Requiem

Requiem

He set out deliberately to be late. He really tried, dressing as slowly as possible, tying and retying the black tie he'd bought specially, so it looked just right, smoothing his frayed cuffs, pulling at the jacket of his shabby but adequate Muggle suit, the one he wore for job interviews. He even made himself a cup of tea, and forced himself to wait until it cooled down before he took as much as a sip.

But it wasn't easy to break the habit of a lifetime, and he was ready to Apparate to the church ten minutes before the service was due to begin.

JamesandLily, JamesandLily. Sirius. Remus blanked his mind for a moment, took a deep breath and said aloud, 'Yes. James. Lily.'

Lily. And the thought penetrated his numbness that he would need to take flowers. There would be banks of wreaths on the grave, wizarding and Muggle florists stripped bare in order to lay the Potters decently to rest. He would find flowers, if flowers were required. Lilies, of course. Yellow and orange lilies.

He wandered downstairs and out into the street, past the newsagent on the corner selling Evening Standards, past the bakery, the tobacconist where Sirius bought cigarettes every evening - take it easy, it's okay - the toyshop where they'd found Harry's first teddy; but he wouldn't think of that. No. Here is the florist's shop, and I will buy lilies.

The florist's smelt cool and green, like the Forbidden Forest on a spring morning; nostalgic even for the wolf, Remus closed his eyes for a moment and tried to pretend he was somewhere else, in another green place, in a different time, in a different world.

But it wasn't spring, it was November, and the young girl behind the counter felt sorry for the poor man, boy, really, trying to buy his unseasonable flowers. 'They're for a funeral,' he tried to explain. The girl almost patted his hand, but desisted.

'Chrysanthemums,' she said. 'Copper chrysanthemums. Or white ones. They're nice. For funerals.'

'Yes, I'll have a bunch. A big bunch. Some of each, please.'

The flowers were wrapped in cellophane, and at the girl's prompting a card was added that read, 'I will miss you both. Remus.' He wanted to say 'all', I will miss you all, but then Peter's funeral had already come and gone, quietly, because there wasn't even a body to bury. And the one he would miss most, miss in his bones and every part of his body and soul, was worse than dead: and no, I can't, won't go there.

When he left the shop, he really was late, to his intense relief. It wasn't the first time he'd ever been late, but the other times hadn't been his fault. 'Let's stay in bed a few more minutes, Moony. Okay, we'll be late for Charms. So what? I'll say I had to take you to the infirmary. Flitwick will believe that.'

Late for Charms, for breakfast, for everything, but it didn't matter, it was wonderful just to lie there and kiss and be kissed, pressed together in warmth and bliss, and, yes, comfort, comfort that he could have done with at that moment but would never, ever experience again.

It was starting to rain. Remus took a shuddering breath, almost a sob, and made his way to the nearest alley to Apparate, clutching the flowers close, as if they could soothe him the way Sirius once had. Padfoot on the mornings after, so close, so dear, so loved, loved, loved...

Outside the Muggle Anglican church near Godric's Hollow, the rain was far heavier than it had been seconds ago in London. He ducked into the porch, hesitating on the threshold.

The service was just beginning. He thought it would probably be safe to go in, take a seat at the back, at the end of a pew. But even though the vicar was intoning, Remus felt as if the whole congregation was turning to look at him, and he heard scattered whispers.

'Isn't that Lupin?'

'Sirius Black's friend.'

'Ha, is that what you call it?'

'Shut up, we're in church!'

'Wasn't he in league with Black, then?'

'Sshh, he'll hear you.'

He breathed in the musty scent, so different from the freshness of the florist's, put the flowers carefully on the bench beside him, knelt on the cold stone floor, not bothering with a hassock, and buried his head in his hands. He hadn't prayed for years and years, hadn't needed to, because Sirius was love and salvation and everything good in heaven and earth.

He stayed there for what seemed like half an hour, but was probably just a few minutes, knelt through the first hymn, and sat down only when the vicar started to read the lesson. 'When I was a child, I thought as a child...'

