Chapter Text
Thursday, May 2, 2002
The late evening sun glared at Lyall through the window of his home office. It seemed angry with him, burning hot and red, blinding him every time he dared to look up.
He poured himself another glass of scotch, swirling the liquid, warming it, enjoying the rich scent before drinking it down. He wondered how many drinks Remus had had already. He imagined him at the pub, slumped over the table, his Order colleagues looking at him with a mix of disgust and pity.
He looked up at the sharp sound of a knock at the door. His mind took a moment to catch up, to remember that he would need to get up and talk to whoever was standing on his porch.
Probably Gareth, he thought with a weary sigh. He was in no mood for the man's teasing today.
He braced his hand on the jamb, throwing open the door. He did a double take at the sight of thinning red hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
Not Gareth. Arthur.
Something happened to Remus.
Lyall frowned, stepping back to usher him in. “Is everything alright?” he asked, embarrassed by the slurred panic in his voice.
Arthur stepped over the threshold nervously, patting the dew from his brow with a handkerchief. Lyall got the impression he was debating the wisdom of coming.
“Yes, yes,” he said distractedly, wringing his hands together. “That is, I'm a little worried, but…” He trailed off, guilt visible in every line of his body. Lyall’s hackles rose.
“What is it?” he demanded, fear pumping through his veins, mixing with the alcohol he had so foolishly indulged in. “What's wrong?”
Arthur glanced towards the sitting room, worrying his lip. “Do you mind if we sit?” he asked, and Lyall thought he might strangle his friend if he didn't get to the point soon.
He sighed, gesturing to invite Arthur to make himself at home. With a flick of his wand, he summoned the bottle of scotch and two glasses.
He poured quickly, shoving a glass into Arthur's hand before sitting in the chair across from him. Arthur didn't take a sip.
“I, er - I'm worried about Remus,” he said, not meeting Lyall’s eye. “I - I think it might be a good idea for you to check on him.”
Lyall frowned, shaking his head in disbelief. Arthur knew the situation. He knew Lyall was probably the last person Remus wanted barging into his home.
“What's going on?” he asked again, quiet terror creeping in. Arthur chanced a glance at him.
“I swore I wouldn't tell.” He swallowed guiltily, lifting his glass to his lips only to immediately lower it back down. “I - I shouldn’t - but things are a little different now…”
Lyall’s heart was in his throat as he sat on the edge of his seat, deep fear pressing down on him. “Is Remus in danger?” he hushed, afraid to speak too loudly. Arthur looked up again, his face twisting.
“I'm only telling you - he said something earlier and I'm just worried that -” He exhaled slowly before closing his eyes, spitting out the words before he lost his nerve.
“Remus tried to kill himself last autumn.”
Time stopped. Lyall tried to take a breath, but all the air had been sucked from the room. The words clung to him. He didn’t believe them. Didn't want to believe them. But there was nothing but desperate honestly in Arthur's eyes.
Lyall’s throat burned. His eyes. His chest. His voice squeaked as he forced out a single, heartbroken word.
“What?”
Arthur let out a sharp breath, turning the glass slowly in his hands.
“Back in November,” he said shamefully, ducking his head. “I'm sorry - he made us promise not to tell, and the healers said it was important -”
“What healers?” Lyall asked, looking up suddenly. “Who is ‘we’?”
Arthur's eye shifted dodgily. “Oh, er, no one really -”
“Arthur.” Lyall couldn't bother to be embarrassed by the tremble in his voice. Arthur's shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Er, well, Andromeda called his therapist -”
“Andromeda knows?” Lyall’s heart gave another twisting wrench. “He - he told Andy?” Andy, who had spent years looking at Remus like scum on her shoe. Andy, who didn't have a bit of warmth to spare him. Remus had chosen Andy over him.
Arthur looked as though the conversation was causing him considerable pain.
“He, er, went to her house after. I don't know all the details.”
Hot, furious tears pooled in Lyall’s eyes. “I see,” he said hollowly, tapping his glass thoughtfully with his fingertips. He wanted to smash it against the wall.
Arthur eyed him anxiously. “I'm sorry, I didn't want to upset you, but he was saying some things today that worried me and -” He fell silent, but Lyall thought he understood.
“Yes, thank you for telling me,” Lyall croaked, surprised to find himself standing. The room blurred through his tears.
“I, er - I suppose I ought to head over to check on him,” he rasped, slipping his wand in his belt and glancing meaningfully at the fireplace.
Arthur nodded sadly, rising slowly from his seat, his face heavy with regret.
“I'm so sorry, Lyall,” he said. “I'm so, so sorry.”
*
Remus sat on the porch, cigarette in hand as he looked out over the darkening evening. A strange sort of peace flitted just beyond his reach. Something he could have if he was willing to get up and grab it.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the rush of the Floo. He twisted, peering over his shoulder through the window. His stomach sank, the promise of peace darting away as he saw his father standing in the middle of the room, his face red and teary.
Fucking hell.
