Of Wind Chimes and Storms

Of Wind Chimes and Storms

It was the end of autumn, when the trees stood bare and bending to the thrashing winds and a misty haze sunk over the top of the Forbidden Forest. Fallen leaves carpeted the muddied grounds in dirty layers of orange and brown as sheets upon sheets of pounding rain washed over the castle. Days of unbroken monotony dragged into shady weeks of gray, and the air settled heavy and frosty upon the students. More and more often the breezes carried the crisp tinge of winter instead of the putrid stench of decay.

Water was everywhere.

Water streaked through the trees, throwing them in a violent, black dance against the graying horizon. Water slashed across the lake, tossing jagged waves upon the rocky shore. Water streamed through the pine needles, dragging the cries of the dark forest across the Quidditch field, over the towers and turrets, and through the stone cracks and glass hinges of the castle.

Water forced the magical landscape in a fierce and turbulent symphony that never ceased nor rested. These awkward weeks, when the heavens toppled upon its precarious balance between autumn and winter, were Remus Lupin's favorite days.

He sat, weeknights and weekends, by the common room window, with forgotten books and cold cups of tea upon his lap, head against the stone wall and amber eyes tilted pensively toward the pouring rain. The wind chimes outside his window twirled and whipped to the rhythm of the raging storm, weaving its sharp, brisk melody over, through, and between the discordant notes.

On these nights, Remus would not be afraid of the moon; he would not notice it. His eyes would be closed, soft wisps of his sun-brown locks would linger across his passive face, and his ears would be filled with autumn's ephemeral sonata. On these nights, Remus hardly noticed anything but the passionate, fiery waltz of the landscape outside the window.

"Why?" Sirius inquired once upon a bleak November night.

"Just because," he had answered.

"Because why?"

He had no reply. He didn't know. He had never thought about it before.

Maybe because he loved the rain. Because he loved autumn. Because he loved songs, sonatas, and symphonies. Because he loved wind chimes and their tinkling tunes that drifted lazily through summer afternoons.

Perhaps because it reminded him of bygone days. Days when he danced in the rain without care. Days when he slept under pale, silver blankets without worry. Days when he greeted the Harvest Moon with joy instead of melancholy and dread. Days before he became ashamed of who, or what, he was.

Mostly because in these weeks, nature sang to him and answered him. Because the rain cleansed his convoluted misconceptions, cleaned his mind and consciousness, cleared the anguish that smoldered within his soul, and gave him room to breathe. Because the wind blew his difficulties into tangible drifts, brandished his distress in raw, bitter shrieks, bashed his sorrow and regrets together with the crumpled leaves upon the ground. Because through the storm, his inner turmoil was orchestrated into forgotten lullabies, his doubts and uncertainties, rough and bold, sketched across the tumultuous sky, his pain and insecurities painted plainly in bleeding, glaring strokes of black and blue.

He told Sirius so, and Sirius only smiled. He let Sirius read the pages and pages of similar November days that he recorded with streams in his curvy, modest penmanship. He didn't understand why he let Sirius read them; he felt naked and bare, like offering away an intimate part of himself.

In a way, he was. He never let anyone read his writing before. He never had a reason to. He didn't want to burden his friends with his tortuous and abstruse ideas that even he didn't quite comprehend, and he feared that his friends didn't care about him enough to even try to comprehend them.

Then Sirius smiled. With his head bowed over the ink-bled pages, ebony locks lying carelessly over the armrest, blue eyes glinting like the waxing moon, Sirius smiled. And Remus felt like he should know exactly why he was telling Sirius something that he shared with no one.

"And why do you like wind chimes?"

Remus knew that answer. He had always loved wind chimes. They let him relive childhood. They let him remember innocence and purity, endless dreams that never died, hazy spring showers and soothing songs. Their bell-like tunes and simple melodies reminded him that life can be sweet and clear, that obstacles and mysteries don't always have to be complicated. No matter how fierce the storm, their tunes trickled between the cords and made the woven music of life slightly silkier against his ears.

Remus always had time to listen. Even though he knew those dreams weren't so possible now and spring showers weren't so frequent anymore, a moment by the window where the wind chimes swayed, and he could imagine the storm dwindle to a spray and the bold strokes of wind fade to slight caresses across the horizon.

He wasn't even aware that Sirius had been listening to him, chin resting thoughtfully on the stone windowsill, until he felt a hand sweep tentatively across his face. He turned to find Sirius regarding him with a pensive gaze. He reached for his hand, and with soft, gentle tugs, carefully laced their fingers together.

Now, Remus doesn't remember why he did it, only that he smiled, and Sirius smiled back.

Remus never forgot that November night, though neither he nor Sirius mentioned it afterwards. He was almost certain that the other had disregarded it as an insignificant memory long before.

*

That was fifteen years ago.

Right now, Remus can feel the rain thrashing against the window. He can hear the wind sweeping its tendrils across the roof of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. It is just like that November night, except now there are no wind chimes, and there is no Sirius. Remus sighs and brushes a lock of his gray-streaked hair from his face.

