Amid My Solitude

So much for them. But what of him --
So firm in every look and limb?
What small satanic sort of kink
Was in his brain? What broken link
Withheld him from the destinies
That came so near to being his?
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Remus had rarely been without anything to do. Even during the darkest times, during the days when he was waiting for the nights and the horror they brought, he'd had occupations. Books. Studies. His life's work measured out in ink on parchment, in printed word, in thoughts. His mind was always occupied, and often his hands as well.

But for once in his life, he could not move to act; he could not bring himself to ask for books or parchment, and if they'd been forthcoming, he couldn't have done anything with them. He had parchment, come to think on it; in the leather bag that was tucked under his bed, having been retrieved from the Muggle hospital by Arthur Weasley. He didn't want to use his hands, couldn't anyway; the muscles on his left arm were still healing, and they'd nearly torn his right thumb off -- it was one of the few bits of him bound up in bandages, and not left horribly open and exposed as the healing powder did its work.

He had no inclination to do anything but lie in the hospital bed, listening to the blood sing through his veins as he healed. Faster than in a Muggle hospital, slower than if he'd been human, the Healer had said -- they couldn't use the normal charms, because of course he wasn't normal.

Twenty-two dead. Not his fault; he wasn't so far gone as to take those deaths directly on his shoulders, but he did know his presence -- and possibly the lack of his corpse -- had triggered the deaths. So.

Two packs, decimated, one with rifle and one in civil war. Both because of him. Neither, exactly, his fault...simply the result of actions taken by people on his behalf.

It was amazing the Order hadn't somehow imploded, with Remus Lupin around, he thought sardonically.

Tonks was afraid of him too. Angry at him, of course, for leaving to talk to the ferals alone, but when she'd turned to look at him and he'd wanted nothing more than to call out to her and draw her close...

Well, she'd run off. He'd seen fear before, fear of what he was, he knew what it looked like, and she'd had it.

Couldn't look too pretty now, he thought, staring up at the ceiling. He was a mess. Fresh pink skin covering over the cuts on his chest, open wounds on his arms and legs...he was fully aware that he'd lost even more weight, that his cheeks were sunken and his eyes glittered too brightly. And the full moon was close.

He shut his eyes. If he could sleep...

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lupin!" said a bright, cheery voice.

He suddenly wished for Kingsley's rifle.

"My name's Danae Pedimentia. Up we go!"

He felt a hand grip his shoulder firmly, and turned to regard the intruder.

"What do you want?" he asked, feeling that he was entitled to a little rudeness after what he'd been through.

"I'm here to help you get those muscles working again!" she said, making a fist and tapping him with it on his shoulder. "If you heal up while your legs are all tense and tight, it'll stop you walking properly. Can't have that!"

My god, he thought. This must be what Snape feels like all the time.

"I'm tired," he said, rolling away.

"Ah ah ah! No-one's too tired to be healthy!" she insisted. "Look, I've brought you a lovely cane, and I'm sure if you work hard you'll have a wonderful appetite for your dinner."

I'm going to kill her, he thought, as she pushed him up, tugging him by his arms into a sitting position. She must die. I'm sure the jury will understand.

And then, slightly giddily -- after all, werewolves have the same rights as humans in court now...

At least it was something to channel the fear into. If he had to be doing something, it might as well be painful. Take his mind off the creeping lethargy that the little, analytical part of him was beginning to seriously worry about.

***

The house on Grimmauld Street had felt...not empty, exactly. After all, the twins lived there, and Professor Snape spent a disturbing amount of time there. Ron and Hermione had promised to stay the night, and Arthur and Molly came and went, speaking with other members and spreading the information as widely as possible.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the kitchen wall. Everyone seemed to be...waiting. And there was a ghostly feeling in the house where his...yes. However strange it was to think, he had a godfather again. And there was an empty space where his godfather, Remus Lupin, ought to be. Ghosts where all the people who were supposed to take care of him ought to be.

Ghosts in his head.

When Professor Snape went into Remus' head, oh so many memories. Harry hadn't been able to stem them all, and truth be told he hadn't wanted to. He'd wanted to see the hidden pride Remus'd had when he was his teacher. He'd wanted to see all the thousands of memories of Sirius and his father. The affection Remus had for them, the amiable acceptance of his mother. There were things Harry'd seen that were too deeply buried to seek out clearly -- the nights of the full moon, the days following the prank Sirius had played on Professor Snape, the howling, sucking despair he'd felt the day Voldemort was killed.

And the ghostly white Thestral -- Remus Lupin had never produced a Patronus, had never needed to, until after all those deaths. His living incarnation was a Thestral.

Harry probed the memories lingering in his own mind, as if he were pushing at a loose tooth. There it was -- the reason for his Patronus. Memories of his friends. After that, for a little while, a woman named...a woman Harry couldn't name, whose face was all but faded anyway. And still later, he could feel the older man struggle, every time, to find a joyful memory.

