and energetic gestures faded in the six years since her death.

On the walls down the staircase, the exotic landscapes and still faces are replaced by smiling and waving wizarding photos of Remus' family. He stops before his favourite picture; a grinning six-year-old sits proudly on a railing, swinging his bright red shoes wildly as both parents laugh and hold his arms to keep him from tumbling into the rough blue ocean behind them.

He doesn't know if he actually remembers that day, though he can usually convince himself that he does. That was the summer they lived in Haight-Ashbury; his mother was assembling what she called her "Images of Revolution" collection, while his father scribbled songs on napkins and brought home loose-limbed, long-haired men and women who argued all night about music and poetry and the integration of Muggle and magical cultures. And both of them--though Remus didn't know it at the time--were circumspectly investigating rumours of an old wizard in Chinatown who claimed to be able to cure lycanthropy.

They left San Francisco in the autumn. Remus turns the memories over in his mind: the beaded curtain in the flat, thick smoke and endless music, dark red rooms filled with old Chinese women who hissed and shooed him away from their Mahjong, and, perhaps, a single sunlit day at Point Reyes when he perched on the edge of the ocean and laughed.

At the bottom of the steps, Remus waits while the record player shifts. His father has charmed it to play any number of complicated sets, though usually in the earliest mornings he will sit in the library listening to the same song over and over, reading, writing, or simply lost in thought.

Silence is replaced by a faint scratch, then a few quiet notes and a familiar voice.

If I ventured in the slipstream, between the viaducts of your dream...

Remus nearly changes his mind right there, and turns to retreat up the stairs.

He doesn't need to see his father to know that he is sitting by the desk, leaning his chair back on two legs, his hands clasped behind his head. He doesn't need to see his father to know that the man's face is pensive and calm, emotions well-hidden until he opens his eyes.

Could you find me? Would you kiss my eyes?

Quickly, Remus walks down the hallway, glancing into the library but not pausing. A muffled snore startles him as he passes through the living room. The tangled blond hair of Billy Delacroix, John Lupin's best friend and band mate, peeks out from underneath a quilted blanket on the sofa; two calloused feet jut awkwardly from the other end.

From the far side of the ocean, if I put the wheels in motion,

And I stand with my arms behind me, and I'm pushin' on the door,

Could you find me? Would you kiss my eyes?

Remus hurries through the kitchen and goes outside through the back door. He sits on the steps, hugging himself against the chilly March morning. The garden is damp and grey, the grass and bushes weary from the long winter but hopeful for spring. The surrounding forest is alive with the twitter of birds and scent of earth. He can still hear the music, a faint whisper of sound through the open windows. Remus rests his elbows on his knees, rests his chin on his hands, and thinks about the first time he heard that song.

He had opened his eyes that winter morning, not knowing what had awoken him; it was still dark and there was frost on the inside of the window. Remus crept downstairs to find his father weeping in the library, while slow, gentle music filled the house. His father had looked up, tears streaking his face, and simply held out his arms while nine-year-old Remus panicked in his own silent way. I'm sorry, Dad had said, over and over again, holding Remus and murmuring against his hair, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have let her go, I'm so sorry. Aunt Gwen Floo'd in later that day, and while she and Dad were talking quietly in the kitchen, Remus slipped into the library to pull a massive, leather-bound book from the shelf. He turned every page and scanned every image, becoming increasingly frustrated until his father found him there. Dad knelt on the floor beside him, silently turned to the proper page, pointed to the place and pulled Remus close. He wanted to squirm free but knew that he shouldn't.

Three years later, during a lecture about Bloodlust Curses, Remus pretended not to know the answer when the Defence teacher asked if anyone knew where Eritrea was located. That was, in his mind, the last thing he had of his mother: a sliver of orange on Page 37 of Creeky's Atlas of the Wizarding World, his father's ink-stained finger brushing the page, the sudden fierce embrace.

The back door opens; his father comes out and sits on the step beside him. He hands Remus a mug of steaming tea.

"Are you going to tell me?"

Remus sips his tea. His throat is suddenly painfully dry and he has trouble swallowing. All of the carefully planned words he's been writing and crossing-out and re-writing for the past few weeks now seem stupid and trite.

"You may not remember," his father begins, and Remus can hear the smile in his voice, "but I've known you for your entire life. I know you have something on your mind. You barely said ten words last night--that's unusual, even for you."

Staring intently at the mug, Remus stalls. "It's complicated."

John laughs softly. "Everything is complicated when you're fifteen."

Remus scowls and fights down a surge of annoyance.

After a moment, his father says, "What is it?" The laughter is gone from his voice.

Somewhere beyond the forest, the sun is rising, filling the woods with a tangled pattern of shadows and golden light. Remus shivers and sips his tea again. He doesn't know if he wants his father to keep asking or to just go away. Not that the latter is much of a possibility; once John Lupin has brought a mug of tea and initiated a conversation, he doesn't give up.

"Is it about a girl?" John guesses.

Remus chokes and coughs to hide a strangled laugh. His father thumps his back gently. Remus can feel concerned eyes on him, but he doesn't turn. "No," he answers finally. "It's not about--it's never going to be about a girl."

