The Brightest

"Where do we go? Nobody knows.

Don't ever say you're on your way downwind.

God gave you style, gave you grace;

And put a smile upon your face."

-Coldplay, "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face"

Moony.

He hated that name. He'd hated it all along. It scared him, it taunted him, it stung him, it stuck its fingers in his ears and blew raspberries at him. It was a mockery; it was a jail sentence.

But it meant something.

It meant something, all those years ago, when three young boys could shout it across a Quidditch pitch and he did not flinch at the guttural sounds of those consonants bumping into those identical vowels.

It meant something, when there was certain affection labeling it - an affection that told of friendship for which he'd never even wished, had never expected.

It meant something to two dead men. Three, if you counted the state of his own being. That chalked it up to pretty much nothing, like dead leaves billowing about on a deserted road in the middle of autumn: too crumbly to warrant raking, but bothersome enough to deplete the scenery of its picturesque opportunities. He tried whispering the name, letting it tumble off of his lips with the finality of a dying breath, but his voice made no sound. It came out, instead, as an empty breath, stirring the humid air and drifting away from him like so many of those same dead leaves.

It didn't mean so much anymore.

It was just a cruel reminder; a death sentence dotted with his blood and crossed with his life. They'd devoted their lives to the Order and - with the exception of himself - had given the entirety of their lives to that greater good. Was there nothing else for any of them? Was their ending really so tragic, so abrupt? Couldn't they priori incantatem everything away, like the rewind button on a VCR?

No. They really were gone. He was the only monument left to a great age - the stalwart reminder of how things should have been.

"What will you do after seventh year, Padfoot?"

"Build a shack on the edge of the sea and open a shrimp bar."

"Cool."

"Bleeding twit. I'm going to Auror training, provided Dumbledore doesn't pierce me with his eyes first."

"It's been known to happen."

"I meant mortally."

"So did I."

They paused.

"You?"

"What will I do, you mean? After seventh year?"

"Mm."

"Join the circus and sell my soul to the devil for a few Galleons a month. 'Catch a glimpse of the soulless werewolf! None like it in all the world!'"

"Been there, done that, got the stamp to prove it."

"What, the 'Free Hell Re-Entry' stamp?"

"The very same."

"I got you that for Christmas."

"Bleeding cross-dimensional parallels! I can't keep all these memories straight!"

"You're a nutter."

"And you're a monster 1/10^th of the month. I make no mockery of it."

"None? What about the last time you and Prongs sang 'Werewolves of London' on our trip to Hogsmeade?"

"Pure entertainment value."

"There was howling involved."

"It turns the girls on."

"Only slightly more than drool."

"And you would know this . . . how?"

"Go to Hell."

"Can't. Lost the stamp."

He closed his eyes then, bowing his head to shadow his face from the bright light of the approaching full June moon. They had been such fools then - never expecting the world to spit on them and chuck them out the window. No, they had believed in forever, letting the wind carry them and living like they would carry on to infinity.

Sirius had bought that motorcycle, despite the protests of every person he knew. He'd charmed it himself, flown it for the first time in broad daylight, and no one had ever said anything of the worse afterwards. It was simply meant to be. It was like Sirius and the motorcycle were a single entity - neither was complete until it had found the other. It had been an immeasurable risk, but one that had ended . . . well.

James had married Lily, had Harry, bought a house, lived like a normal man and no one thought the less of him. He struggled for normalcy, to be a suburbanite with a penchant for dinner parties and matching China. But he had been . . . happy.

And Remus? Remus had run away, all those years ago, to disappear from the world and cower in his grief. He had let the wolf swallow him whole, absorbing his inner being, until Dumbledore had extended a hand and brought him back into the world where Harry dwelt, letting Harry's life become a delicate glass figurine resting in the palm of his hand. Harry was the past, the present, the future. Remus had watched him dancing out of his reach for a year, smiled at his triumphs and raged at his unjust punishments.

But he hadn't said a word.

That's the way Remus was. He knew the grief, knew the tears, and knew the agony of everything the world had to offer, all without ever uttering a word in his own tired breath.

But he also knew the brightness of a star hanging onto the horizon as winter whipped away and spring surged forward, threatening the death of cold with a breath of green and the promise of light.

Now spring had come: the star had dipped below the horizon, twinkling its last spark into the fading darkness. Winter had gone, would soon be over. That was his only comfort as he had watched the bright star wan away. The brightest star in the sky had gone.

The moon had risen.

The moon, the ever-changing moon, with its ebbing of the tides and craters that stared into his soul like pits of despair, was the last remaining prick of light in the blanket of darkness that hung over the impending spring. A solid disc, it glared at him with the aging taunt of his drawn-out life, beckoning him forward, absorbing his emotions and his essence.

As he lifted his face to stare into the face of his enemy, he saw at once its brilliant glory: how the light glistened upon the midnight dew of the woods, how it illuminated the trees with the glow of angels. He saw now how it softened the edge of the horizon, blending the winter into spring and cutting a path between the seasons - those dutiful seasons that brought sorrow and pride, death and joy.

The moon cut into his skin, searing his flesh and setting his heart ablaze as it ripped from the inside, tearing his body into form. He felt the cloth of his robes loosening under the strain, the threads breaking as they reached their limit. The shredded fabric fell away to the forest floor as he lost consciousness and tore himself free from his human boundaries.

The moon was now the only light in the sky.

Moony.

Vaguely, in a part of the little human memory that remained, it meant something.

It meant something to someone named Harry.