Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Dawning

"A soldier has war in his mind, and barbs on his tongue.

Courage in his heart, and grief on his sleeves.A soldier fights.But are they saved?"

-via Ch. D

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Potter Manor, April 1978

"Watch it!"

With as much grace as a mule, Peter managed to shove Remus out of a charm's path just in time. The great ball of pinkish light shot past his left side and collided with the ballroom walls, rattling the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the oil paintings stuck to the wall. Remus, winded if not a bit startled, raked the mess of hair out of his face, turning to face a guilty pair of hooligans that never seemed to go away. He couldn't swallow the bubble of irritation swelling in his throat.

"It was James," Sirius pointed an accusing finger at Potter.

James blanched, "It totally was not! I was doing defense, you idiot."

"Well, it was your job to defend yourself and everyone else from the spell," Sirius sneered, jerking his friend into a playful headlock.

A small dragonfly, no larger than a sickle, whizzed past Remus' right ear, wisps of magic lingering on his clothes like particles of dust. It was difficult to focus on it; it moved so quickly. Left and right, from the ceiling to the floor, the Patronus danced between dueling figures and twinkling glass before fizzling out near the other side of the room. A swallow watched from the chandelier peacefully, unbothered by the commotion below. Remus tried to peer through the haze of Patronuses, both corporeal and not, to ogle at those who could cast one but failed miserably.

"Again," Moody shouted, his cane thumping hard against the marble floor. Remus flinched, and not for the first time since their meeting had begun that day.

He wasn't quite sure what needed to be done again; he only knew that he was very grateful, and very blessed, that he hadn't been on the receiving end of that order given the foul mood Al (that was what Sirius called him) had been in lately. In the distance, the sound of magic crashing against magic hummed in his ears. It buzzed in his skull, shaking his brain and tickling his eardrums. The heat of light and life rubbed against his skin even from across the room, and the odd sensation of unfamiliarity trickled down his spine. It faded, and he sighed.

The squealing of James' trainers against the marble, the angry shouting from Moody, McGonagall's shrill instructions on whatever the hell he was supposed to be learning – it was all becoming too much for him. Remus knew he was supposed to be focusing; the Order was depending on all of their focus, every single one of them. However, with James and Sirius shitting themselves over wrestling, Patronus roaming freely amongst the people, and Moody's barking – because the man really did seem rabid at the moment – the world spun a bit too quickly.

In moments like that, Fleamont had told him to control his breathing. Breathing is the route of all calm, he said. If there was anything Remus needed to be in that moment, it was calm. His bones ached to run away from the noise and the movements, the squeaky shoes and the clash of sparks on the walls. He wanted to tune out the voices, even McGonagall's however much she was trying to help. Remus was in sensory overload; it happened close to full moons. The animalistic side of him, the one keen on every sense in his gawky body, seemed more prominent the older he became.

Deeply, he inhaled. The rush of ballroom air filled his lungs, warm like sink water. Not like the briskness of the Black Lake or the comfort of his favorite tea. It was just lukewarm, and maybe that was for the best. Even so, he frowned.