Until the last time.

Harry gasped, suddenly, as that vision pushed itself to the forefront. It was as though someone had thrown him against the wall; the air just went out of him.

Love. Overwhelming, breathtaking love. Even Sirius...he'd never shown such...and Remus would never, ever admit it, but...

Love and pride. As close to a father's as any man could have. Love for him, a father's love. Love for Tonks, too, and desire and warm regard, but Harry was lost, for the moment, in how much Remus Lupin loved him.

"Harry?"

He blinked, and swallowed, and drew a shaky breath. Fred was standing in front of him, looking worried.

"You all right?" Fred asked, cocking his head.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled. "I'm okay. No, really. Just...still tired."

Fred nodded. "You and everyone else. Shacklebolt's gone to mum for a sleeping potion and Snape's sulking and angry and Tonks' room is locked and spelled shut. So even if we wanted to, she couldn't hear us. You hear about the pack?"

"The pack?" Harry asked. He glanced down, and shook his head. "Nobody tells me anything, remember? It's the first rule of life at Grimmauld Place. Don't tell Harry."

"Well, I've never been one for rules, really," Fred said.

"That's the understatement of the year."

"And little Potter shows some bite! Good for you, Harry."

Harry ran a hand over his face. "What happened to the pack? I saw some things...when I was working with Professor Snape."

"Shacklebolt says there was a coup. Buncha Death Eater werewolves killed all the rest."

The leader's name is Alpha. He asked me to come back and hear their epics --

Remus' memories. Damn.

"He tell Remus yet?"

"Yeah."

"How'd that go?"

"Tonks threw everyone out."

Harry managed a weak laugh. "Doesn't shock me."

"It's half-ten already. You look like you could use some sleep," Fred continued. "I mean the Healers say he's gonna be fine, so you shouldn't worry." A pause. "Listen, Harry..."

Harry looked up at him. He'd never seen such honest concern on Fred's face; no mischief, no humour, just anxiety.

"I'm okay. Really."

Fred nodded. "It's...when it was dad, you know...I mean until he was home, none of us really thought he...he would be. Coming home. But Lupin's going to come home."

"I know," Harry agreed. "I just hope he'll be okay, when he does."

***

"Weasley."

George looked up from the desk in the sitting-room he shared with Fred, and narrowed his eyes.

"What do you want?" he asked. Snape loomed in the doorway, scowling.

"I require your assistance," the older man said curtly.

"You mean you want my help," George said with a grin.

"If it pleases you to play games, Weasley -- "

"All right, all right, what is it?"

Snape gestured him down the hallway, and George followed -- mostly out of sheer morbid curiousity.

On a table in one of the house's palatial bathrooms, a small fountain was running, seemingly without machinery. George hunched over and examined it.

"You made a Crinon?" he asked.

"I am...curious," Snape said, nodding. "As to why, everywhere the Dark Lord has passed...we find one of these."

He nudged the fountain -- just a plate and a cup, with water bubbling over and cycling back up top every few seconds -- and a few drops splashed onto the table. After a second, they were sucked back into the flow, as if it was a magnet attracting iron filings.

"Moody said water magic's the hardest sort," George observed.

"Crinon's Peculiar Fountain isn't for fools and witlings," Snape agreed. "And there's not much the experiment can tell us."

"So why'd you do it?"

"Touch the water. Not the plate -- the actual water."

George, giving him a suspicious look, ran his fingers on the water. His eyes drooped, and he nearly collapsed; Snape caught him roughly under one armpit. His hand pulled away from the water, and he stumbled backwards.

"What'd you do to this?" he demanded.

"Nothing. It is in the nature of the Peculiar Fountain to draw magical power," Snape replied, eyes dark in his face. "Muggles wouldn't notice. Any natural magic in the area would be drawn in and cycled through. Children born with magical ability would probably be drained by it."

George glanced at him. "So...You-Know-Who's stealing magic?"

Snape nodded.

"What do we do about it?"

The older man picked up a bowl of rough-ground white crystals.

"Salt," he said, when George lifted an eyebrow. He shook some into his hand, and sprinkled it over the fountain. It ceased, instantly. Water splattered onto the table.

"Break the fountain, draw the power," George observed. Snape was silent. The boy studied the pools of water for a while.

"We're really going to end him, aren't we?" he said finally. "The battle's really coming."

"It's been coming for fifteen years," Snape said quietly.

"You're not a spy."

"No, boy."

"I believe you."

"Oh, how splendid," Snape said sarcastically.

"I'll make sure the rest of my family's behind you."

"And it just gets better!"

George stepped out into the hallway, and leaned against the wall. "Why are you such an utter ass, Snape?"

A second later a hand was at his collar, lifting him up. Snape's hand. Holding him in the air and pinning him to the wall he'd been leaning against.