He sits down heavily beside an oak trunk, the same one that Sirius dragged with him every year to Hogwarts. The attic is a stuffy place, full of unpleasant critters and questionable stains. The air is dense and musty from leaks in the roof, and grime sticks to the surface of everything. But Remus climbed five flights of stairs and a crooked ladder only for the memories.

The trunk opens with a rusty whine and a cloud of dust. Remus shifts through the overflowing storage to find endless "Exceeds Expectations" transfiguration papers, written in a hurried but impossibly-neat scrawl, Defense Against the Dark Arts exams, all perfect, and mounds of Astrology charts and Divination predictions. There is Animagus textbooks, expensive (but now wrinkled) dress robes, Gryffindor scarves and ties.

Remus lingers a while on a small pile of pictures, edges frayed and faded, depicting the Marauders (and later, Lily) in various compromising situations. After a while, unnoticed by the lashes of the storm outside nor the winds that skim over the rooftop, the smell of Sirius and the sight of his past bring so many unwarranted and painful memories that Remus decides it's time to retreat back to the comfort of the present.

He hasn't visited Sirius's house since last summer, and now he wonders if it wasn't a good idea to stay away a few weeks longer. He stands up with painstaking slowness, barely noting the stings in his limbs. The pounding of the rain is more persistent, but the wind seems to be fading away, and he realizes that he has no idea how long he has spent in the attic.

As he brushes away a thin layer of dust collected on his robes, a small, nondescript pile of parchment flutters to the wooden planks. Remus reaches down to push them back into the trunk, not wanting anymore heartrending reminders of what he has lost. He pauses in mid-shuffle when a thin envelope catches his eyes. He picks it up, and sees his name emblazoned across the front in Sirius's elaborate script. His breath hitches painfully, and he doesn't realize that he is shaking until he tries to open the flap.

Remus can't distinguish his own pounding heartbeat from the drumming of the rain, nor can he hear the wailing of the wind over his rushing blood. The water streaks through the panes in the attic window, spraying the open trunk in a shower of gray-glinting droplets, but he doesn't notice.

"For Moony," it said.

"Just because."

The words ring familiarly across his mind, but Remus can't bother to remember. He stares at the parchment, hands clamping over the roughly-ripped corner, throat constricting painfully until he chokes and forgets to breathe. After a while when all he can hear is the pounding rhythm of his heart to the dissonant cords of the watery symphony outside, it occurs to him that he should see what else is in the envelope.

His hands are shaking so horribly that it takes him an endless minute to overturn the covering. A smooth, paper-thin sheet of steel the shape of a wolf slides soundlessly onto the palm of his hand; the wolf gleams silver in the shafts of smoky light from the attic window, its cold surface burning into Remus's skin.

Before he has time to inspect it, Remus feels a familiar pull behind his heel. Suddenly, he is flying; blinding streams of white-hot heat flushes over him at the same time a cool blackness forces his eyelids closed. Before he can panic, the colors fade into shifting shades of gray and the heat and coolness settles to a dull, tepid humidity that remains uncomfortably on Remus's robes.

He feels his feet planting firmly upon a stone surface, and a fragrant breeze drifting languidly through his hair. He can almost imagine the warmth of the sun falling on his face.

Remus opens his eyes reluctantly. Blinking, he finds himself standing in the center of a glass gazebo-like structure, overlooking rolling hills of emerald green, broken only by sprinkles of brilliantly-colored wild flowers. The sun is overhead, its rays filtering in pale, white streams through the glass ceiling. Clean, crisp warmth lingers in the wind, along with a light tinkling melody that seems to be woven into the breeze.

Tranquility like Remus has never known settles around him. Everything seems immersed in an ethereal glow, pastel and soft, dampening the jagged edges of the stone ground. The rain and wind recedes to the background of his mind, like a hazy, distant memory.

Remus glances up, and along the rim of the ceiling, he notices the wind chimes: hundreds upon thousands, hanging in sparkling, undulating innocence around the center, their shells, jewels, rocks, and notes twirling and spinning. They conduct their own song, cords upon cords, notes upon notes, harmonies, melodies, symphonies, interlacing and overlapping, never ceasing nor resting.

As Remus sits on the cool stone floor, their sparkling tone permeating his whole being, mingling with the tender heat from the sun, he finally understands.

He knows the reason he let Sirius read his thoughts. He remembers lacing their fingers together. He hears the wind chimes crisp and clear, dancing through his mind, wrapping him in spiraling tendrils, and waltzing with his spirit around the gazebo.

He fingers the parchment delicately, his eyes closed and face titled toward the ember sunlight, "For Moony, just because."

And he finally understands why.

As the wind chimes sway into the moonlight, storms and bleak Novembers no longer fog his memories, and Remus realizes he is not afraid anymore. At last, when he smiles, he can almost picture Sirius smiling back at him, reaching to caress his face through the rocking, amorphous shadows by his side.