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BAD OMENS
001. TWO WOLVES AND A BABY
before the philosopher's stone
───── ⋆⋅ ☽⋅⋆ ─────
ON OCTOBER 31ST 1992, THE MARAUDERS FELL APART.
That night changed Remus in a way that was unimaginable. It was the sort of moment that would define his life into a before and an after. He had no words to describe the pain from that night. Looking back, he only remembered the feeling that he was never going to be ok ever again.
The whys of that night were almost as unbearable as the grief itself.
But nothing about that night made any sense.
He suspected that nothing would ever again make any fucking sense.
His twisted imagination could conjure images of what he had been told. James dying first, without ever considering the possibility of fleeing. Lily giving her life to protect her son. Peter confronted him on the street. Peter being blown into a thousand pieces.
How could he have been so blindsided by love to miss the biggest fucking betrayal of his life?
After that night, Remus wanted to curl into a ball and rot.
He had survived, but he wished he hadn't. He would have traded places with any of them in an instant, just so he wouldn't have to be alone again.
Not a single day went by – and not one day would ever go by – that he did not think of Sirius Black.
But in the midst of his despair, he remembered his glint of hope.
It was funny how over the years, Remus had thought of many analogies to describe her. She was like a shot of espresso in a sleepy morning. She was like being bathed in sunlight after years in the dark. She was like a breath of fresh air after being underwater for too long.
Remus knew Sirius would always be the love of his life, but she was his life.
He had never imagined that a little girl could be the sole reason for his existence, but as the years went by, Remus knew he had been born to love and protect this girl.
The first time he came to see her after the war, he was completely and utterly terrified. Mason was crossed — the last time they talked, he had yelled himself hoarse — but nothing had prepared him to see Mason Lockwood, a young man in his twenties who loved catching a good wave more than anything, drooling like a fool over a baby.
