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Lupin Residence, 1986
There was no man on earth more lonely than Remus John Lupin.
It had been five years since the Wizarding War ended, taking with it every last person Remus loved. Absolutely all of them.
Most were killed. Brutally, more often than not. Some were tortured to insanity. One had survived, but left Remus behind; electing to lose all memory of her life as a witch. That had particularly stung Remus; he had begged Mary to stay with him, promised that they could grieve and slowly heal together. He supposed he didn’t begrudge her for the decision though.
He often wondered if he would have gone with her if not for his lycanthropy. In all honesty, he doesn’t think he would have, but it hurts that he never even had the option. Some days, it takes every ounce of strength Remus has not to track Mary down. Sometimes he is horrified at how selfish he is; wanting her to relive her worst memories, if only so he can look into the eyes of someone he cherished, without being greeted by lifeless, glassy pupils.
The sweet little infant he’d bounced on his hip, pointing up at the night sky that made his wide green eyes sparkle, had been taken away from him. The guilt stabbed at his lungs each time he remembered his babbling and tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb, but there was nothing to be done. He felt empty after the title ‘Uncle Moony’ had been stripped away from him, but he supposed it was for the best. His darling Harry was with his Aunt and Uncle; his real uncle, now, no doubt being showered with the love and affection he deserved. He tried not to be bitter that it couldn’t be him that tucked Harry into bed each night with a lullaby and a kiss on the forehead.
Though he would never admit it to another living soul, among those losses that hurt the most was Sirius. It wasn’t rational to miss him as much as James and Peter, Lily too. He supposed he didn’t really. At least, not the man he had turned out to be. He missed the man he thought Sirius was. The man he could have become. If only Remus had tried harder. Pushed him away from his family, his brother. Kept him at arm's reach, instead of just nodding when Sirius was heading out. Maybe showering him with more love would have kept Sirius good. Remus couldn’t help but whimper every time he thought about how Padfoot; his Padfoot, was now nothing but the ‘notorious mass murderer, Sirius Black’. About how he never expected it to be him; the one who betrayed people who would have killed for him without a second thought. About how no matter what story anyone else spun, Remus was certain it was his own fault. How could you have let him turn into that? You could have saved him. You should have saved him, and now you’ve lost everyone else too. You endangered their lives, and now you're paying for it in grief.
Although, maybe it couldn't be helped. Maybe it was written in the stars; predetermined. He was a Black, after all. Remus of all people had never given much stock to prejudice, but maybe there was something to it after all. Sirius had turned out worse than any Black to come before him, if that were even possible.
Today wasn’t about Sirius though. Remus wasted plenty of other days wistfully imagining Sirius hadn’t ruined every single good thing in his and their friends' lives.
Remus opened a cabinet, rusty hinges creaking. He should probably fix it. The cabinet didn’t get very much use, though. One day a year for each of the candles inside. He pulled one out, and placed it on his display cabinet, lighting it with a flick of his wrist. The mingling scents of freshly baked brownies, an old and well-loved chess set, iced tea, and caramel popcorn flushed Remus’s senses. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, trying to drown in its comforting familiarity.
“Happy birthday, Pete,” Remus whispered softly.
As the candle burned, Remus pulled out Peter’s favourite record from school. Not Houses of the Holy; the one he’d told everyone was his favourite. His real favourite; Waterloo, by ABBA.
After the war, in a fit of grief following a particularly harsh full moon, Remus had gotten rid of almost everything that reminded him of school. That reminded him that he was the only one left. On the eve of Halloween in 1982, he came across his carefully packed trunk of the Marauders’ records. He threw out nearly every single one, only pausing to empty the contents of his stomach when he came across the stash Sirius had gifted him, complete with an orange ribbon tied neatly in a bow. The inner sleeves had been covered in notes; personal, critiquing the music, to-do lists, or even just drawings. It had taken Remus nearly a month to muster the courage to burn those particular editions. He was only so strong - to this day, for some inexplicable reason, there was a well-used copy of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars hidden under his mattress. It had remained untouched for half a decade now.
