An Ironic Title

Chapter 8: Nothing Left

James was the Quidditch star; Sirius was the rogue, the black sheep of his family; Peter was the awkward nerd. And I, Remus Lupin, was the organized one, everyone's always said that about me. At Hogwarts, it was the color-coded study schedule and homework planner which James and Sirius teased me mercilessly about. While a teacher at Hogwarts, it was the meticulously organized grade and plan-books, and while a member of the Order - maintaining careful notes about where Death Eaters or Voldemort could be. Even in the direst situations, I can keep my head and come up with a plan. Many people admire me for it; they shouldn't, but they do nonetheless.

For what many people don't know is that organization is simply a cover-up, so that I can focus on something else aside from what's happening right in front of me. Usually it works well, but now it isn't. I can't ignore these events that have seemed like something out of a nightmare for me, but a fairytale for others, the Ministry of Magic included. Imagine all the publicity they get from this.

Believe me, I've tried. I actually set quill to parchment in an attempt to write out what my mind cannot seem to comprehend. Perhaps to find some sense in all of this nonsense, nonsense that I don't want to believe in. Let me tell you that it was the most pathetic attempt by a human being.

July 28, 1996: Harry's will is read. My screams, my anguished howls and sobs, intermingled with swears that would have made Prongs and Padfoot proud. The children's astonished faces, their eyes wide as mild-mannered Professor Lupin explodes. Molly and Albus's voices trying to calm me down, to get me to see reason. More of my screams, swears that I can't remember where I've heard them. Oh, yes, and a nasty crack, I broke Dumbledore's nose - again.

July 29, 1996: Harry's body is found. Still more of my screams, howls, sobs, and profanities. The assembled adults and children watching me with tears streaming down their faces now, some of them sobbing slightly, but those are nothing compared to mine. Madam Pomfrey, the only adult taking charge in the room, trying to draw me away to clean him up before the burial while I sob. The nurse's voice goes from kind to somewhat stern and amongst everyone's cries, the worst thing of all happens - realization.

But I've burned it by now, trying to ignore what's happened; half-thinking that maybe, just maybe, by burning it, it will get rid of everything that's happened these past few days. I walk across the grounds now, the same motive prominent in my mind, the other of keeping Molly's penetrating and worried gaze off of me. She acts as if I'm about to scream, "Goodbye, cruel world!" and drown myself or fling myself into the mouth of the giant squid . . . or something. I must admit, I have contemplated the idea several times, though never in so dramatic a fashion. However, there is a nice, long drop from off the Astronomy Tower.

For Harry is the only one that I would have lived for, the only person that would have made me been able to go on. Even after Sirius died, even when all my best friends in the world were gone in some way or another; I stuck around for him and would have continued to stick around for him, would have been there for him, been the father-figure in his life. That is why I grabbed him, held him back from the veil, I couldn't let him throw his life away. That's not the whole truth and I know it. For I need him to continue on, I need a motive to continue, and Harry would have been that motive. It's incredibly selfish and self-centered and everything else of me and I know it, but I can't help it. I needed Harry to continue on and now he's gone.

Of course, I know that I've never really been a father-figure in Harry's life. For him, all I was, was a former DADA teacher - mind you, the best one he ever had - but still nothing but a teacher and that was the only relationship Harry ever considered with me. Now Sirius, he was the one Harry confided in, he was the one that Harry would tease and joke with, he was the father-figure. And I, I was Professor Lupin, one of James and Sirius's best friends back during our schooldays at Hogwarts And now I took up an occupation as a member of the Order and Sirius's sidekick, the one that Harry heard and saw, but I was just there, I wasn't anything to him. Not that I'm jealous of Sirius, not at all . . . I'd just like to be a little more than a former teacher friend of sorts in Harry's eyes.

For, even though Harry may not care about me farther than he cares about any teacher, I care deeply about him. I've loved him ever since that day in the hospital when I held his tiny form in my arms. And my love for him only increased during that heavenly year and a half that he spent with James and Lily, when all of us were a family. Ah, it was good times, then and I remember them well: Harry murmuring incoherent baby words to his stuffed bear; Harry's face lighting up when he sees me and crying "Uncle Mooie!" as he lifted up his arms to be held; Harry's first birthday (that's when James and Sirius first adopted the term "Jr. Marauder," when referring to Harry); Harry falling asleep in mine or someone else's lap many, many times. . . .

Why can't those times come back? I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek and I bury my face in my hands and moan. I close my eyes tight shut, hoping that maybe, just maybe this is some insane dream and I'm going to wake up to uproarious laughter from James and Sirius when one of them tells a joke or a story (mostly to do with pranks on Snape) while Peter - if he's there - laughs nervously and Lily gives me a look that says, "Will they ever grow up?" which I return. Meanwhile, Harry sits on someone's lap, his bright, emerald-green eyes watching everyone raptly as if he's writing a book about all this.

But no, instead I see a vision that has been plaguing me in the little sleep I've been getting - rather, I'm being drugged to get it - these past few days. I am standing on the Quidditch Pitch, alone except for three corpses - those of James, Lily, and Sirius - their eyes staring blankly upwards. And, as always, I look up, hoping that something, some God will be there to reassure me that everything will be alright. However, as I do so, I feel rain streaming down my face, mixing with the salty tears there already. Lightning lights up the sky while thunder goes on amidst the noise of pattering rain on the school roof.