"I am doing my level best not to lose what little I have in this world, not to mention help save it from itself, and do you know what I get? A slap in the face from Nymphadora Tonks, five minutes of shouting and not one bloody thank-you from that suicidal werewolf, and the first thing I see when I try to find out what happened to him? I find that Kingsley Shacklebolt thinks I'm still a Death Eater."

He let go, and George dropped to his feet, coughing.

"Do not ever presume that you and I are equals and that you are permitted to speak to me in that manner," Snape hissed. "So you believe I'm not a spy and you do whatever you think is fit and in the meantime stay the hell out of my way."

He turned and stalked down the hallway towards his room.

"You should tell Dumbledore," George called after him. Snape lifted a hand in a brisk gesture of agreement, without turning, and vanished into the shadows as Fred and Harry came around the corner.

"I heard shouting," Fred said. George grinned.

"Giving Snape a little chance to vent, that's all," he replied.

***

"I love the sun."

Arthur glanced up from where he was eating Remus' breakfast, since the other man had taken three bites and retched, running to the bathroom to be ill.

He hadn't really eaten, not really, in nearly six days. The Healers said it was probably the charms making him nauseous. Probably.

So, Arthur was enjoying quite a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, and toast. And Remus was standing at the window, having been ordered to stand or walk for at least two hours by the woman Remus would only refer to as That Blasted Harpy.

He had the curtain drawn back, and was staring out. Sunlight streamed in.

"Can't ever feel enough of it," Remus continued, lifting his face to the rays. "When the only thing you can depend on is that the sun will always, always rise, and end everything..."

"You feeling all right, Lupin? Only you're not usually inclined towards angstful poetic prose," Arthur said, around a mouthful of oatmeal. Remus nodded.

"Well, it's more interesting than saying that everywhere itches," he replied. The cane he was supposed to be using to help him walk tapped idly on the floor. "Or that I have irrevocably buggered up my life."

"Itch...irrevocably buggered up life." Arthur held up his hands, pretending to weigh them. "How, precisely?"

"You mean aside from driving off the only woman in ten years to tolerate me, nearly getting killed, being the indirect cause of twenty-two deaths, and having Harry see the inside of my head?"

"I once forgot Molly's birthday," Arthur said. Remus glanced at him. "I'm just saying. You know. Everyone makes mistakes. And if you don't think it's the same thing, you don't really know Molly. Oh, and I dropped Ron once."

"You...dropped him?"

"Only a little, not far at all. And it was onto a bed. Squirmy little thing."

"Arthur, you had five children before Ron."

"They weren't squirmers," Arthur said with a grin. "Molly nearly had a heart attack."

"But she didn't run away when she saw you," Remus murmured.

"Women are a great mystery, my friend, and you're out of practice at detective work." Arthur rose, and clapped him gently on the arm. "Keep walking. Tonks'll come round." Arthur paused. "Lupin, d'you love her?"

Remus bowed his head.

"Two weeks is hardly time to know," he muttered.

"You've known her a lot longer than two weeks," Arthur laughed. "I'll see you later. I've got to get back to Headquarters, Snape has some big announcement to make. Hopefully the whole spy thing's been smoothed over."

"Spy...?" Remus asked.

"Oh yes. He accused Kingsley of thinking he was a spy. Got it from you when he did the Legilimency. Don't feel bad, Snape's a nosy bastard, you know. He told Tonks you thought she was a spy, too, but nobody believed hi -- "

"He said what?"

"That you thought Tonks was a spy..." Arthur put a hand to his mouth, when he saw the murderous look on Remus' face. "You didn't, did you?"

"I'll kill him," Remus said vehemently. Arthur gaped. "He had no business -- no right at all..."

"Tonks?" Arthur demanded. "Of all the people to suspect, you thought Tonks -- you really have buggered up your life, Lupin. You've got your head up your arse."

"What else was I supposed to think?"

"About the woman who is obviously head over heels for you and lucky enough to be the one to grab you by the scruff of the neck and stop you for long enough to -- "

"Head over heels for me? Look at me, Arthur! I'm thirty four years old and I haven't held a steady job since I was nineteen. I couldn't even keep the Hogwarts job. You can count my ribs and I'm already going grey, and oh yes, there's the fact that for three nights a month I have a tail, a snout, and homicidal tendencies! Nobody wants me, not unless I'm useful. Do you really think she had no ulterior motives? Because I sure would like to think that, but I don't live in a fantasy world!"

Arthur stared at him.

"I don't like thinking it," Remus muttered. Arthur continued to stare. "Dammit, Arthur, say something."

"I don't think there's anything I can say." Arthur rubbed his jaw. Remus had seen Ron make the same motion, many times. "Keep walking."

He turned, and pushed through the door, out into the bustling hospital.