𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

28: 𝔧𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔡

Tw: angst, blood, gore, negative self talk, overall sad vibes

Remus knew something was wrong before he even opened his eyes.

Madame Pomfrey's distress rolled off her in waves, contributing to a debilitating migraine that was hammering through his skull.

Pain shot through his body with every breath, like thousands of splinters infiltrating his lungs with every rhythmic rise and fall. His bones ached so deeply that he felt as though he could sink straight through his cotton mattress.

Trying to recall his whereabouts last night was as fruitless as trapping smoke with a butterfly net. Perhaps that was the worst part, waking up and not knowing who you may have hurt.

He could get used to waking up in excruciating pain, but in all his years of living as a lycanthrope, and all his years onward, he would never get accustomed to the burning, bile-inducing guilt.

Madame Pomfrey eyed him pitifully, her gaze identical to the one she gave him during his first moon at Hogwarts, where she'd whispered promises under her breath of better, healthier days.

Poppy Pomfrey soon learned that pity to Remus was one of the most uncomfortable substances he'd ever had the misfortune of encountering, aside from the muggle gauze he was allergic to and sweaters with impossibly sewn tags imbedded in the cotton.

Today, however, as Madame Pomfrey handed him the usual assortment of potions, salves, and painkillers, she gently- ever so gently- brushed his hair out of his face, chewing on her lip so vigorously he feared she'd break the skin.

"Alright, Madame Pomfrey? You look a bit stressed," He said hoarsely, feeling the weight of her despair increase.

If there was anything he could've done to quell her anxiety, he would've done it in a heartbeat. She had always been nothing if not good to him.

Her throat tightened as she gave him a thin-lipped smile. He wanted to shift into a more comfortable position but was too shy to do so in front of her.

She always fretted, like mothers did, smoothing sheets that had been smoothed and starched twice previously, arranging potions for the sake of being able to hover, worrying that every little movement would cause him to reopen his wounds.

And yet, he missed it. It had been a long time since Hope Lupin was well enough to fret. So he let her drown him under layers of blankets, press chocolate frogs into his hands (she went to Honeydukes to buy them especially for him), and drank every potion dutifully, until her lips stretched into a feeble smile and the burning in his eyes ceased.

Sometimes, Remus wondered if she did this to her other patients, or if it was just him. The latter, though mortifying, ignited a small flame of warmth and affection for the kindly matron.

"Yes, I'm doing fine, dear," she said carefully.  She took a breath, trepidation lingering in the air, thicker than the oxygen with which it coalesced. She paused, and he sucked in a breath.

"Remus... something bad happened last night."

His heart dropped.

"What? I- it was was me, wasn't it? Did I get out somehow? What happened?"

In that moment, all he could think about was Sirius dead, James dead, Peter dead, Sirius dead, everyone he knew and loved, cold and lifeless at his feet, their body in tatters like old articles of clothing gone through a shredder.

Blood everywhere, on his snout, his claws, smeared across the ground like they were living in a painting. One of a monster that had been ruined with an overturned bucket of crimson.