The school doors are flung open now and a figure in a black cloak walks out, carrying a Firebolt under their arm. I want to hope that just this one time it will be someone else, but know that it still is and always will be - Harry. Seemingly oblivious to his parents and godfather's dead bodies, he climbs on his broom and takes off, despite my many warnings. I shout after him to come back, but he doesn't listen to me. Goddamn Potter stubbornness! Just as I think this a bolt of lightning comes out of the sky and hits Harry squarely in the chest. I scream as his limp body spirals downwards through the layers of clouds, but, as I run to try and catch him, to save him, perhaps, I begin to fade, becoming slightly transparent and slowly disappearing as my scream fades to a whisper and the image of Harry falling is branded into my vision as I fade from the picture.

And I know exactly what it means, for they're all gone, James, Lily, Sirius, and Harry, and they're all up there, gazing down at poor, old Moony, the werewolf-y nothing. Once I was a Marauder, then a teacher, then a member of the Order and now . . . now I am a nothing. For no one in the Order now really, truly cares about Moony, who was once a something and is now a nothing, the only one left; the one who seemed to be forgotten when our futures were planned; the guy with all the organized plans which didn't do him any good in the end - this being the end. That Moony. The nothing Moony. . . .

I am brought out of this self-induced reverie by yet another scream - though not my own. I swing my head back to see what has happened. Could it be. . . .? No, stop being an idiot, Moony, I mentally scold myself. It's only Dolores Umbridge, screaming as a teacup she was using leaped for her nose. Quite a nice model, I must say so myself - the cup, not Umbridge. It's most likely a Weasleys Wizard Wheezes product that those nefarious twins set up.

Most likely? No, most definitely.

Well, at least they put it to good use, in honoring Harry's final requests. I must say, that for me, it would have been a tie between using it on Umbridge or Snivellus. I feel hot tears prick the corners of my eyes at the thought - Snivellus - James and Sirius's nickname for Severus at school and even Sirius's nickname for him during the last year. And, oh, the stories I could have told Harry about all the pranks we played on old Snivelly at school, but, no . . . they're all dead and old Moony is a nothing.

I start walking again, trying to deflect Molly's gaze to someone else, hoping to show her that I'm perfectly fine. I pass by the Quidditch Pitch - it reminds me of my vision too much and I turn away only to see . . . Ron and Hermione. Although Hermione is still letting out soft sobs now and again and Ron's eyes are suspiciously transparent, the two are still looking quite content as they hold each other under the beech tree by the lake, kissing now and again. I let out a small, choked sob myself. I remember how James and Lily used to do that, how Sirius and I always hoped that Harry and Ginny would get together someday, and now that they've finally realized it, it's too late, much too late. . . .

My strides are longer now as I struggle to distance myself from all that is hurting me, to get away from it all - forever. Hoping that Molly isn't watching, I walk past Hagrid's hut (where my sensitive wolf's ears can hear sobs issuing from) and walk a few steps into the Forbidden Forest. Forbidden? Yeah, right. Why, the number of times that we got into there and, from what I've heard from Harry, he's living up to his father's reputation. . . .

Stop thinking of Harry! But it is too late to stop the tears from sliding down my face. I swipe at them angrily and sniff deeply, trying to compose myself. The last thing I need now is for people to be drawn to my sobs (Molly especially) and see me die with tears streaming down my face. I was never really the melodramatic one in school, that was Sirius. . . .

I let out a dry sob at the thought and quickly glance around, hoping that no one heard me. No, the area around me is clear, there is only a faint wind ruffling my hair (streaked with gray even more now). I hope that there isn't a storm coming up, it's looked pretty gross out for a couple of days now and I wouldn't want my body to get rained on.

I fumble for my wand and find it deep in the pocket of my robes and play with it for a few moments, turning it in my hands. Should I do it? I finger my wand casually as if thinking about doing a simple Wingardium Leviosa, rather than the dreaded Killing Curse.

I remember when I first got it, that was when I first met Lily, looking quite pleased with herself as she played with her wand. I remember being astounded at her marvelous green eyes - so like Harry's - being nearly transfixed by them as she paid for her purchase and left the store, smiling at me as she passed. She had a marvelous smile, too. . . .

I shake my head angrily, wanting to change into a werewolf and tear out all these bittersweet memories. But I know there is a much easier way than that. Yes, this is what I want, I think determinedly, raising my wand. The breeze is even stronger now and I draw my cloak around me - today is a strange summer's day - to say the least. I'll have to risk my body getting rained on, I think as I place my wand near my forehead, my hand shaking somewhat.

I've felt as if I should die many, many times, but have never come this close to it - and only one time before have I had a choice in the matter, when I thought that all of my best friends were gone in one way or another. But Harry was there, then, even if he was being sent off to live with Muggles. That decides it, for, as I have said so many times before, I lived for Harry these past few weeks. I press my wand deeper into my forehead, now it can't miss.

I hear a sob, I'm not sure if it's me or not. Is someone here? No, probably one of the grieving back at the funeral, I reassure myself. The breeze blows harder. Get it over with before someone comes!

"Avada. . . ."

"And what in Merlin's name are you doing, old wolf?"