Dark Side of the Moon

Chapter Two: Only the lonely

It had been the first pleasant night since the end of the war.

Remus Lupin had been rather guilted into staying at The Burrow post-Battle of Hogwarts - "I want us all together," insisted Molly, and it seemed apparent that there was no arguing against her. He would never admit that it had been nice to not be alone after everything had happened...it was all still so complicated, and though he was more used to being alone, he didn't know how he would have endured it in the midst of all these emotions.

The relief that Harry was alive...the horror that he had somewhat died in the first place. The horror of who they had lost, and just how close he and his loved ones had come to oblivion. Along with the entire wizarding world, frankly. His stomach turned thinking about finding Snape's remains in the Shrieking Shack and making arrangements for them to be interned in the Heroes' Cemetery in Scotland, where many of the victims of the First Wizarding War had been buried, and those from this one would now also be memorialized. Many people were still facing Snape's true story with deeply complicated feelings, and Remus was among them. But, Harry's insistence helped win him over enough to respect the sacrifices his old foe had apparently made in the name of his sweetest old friend.

It was ecstasy that the war was finally over...but, as his former student had so astutely observed the prior evening, it didn't feel like a flawless victory. Perhaps that was what had caused her feelings of shame. The disappointment in finding that winning didn't fill in the holes that had been carved out of one's heart over years of tragedy. The holes, rather, would simply remain, being rounded out by the erosion of time and yes, crumbling at the sides less and less, but still empty. And they could never be filled.

Or could they, in some way?

He realized having Hermione's company turned what had been a self-reflection steadily becoming a self-hatred into something, well, with a purpose. She needed help, she needed support, and she seemed to trust him for that - so that made him worth it even in a small, singular way. It made him worth taking up space and breathing in air, even if that space was separate from everyone else and that air was tainted with nicotine-stained smoke. It had been enough for her.

He didn't like how this realization made him feel, however. The great relief he'd experienced in finding some purpose in her comfort reminded him too much of his relief in Harry's inexplicable apparent resurrection, and he thought that he really shouldn't be comparing them at all. He shamed himself for it, like she had for waking up weeping after defeating what was thought to be possibly the greatest evil to have ever existed. It felt selfish, in a way. After so long selflessly toiling for the cause of good, he felt like he shouldn't be craving any sort of satisfaction. And that satisfaction shouldn't make him as happy as a miracle had, right?

Hermione had left him after dawn without a word but with a light pat on the shoulder as he remained sitting on the ledge. It was the first time he'd felt truly hopeful at the breaking of a new day in a long time. Maybe, if he could still do some good, and if there was still some good in the world like this very earnest girl whom he'd stumbled into meeting during this terrible war, then the world was worth all the pain it had taken to save it.

Molly came down to prepare another voluminous breakfast shortly after Remus reentered the Burrow, and he sat reading the Daily Prophet as the woman hummed through her morning cooking. She had miraculously made it to the other side of the Battle with her entire family intact, despite their closeness to Voldemort's number-one target. Who wouldn't be living in a rose-colored wonderland after that bit of luck?

He was staring out the window over the drooping Prophet clasped loosely in his hands when Molly interjected suddenly after stirring copious amounts of batter. "'Right then, Remus?" she enquired, raising one fire-colored eyebrow. Remus started at the interruption; his mind had been drifting to how the moon had looked the night before, reflected in the small lake (or was it a large pond?) beneath the ledge and illuminating Hermione's dress. Nightgown, he corrected himself, then balked.