One Fractured Fairy Tale (or Dozen Stories That Aren't True) In Non-Chronological or Possibly Sideways Order
Spoilers: All in HP is fair game.
Author's Notes: This "Day" is Remus/Sirus not by plan, but it became so because well, this happened. I was inspired by many and I apologize in advance for this story, or these stories, whichever way you want to look at it. Inspiration from the Renaissance, nursey rhymes, Shakespeare, sangria, getting lost on Canal Street, religion, Plato, State of Grace, and Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events are used to horrible effect.
Feedback: Nevertheless, feedback remains as delicious as free-range freedom.
Go South in the Winter:
That the winter it isn't cold at all is not surprising, for since settling in the tropics, one comes to terms with the relentless sun.
Every bird that returns to him carries letters of good news, of little hurts, and sometimes, of questions, which he tries to answer. He wants to end each letter with, "ah, but this too is a lie," but instead he scrawls Sirius and remembers vaguely of a time when his hand was steadier.
The precise, carefully written letters addressed to a Mssr. Padfoot, The Beach, Wandering Around in a Drunken Stupor, remain unopened and stacked neatly in his unapologetically messy room.
He's going to stay here for a very, very long time indeed until there are no more winters to dream of.
Come to Paris in Spring:
Remus lights the candle not for affection or to show his hushed reverence in the cavernous hall of Norte Dame, in fact when he watches the little votive candle flicker and then burn out the instant he ignites it, he feels a sense of relief.
His prayers are useless in the end, and he feels no sense of redemption from the overwhelming Catholic spirit of the Church. Indeed, even the light pouring in from the extraordinary stained glass windows only irritate his eyes and he feels a strange pricking, closing them for only a moment. It passes.
He'd almost prayed for Sirius. Fancy that.
Madrid is Hell This Time of Year:
It is exactly only many amounts of some just a bit maybe a little more okay so pissed out of mind considering that's just a couple of well it didn't feel like that many -
He's rambling, he's sure of it, and he's sweating and he's mad as hell and give him a proper hat and he'll throw a tea-party for you and declare just exactly why indeed a raven is idefinti...identik...identically like a writing desk -
Look, he'll transfigure it out just for you, and you'll never know the difference, which is why a raven is like a writing desk.
He sloshes sangria all down some bird's (raven's) black dress and explains to her how very much she reflects the Moon, and grins when she doesn't push him away.
Summer's hell this time of year, and there are hot days waiting for him, which he will happily meet.
Autumn in New York:
He's quite lost, which is madness, because this isn't a maze, not exactly, it's just Downtown, which polite locals explain quite simply and in simple terms, and it should just be a matter of navigation. However, even with using his wand, he's still somewhere on Canal Street and not making his way at all to his intended destination.
So he sighs, readjusts his scarf, and waits for the polite, electric man of white lights to appear, directing him towards somewhere, and somewhere not here.
He wonders how one can get lost on a bloody island of this size, and if he hits water, whether he should dive deep, out of shame for his poor sense of direction, but he knows indeed, that this city must be cursed, some sort of magics intended to confuse and he's without a Map, once again, and wonders what trove of mischief-loving youth managed to find all the secrets of the city.
And then he finds what he was looking for, and indeed, the man could be Sirius's doppelganger, only far, far madder. And there is blood on his hands, both metaphorically and physically there, but he has been alone for far too long.
The Bleak Season:
Still Winter without a sense of spring approaching, the sound of nothing, not even snowfall, a grey world of cold and pale shadows, passing over the ground with horrified dread, knowing that life once existed here, but it is forgotten.
So. Still. Winter.
He repeats the words with cracked lips, fading into his snow-white skin and feels that there are no fairy tales in wait, all the magic has dried up and all he feels is the steady chill, death is not approaching, it is the in-between, not even violent like rot, it is worse, bloodless and without design, save one. To never cease.
He's quite forgotten his name and waits for nothing, knowing nothing has come and gone, without him to remember.
It's like rebuilding a world with a new epistemology at your side, and you have no idea how you're going to make due with all the little hurts that tore apart the faith originally.
Well, you can say, that was then, and this is Now, only Now isn't Now, because you know you're trying to manipulate Then and make it Now again, so really, Now is Then and Soon will be -
It will be Before, and you're too confused to think. So you take fragments and construct a thousand new lies to fit your circumstances, or you just don't explain the pieces and mend it with forethought and deep concentration and maybe it'll still be like Before and yet, it's New and Now and it's you and him.
However, the project is doomed to fail, but flourishes anyway, while you are confident in the failure of this late, golden, happy age.
The Renaissance in Winter:
The gold was gilt and painted over pretty cages, and you've mixed your metaphors shamefully, but some of the best literature has done such a thing and gotten away with it, and it's all in your head, it's all there, and it won't be anywhere else to hear, because you'll stay silent until asked.
So, it isn't an experiment exactly, nor a failure, it's something far worse, and deeper and unspoken, and there are many foolish enough to find an answer for it. It is Friendship, it is Love, it is Faith, and it is Selfish. It is You and Him, once again, creating a world that never existed and thriving on the illusion for so long because there aren't two happy memories to rub between your fingers, and damn, there goes another horrible use of imagery, that thankfully, will not divert from your point.