Remus had lost so many people he’d loved. But there were six in particular who crossed his mind every day. Actually, that wasn’t such an apt metaphor. They were his ghosts, following him everywhere he went, echoing the sounds of his life before the war until they bled into his life after. Sometimes he is glad for the pretence of company. Usually though, it is torture in its purest form; worse than any moon he ever had, or would have to ensure. It’s a cruel reminder that he’s truly alone in this world, that never again will he hear Marlene’s raucous laughter, or James singing off-key when Remus gave him a tour of muggle London at Christmastime.
So, in an old cabinet he’d found on the side of a road in Godric’s Hollow shortly after Halloween ‘81, he kept six candles, charmed to smell the way Remus thought each of his friends did. Not necessarily their natural scent, but of the things that were so distinctly them, that as the candles burnt, it felt like being enveloped in their arms. Amidst his purging of all things Hogwarts, Remus had kept six records - the favourite of each friend he had lost. They were neatly stacked alongside the candles.
So, for each of their birthdays, Remus lit a candle and listened to music. A vigil nearly - but only for him. A day to mourn what he had lost, yes, but more than that. A reassurance, to himself at least, that the memory of his beloved chosen family; the greatest losses of his life, would not be swept away by the cruel wind of time. That they wouldn’t only be acknowledged by people who hadn’t known them until their names splashed the covers of The Daily Prophet. That they would be remembered as they were before their lives were tainted by war, betrayal, and death. Every year, a candle and music. Every year, a day each for James, Peter, Lily, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas.
What About Livingstone sounded out through Remus’s flat.
“What about all those men? Who have sacrificed their lives to lead the way. Tell me, wasn’t it worth the while?”
Oh, Wormy.
“This is the fifth birthday of yours I’ve spent alone, Pete.” Silence echoed back to Remus, who cursed himself inwardly for hoping, as usual, someone would answer.
“Yours was always the most fun. The other houses were always jealous of the big parties James and Mary had, but everyone knew those invitations weren’t exactly hard to come by. How special can it be when it’s the whole castle on the same level as you?
“I think you had the right idea. It was nearly… ritualistic, in a way. Stupid fun though. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as much as on your birthdays, Pete…”
Remus smiled fondly; a tear tracking down his neck as he remembered the way they’d spent Peter’s birthdays. Well, being Wormtail, he’d demanded a birthweek early into their Hogwarts career; a tradition that had lasted past their school days, if slightly altered as they grew older.
Days before, they’d start to raid the kitchens in increments; James sweet-talking some house elves; Remus telling others all about the pains in his hips, while Sirius and Peter would sneak into the special stores, where the snacks made especially for Dumbledore were kept. Don’t ask Remus how they managed to consistently steal under the noses of the extremely switched-on house elves, but they did. Year after year.
Each day, they’d take a small bundle into an alcove they’d discovered while hiding from Peeves, before they’d befriended the Poltergeist. Peter’s birthday was spent with the boy being utterly spoiled - they would treat him, rather dramatically, as if he were a king. James would serenade him at breakfast; forcing the whole castle to stop and applaud for Wormtail, while Sirius would stop every person who dared to walk past Peter; demanding they wish him a happy birthday if they wished to avoid being hexed. Remus would roll his eyes, but secretly loved them all doting on Peter. He contributed by managing to convince every single professor to leave class early, and showering Peter with Chocolate Frogs.
After a day of loudly expressing their love for their Wormtail, they’d convene in the secret alcove; eating, laughing, playing chess, and just sitting in their adoration for each other, until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore. They’d then sleepily trudge back to the Gryffindor tower under James’s cloak; pretending as if their feet weren’t fully uncovered, passing out in the common room with Peter wedged between them all.
Tears were falling freely now, as Remus listened to Gonna Sing You My Lovesong echoing around the room.
There wasn’t a day Remus didn’t miss Peter. His constancy. His perception of the world. The way Remus could relax his shoulders whenever he had Peter on his side - whether he was expertly lying to McGonagall to keep a prank under wraps, defending Remus to a suspicious professor when his work was uncompleted due to a full moon, or telling James and Sirius to piss off when he knew Remus couldn’t manage their energy. He felt as though Peter could read his mind, and Merlin, he had taken it for granted. He would give anything, absolutely anything, to have Peter back by his side. His unwaveringly loyal, brave, and kind best friend.
But that isn’t how life works.
So Remus listened to ABBA on a loop, trying desperately to cling to a time that had already passed. Breathed in the scent of the boy who never got to be a man, wallowing in the depths of his grief.
Happy birthday, Wormy.