They had only been children, really, Lily and James. Barely twenty-one; children with a child. And Sirius too had been a child, a naughty and wilful child, but surely not a bad one. Not Sirius, not Sirius who loved James and Harry so. Who had loved Remus, but who was pushing him away inexorably, no longer touching, looking sometimes, looking with eyes full of sadness and yearning, but never saying a word.

But he couldn't have thought I was the spy. He was the spy.

Remus glanced round, noticed Dumbledore right near the front, just behind Lily's parents and sister. Lily's sister was sitting bolt upright, staring straight ahead. James, of course, had no family left, not after Voldemort had decimated his opponents in the wizarding world. Remus supposed that the many staff from Hogwarts clustered in the first three pews could represent James's family, as could he, perhaps, to a lesser extent.

Hagrid, Professor McGonagall, who was weeping openly, Professor Flitwick... It was like a roll-call of the Order, what was left of the Order.

And me. Maybe they'll look me in the eye again now. Maybe it doesn't matter any more whether they will or not.

He'd been questioned extensively, of course. Aurors had turned the flat he shared with Sirius upside down, taken away every scrap of parchment, every object that could be remotely linked with Sirius Black and his act of betrayal. They needn't have bothered, because Sirius didn't have a trial anyway. The evidence against him was overwhelming.

Tears blurred Remus's eyes, and he wiped them away, searching in his pocket for a handkerchief. Oh, damn, damn, I've come to James and Lily's funeral without a hanky! Not even a stray tissue. Sirius would find it hilarious that Remus had to wipe his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his best suit. His only suit. He would find it hilarious that meticulous Remus, who always fussed over details, had forgotten a handkerchief at a funeral. It was funny, actually, and Remus, to his horror, felt laughter rising in his stomach, to his chest, and tried to stifle it by putting a hand in front of his mouth. Think of something sad. JamesandLily, Sirius, Sirius...

He didn't have himself under control until the rest of the congregation was standing for the final hymn. 'The day thou gavest Lord has ended...' Muggle sentimentality, perhaps, but it was too much for most of those present, and very few of the mourners managed to master their tears enough to choke out the words.

The organist played solemn music, and people began to file out of the church to the graveyard, where James and Lily would be buried in one grave, together for eternity.

For the first time, Remus actually noticed, actually saw, the two coffins that had been standing at the front of the church and were now being borne out on the shoulders of eight pall-bearers. He didn't recognise any of them: possibly, they were old friends from James's childhood. Sirius should have been there. The best man at the wedding should have carried James's coffin at the funeral.

Something in Remus's carefully closed mind tore open, hurtling him back to the last time he had been in this church. Oh, God, no, please, please, no, no. But God wasn't listening, because Remus could see again, as clear as a vision, James and Sirius laughing, heads close together, waiting for the bride. And Lily, beautiful Lily in her white dress, walking up the aisle, the church full of sunlight, of happy, expectant faces...

Blindly, Remus got to his feet, gathered up his flowers - flowers for James, for JamesandLily - pushed his way out of the church, and stood in the porch, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

By the time he felt he could face anybody, the coffins were deep in the earth, and everyone was drifting away from that newly-dug grave with the fresh soil smelling so clean and pure in the rain.

'Remus?' He started, looked up, saw Professor McGonagall approaching him tentatively, almost as if he might bite. 'I didn't see you in the church. Are you all right?'

But Remus just shook his head, and didn't say anything, because no, he wasn't all right, and he would never be all right again. But he did turn abruptly away from McGonagall, with a slightly apologetic smile, because now everybody had gone, he could put his flowers on the grave, stand there for a minute and remember a boy and a stag, moonlit nights, pranks, a magic map and the happiest seven years of his life.

He wouldn't need a grave, or a headstone, or flowers to remember another boy, a boy with black hair and grey eyes and the widest, brightest smile in the world. It would take all the power he possessed to forget him.

Remus bent down, snapped a head off one of the copper chrysanthemums and put it in his pocket. He would take it home and press it. He would press it in a heavy book, then put the book away high on a shelf, and never open it again. And day after day the bright colours would leech, unseen, out of the petals, in the cramped darkness between two pages, until there was nothing left but dust.

End