Your point of course, is that it's par for the course, you there to make a mixed muddle of what's left and him to vanish once again into fragments of reality, of unreality, and like all aspirations to find the highest ideals, the greatest passions, and the true face of Living, it ended in death.
The Renaissance, Reinterpreted:
It went this way, you argue, because you cannot imagine him anymore and you sought to remember the Moon and all the damn stars, even yourself up there, now scampering around Orion's Belt, so sure that not even the sky could limit you, and you'd go into the fray because that's what must be done.
For just that moment, you'd tear across hell and back, and fall as tragically as all heroes must and wander forever damned, a mere shadow of a shadow's memory, but at least this time, a better memory.
And you did it not for the Great Reasons, but because that is simply what must be done, out of something that's just yourself, somewhere, everywhere, always.
He can continue hating you, there's nothing left to explain.
He doesn't hate because he's finished with that, he only knows he will have restless nights and worry over when the Questions begin and he will be forced to answer.
He doesn't want to regret not dipping his quill into his inkwell and slowly dragging out those agonizing words, "but this too is a lie," or leave a precise stack of carefully opened, but only skimmed-through letters for another day in the improbable future, and never give any answer save, there is nothing to be done of it.
Remus once discovered a stack of letters he never sent to Sirius, because he hadn't sent any, not a word, there hadn't been any time, and indeed, it had been a bit of a surprise to see that great shaggy mess of night and pure animal at his doorstep, welcome always, but never quite expected.
Ah, but the discovery is just a dream, Sirius leaves nothing in his wake, and would have left a pile of ashes, smoldering on a gloriously sunny beach.
Some children came upon bits of ashes and found some words mingled in the mess, and these words and letters said: "t," "t...o," "is," "a," and the clearest and best bit said, "lie," which would have meant something if they read English.
Or really, there was a stack of letters and a mess to deal with in one of the guest rooms, and since she had a break coming up, she read long, worried, and coded messages to a lost lover, or perhaps just a good friend until she remembered herself and tossed them into a trashcan, where they belonged.
Or maybe there was an interception and the Ministry of Magic, quick to act, and always vigilant (some say constant), sent two starving Dementors to the warmth and bliss they so normally reviled and caught their prey, clamping down and sucking greedily.
Yet the words do not matter in the end. Would that the story ended in a kiss, and all happy stories must, or they did live happily ever after, but they had fragments to go on, and sometimes, that is all that is left, the imperfect renderings of memory, the body remembering, and things running deep and eternally, as magic always does.
Discoveries can be both blessings and curses, whether in disguise or in plain sight.
They look at each other with a macabre sense of themselves.
In this case, means, "what happens when two old men discover they are not only not quite the specimens they used to be (although really, one of them never really was much to look at, or even stumble over), and also are quite deathly pale and desperately need a bit of sun, but are rather savagely proud of being complete and utter prats when it comes to admitting anything."
So like all events, sex ensues, pursued by lingering guilt complexes and tenuous fears of reunions.
This is not an unfortunate event at all, which makes it completely untrue.
He sings off-key and purposely, pondering when exactly one's voice is supposed to finally break through this quavering dilemma of not quite manhood and stuck in a frightfully high-pitched rendition of some wretched witch opera star whom his mother loves so dearly.
In any event, there is rain, rain, and it must go away.
If he remembers that name, perhaps he'll stop singing, which he is sure the sole remaining victim of his music stylings would indeed be grateful for. But he doesn't recall and continues on, almost missing Sirius's complaining over the sound of his unhinged singing.
Oi, go off on another one, Moony, I'm going to start melting into a puddle, which hmm, would be an awfully nice prank. Somehow get Snivellus to melt - he's already leaking enough foul grease - when he hears that dreadful mourn you call a voice.
Only Sirius can say this as thoughtfully, deceptively, confidently, and endearingly, and other adverbs which shamefully race through Remus's mind as he tries to remember the damn name. But the words are repeating in a nonstop loop, melt, voices, hmm, perhaps his voice is melting, and that's why he sounds so horrifying, and maybe his voice will simply wash away, into the ether of hallowed grounds, never to be seen again until the very first moments of dawn and dusk.
Remus thinks he speaks aloud some nonsense, not of that kind of nonsense, more a challenge of Sirius's own talents, prompting Sirius to stand next to him at the window and bellow out the rhymes mingled with some fairly impressive swearing. Even Remus has to take stock of it and highly regard Sirius's talents.
Sirius smiles, plans of turning the whole damn school population into quivering puddles dancing in his mad thoughts, and for a moment, Remus feels disconcerted, as if this is all some bubble that is about to pop.
When Sirius kisses him, he hears the sound, faint as anything, but sounding once in his ears, a long way off, but coming closer with every moment.
This is what the end feels like, and Remus wishes he could put off the regret until another rainy day, but everything he's stored up has begun tumbling down, unable to ward off the hurricane shining in the proud gleam of Sirius's eyes.