His father's hand slides away from his back. "Remus. Listen. You know that isn't true. There are women who won't care, I promise you. There are people in the world who aren't cruel, small-minded, prejudiced--"

Recognising the beginnings of a familiar tirade, Remus hurriedly interrupts, "No, that's not what I mean. I mean--" He swallows and holds his breath for a moment. "I mean--it's not about a girl because--" It's now or never, you lousy excuse for a Gryffindor. "Because I don't--I don't like girls--I mean I like girls but I don't like girls like that." He says it all in one breath and immediately begins to panic, certain his father can't even understand the words, much less the meaning. So he adds, firmly, "At all."

Remus is certain his father can hear his heart thumping wildly. So can Billy asleep inside, the Muggle neighbours down the road, the priest at St. Edmund's in the village, donning his robes for Mass....

"You don't--really?"

Wordlessly, Remus nods. But it's such a small nod he's not sure he's moved at all. He raises his mug to take another sip.

His father is quiet for several seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Not hours, you plank. The sun is barely up.

After about a minute, John exhales loudly and says, "Well. Damn. I owe Billy five Galleons."

Remus chokes on his tea again. He gapes at his father and sputters, "What? You owe--did you hear what I just said?"

"I heard you, Remus. Calm down. You have tea dripping down your chin."

Wiping his face with his sleeve, Remus frowns and begins, "Dad..."

"I thought it was dead cert, too. You had that girl--Maggie?"

"Mary Margaret," Remus corrects, bewildered, his voice horribly high.

"Right. Well, we'd had a few pints and he said something about what a fine lad you were growing up to be. I shoved him and told him to keep his slimy, shirt-lifting hands off my son; he just laughed and offered a wager. I thought it was dead cert," he says again, shaking his head.

"But--Billy? Dad, I've met Billy's girlfriends. Many of them. Dozens."

Laughing, John shrugs. "He's not picky."

Remus feels like a fish, unable to speak or close his mouth, quite out of his element in his own back garden. "I--I didn't know."

"It's not something he advertises, is it?" His father's voice is serious now, and Remus is oddly reassured. This is something familiar, this mercurial shift from laughter to solemnity that happens when--well, Remus admits, before it only happened when somebody mentioned werewolves. Now it's werewolves and poofs. Remus wonders if his father feels the weight of so many secrets, those of his son, his best friend, and whomever else shares his burdens with the quiet, unassuming John Lupin.

"Dad, I'm s--"

"No. Stop right there. Don't you apologise."

Remus is silent.

His father sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "Well, my star-crossed son, I won't lie to you."

Tightening his grip on the mug, Remus holds his breath and waits.

"I am very, very happy that I don't have to talk to you about sex."

Remus exhales a sudden laugh, then glances sideways at his father. "You're leaving it to Billy then?"

Alarm flashes across his father's face. "No. Certainly not. I'll buy you a book."

"Billy probably has books."

John grins. "Aye, he does. But I promise that you will never be old enough to read the books that Billy has."

Father and son laugh before falling quiet again. Remus feels light and his hands are trembling slightly with relief. He briefly considers thanking his father or doing something equally stupid. He looks around the garden, which is steadily brightening as the sun creeps up behind the trees. The flower and herb beds are, as always, a jumbled mess of dead vines and intrepid new shoots, partially surrounded by crooked stone borders. Remus' eyes fall on the steel cage in the corner. Grim and dark, it looks like a part of forest itself, a rigid outgrowth from the shadows and spindly trees.

"Were you so afraid to tell me?" John's voice is carefully neutral, expressing curiosity, nothing more.

Remus pulls his gaze away from the cage. "I didn't know...I didn't know how you would react," he admits. "I thought--most parents would be upset."

Nodding, John agrees. "I suppose they would. People don't like--well, you know that." His voice his sad as he looks past Remus at the cage. Then he smiles as if at some private joke. "But I'm not most parents, and don't you forget it, young man."

"Oh, I know it," Remus assures him with a grin. "You rate...fair to middling, on the parent scale, I'd say."

"Is that all? After all I've done for you? Fed you, clothed you, let you wear little red trainers every single day between your sixth and seventh birthdays."

"Dad, you're not being fair. You didn't have to mention the little red trainers."

"I still have them, you know," John says slyly. "In the attic."

"I know. I know. I live in fear of those little red shoes."

"You loved those shoes, with their little white laces. You slept in those shoes."

Remus shudders. "Please, Dad. Haven't we had enough embarrassing revelations for one morning? I might have to lower your rating to barely tolerable."

John waggles his eyebrows. "If you insist. I won't mention the little red shoes again...until you bring your first boyfriend home."

Blushing crimson, Remus pleads, "Dad. Please."

John is still laughing, but he says nothing more.

The sun is nearly at the tops of the trees now, and soon the garden will be filled with springtime light. Remus sips the now-cool tea and listens to the reassuring sounds of morning, songbirds and dripping dew, quiet music from the house and, somewhere distant, a church bell calling people to Easter Mass.

Setting his mug on the wooden step, John asks, "Speaking of barely tolerable parents, how is Sirius doing these days?"