He stubbed out the fag, rising with a groan and limping unevenly towards the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asked before he had even entered the sitting room, doing his best not to sound as frustrated as he felt.
His father looked at him with a sadness that stole the breath from his lungs.
“Why wouldn't you tell me?” Lyall’s voice was surprisingly even, despite the tears in his eyes. Remus looked at him with a confused frown. He wondered, briefly, if he had stumbled into a dream.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said honestly. Lyall, however, seemed convinced otherwise.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said, his voice sharper this time, sadness shifting towards anger. Remus let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing at his temples.
“Can you just make your point?” he said, his patience already spent. “This isn't a good ti-”
“I know what happened in November.”
Remus was stunned into silence.
This isn't happening. He wanted to wake up. Wanted to go back to the porch and flirt with serenity.
“I don't know what you mean,” he said weakly. His voice was soft and trembling, his heart pounding painfully against his sternum.
Lyall took a step forward, dropping any attempt to remain calm.
“Why the FUCK wouldn't you tell me?” he shouted, tears and sweat and spittle wetting his face.
Remus shook his head, denial the only defense left to him. “I don't know what you -”
“Stop! Lying!”
The house echoed with Lyall’s fury, the air pulsing, feeding the anger in Remus’ heart.
“I'm not -”
“I know, okay?” Lyall snapped, his eyes dangerous. “I know you tried to -” He covered his mouth, breathing past a sob. Remus waited, watching his father carefully, reading the tremble of his hand and the scarlet flush of his cheeks.
Finally, Lyall lowered his hand, swallowing hard before locking eyes with Remus.
“I know you tried to kill yourself,” he said roughly, breathing heavily as fresh tears tracked down his face. “I know you made people keep it from me. I know -”
Remus shook his head, forcing his features into a mask of innocent confusion. This can't be happening.
“Listen, I don't know where you got that idea,” he said calmly. “But nothing ha-”
“God damn it, Remus!” Sparks leapt from the wand tucked in Lyall's belt. His eyes shone unnaturally bright, the blue irises - identical to Remus’ - dilated until all that remained was a thin, pale line around his pupil.
Remus’ stomach ached at the sight, his mouth dry, legs tensed. Lyall pointed an accusatory finger at Remus’ chest.
“You’re sick, you know that? You're so afraid of honesty that -”
“You know what?” Remus spat, drawing uncomfortably close to Lyall’s face. His voice was little more than a growl.
“I'll tell you.”
He felt a lifetime of bitterness fill his mouth, coating his tongue in acid. A lifetime of guilt and shame and resentment. A lifetime of rage.
His voice was cold and hateful to his own ears.
“I'll tell you that I've tried more times than I can fucking count, alright? I didn't tell you then, and I never would have told you about November, so why don't you climb down off your high hippogriff and -”
SMACK!
Lyall’s palm burned across his face.
Remus’ hands flew to his cheek before he had even processed the fact that he had been slapped. That his father had hit him. That he had dared to hit him. Dared to play the victim.
The sting on his cheek felt almost secondary to the shock and disbelief that roiled through him. He wanted to strike back. Wanted to hurt his father as much as he had been hurt. Wanted him to suffer.
He straightened, dropping his hands to his hips and fixing Lyall with a lethal stare.
“In case you were wondering,” he hissed, feeling venom building inside him. “It was your fault. Every. Damn. Time.”
He burned with sick satisfaction at the shattered look in his father's eyes. He smiled darkly.
He backed away, his eyes streaming even as his smile turned victorious. “How's that for honesty?”
If he had ever had any doubts that he was a monster, he knew he could finally dismiss them. Only a monster would stand there and watch as his father shattered into a blubbering mess. Only a monster would hear the miserable moans and smile.
He turned away, telling himself that his eyes weren't brimming with tears. That the burning lump in his throat had nothing to do with Lyall. That he was satisfied. Justice served.
He could hear his father behind him, rasping out his name as he wept.
“Remus. Remus. Remus.”
Remus felt a sudden sense of calm. A sort of cold detachment, as if he was watching the moment through a screen. He turned, locking eyes with his father, his face blank, his voice flat.
“Get out of my life.”
He hated himself for the lack of pity he felt as Lyall’s face twisted into something tortured, his voice desperately pleading.
“No. No, Remus - I'm sorry - I'm so -”
“Get. The fuck. Out of my life.”
The words dropped from his mouth like stones. Heavy and solid. Crushing. Pure gravity.
He hated himself for feeling like he had emerged victorious. Hated the defeat on his father's face.
He walked away, slipping his hands in his pockets as if he was going for a stroll. As if his father wasn't wracked with grief in the middle of his sitting room.
He resumed his seat on the porch, pretending he didn't notice the violent tremble in his hands, the nausea that gripped his stomach, as if he could purge himself of the pain in his heart.
He closed his eyes, listening for the Floo, a single tear running down his cheek when it finally roared in the distance.
He hated himself for the peace he felt as he lit up another cigarette, turning his gaze to the pink-swathed horizon.