Remus shrugs. "He's...fine, I guess."

"You have told him he's welcome to stay here, right?"

"I've told him, James has told him, Peter has told him. You should have seen Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Pettigrew at the Potter's Christmas party, fighting over whose guest bedroom is nicer and who will cook more of Sirius' favourite foods."

"Those two lovely ladies? Fighting? I don't believe it."

"They nearly came to blows," Remus confides solemnly.

"Why doesn't he leave? What's he trying to prove?"

Remus doesn't answer. The problem, he thinks, is something that John Lupin won't understand. He walked away from home at age sixteen, with nothing but his violin, his clothes, his schoolbooks and his wand, and he never looked back. The summer after Remus' second year in school, his friends came to visit and it took all of ten minutes for his father to recognise a kindred spirit in Sirius. But a tumbledown Dorset cottage will release its prisoners more readily than the imposing façade of the Black family townhouse in London.

After another comfortable silence, John asks, "You have plans for the holiday?"

Remus smiles wryly. "O.W.L.s. You know that."

"You can't work all the time."

"I can, and I should. I don't have your pulsing Ravenclaw brain."

"No need to get shirty. Besides, I was a disgrace to Ravenclaw House. I never did schoolwork at all. You must have inherited that from your mother." John's smile fades, and he stares into the forest. Remus watches him for a moment, then looks down at the ground, pushing at the damp earth with his toes. When his father speaks again, his voice is quiet and wistful. "I was thinking--yesterday, at King's Cross, while I was waiting, I was thinking about how proud she would be. She was so excited when we knew you were a wizard. Sometimes I think she was more in love with the magical world than she was with me." John smiles sadly. "She's responsible for your name, you know. She wanted you to have a proper wizarding name. And a proper Roman name, but she never did admit to that."

Remus smiles as well. He remembers cuddling with his mother on the sofa in the living room, wrapped in a warm blanket and the safety of her arms, watching with awe while his father decorated the tree with fairy lights and floating candles, charmed ornaments and musical beads. He remembers his mother spending hours in the kitchen, baking biscuits, gingerbread and pie, then laughing when his father caught her about the waist and swung her around, her long dark hair flying like a ribbon, her laughter ringing through the house, a plate of biscuits still balanced on one hand. He remembers his parents dancing to slow, soft music by the light of the dying fire while he pretended to sleep on the sofa, then his father's strong arms carrying him up to bed, his mother whispering Ti amo, mio figlio, mio bel bambino and kissing his forehead.

John is looking at the cage again, his expression unreadable. "I never told you about what happened...that night." It isn't a question.

They never speak of it, but Remus suspects this is because he has never asked. He remembers most of it, what he has always thought were the important parts: pushing the door open at Aunt Gwen's house in Cornwall, thinking it too bright to be inside sleeping when he could be outside playing, happy because surely that was the shadow of a dog he just saw and he's always wanted a dog. Then a snarl, a leaping shape, his own screams, blackness.

He woke up days later in St. Mungo's to the sound of two Healers talking over him. Nearly took his head off, I thought for sure he wouldn't make it. He remembers trying to fight the growing fear and wondering where Mum and Dad were. Boys who are five whole years old, he told himself sternly, don't get scared just because of a few strangers in funny white clothes. Something was wrong with his arm because he couldn't move it, and his head, too, which hurt worse than the time he'd fallen down the stairs. Probably would have been better if it had. Boy doesn't have much to look forward to, not like this.

Remus waits for his father to continue.

"The man from the Ministry--I forget his name, from the Werewolf Capture Unit--he was ignoring her questions, he wouldn't even talk to her. I don't know why, didn't like Muggles, maybe. And your mother--she was a bit upset. Finally, just to hush her, the man says, 'There's nothing you can do. Your family will be better off if you put him out of his misery.' Those are the words he used: 'put him out of his misery'." John is looking at his son intently.

Remus meets his eyes for a moment then looks down at the ground.

His father takes in a deep breath. "Mariella didn't like that and--well, any man who says something like that to a mother or a Sicilian woman deserves what he gets, and if he says it to a woman who is both--she spun around and landed the most powerful punch I've ever seen, right on his jaw. He was about a foot taller than her, outweighed her by a solid four stone, and she hit him hard enough that he fell backwards on his arse and cracked his head against the table. Then she looked down at him with that look she had, and said, 'Thank you for the information. I want to see my son now.'"

Remus feels an immense swell of pride for his mother. He asks, teasingly, "What were you doing while Mum was assaulting Ministry officials?"

"Me? Why, I was holding her coat."

Remus laughs aloud, and his father grins widely, then slings his arm around Remus' shoulders and pulls him close. Remus doesn't resist or pull away.

"Sometimes I wonder--but it's no use, I suppose. I miss her."

Remus looks down at his bare feet and says nothing.

"You're a lot like her, you know," John tells him, his voice quietly firm.

"Thanks, Dad."

John tilts his head down and kisses the top of Remus' head. Quietly, his voice barely a whisper, he says, "I'm taking good care of your boy, Mariella."

Remus closes his eyes just as the sun climbs over the trees, washing the garden with warmth and light.

THE END