For as long as Remus can remember he's had a hard life. Constant monthly mutilations of his skin, a absent father, and the trepidation of his blush inducing crush on Anastasia Fox. Anastasia Fox, who flirts with everyone, has matching fainter scars...
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CHAPTER 12 TRANSGESSIONAL KISSES AND FOREIGN HOMES
He felt aware of the once red now pink stain of white shirt being subjected to the showers of the England weather. He was aware of the asymmetrical lean of his shoulders due to the heavy case in his right hand– the weight of the thick coat draped over his body. And he was painfully aware of the expanding in his rib cage.
What he didn't feel was the pain, he felt numb to it, as if his whole body had fallen asleep and movement felt only, fragile and unnatural.
The house seemed foreign in aesthetic to what he had been made accustomed to. It was ivory white, in the yard he could make out playing balls, and a cherry red bike, the crest of detail on the walls had decoration of multi-color Christmas lights and the door had an evergreen wreath.
Oh the door...
He knew where he was— the name plastered in gold on the mailbox. Even in the late cold night with bellowing thunder and obscurity of sight due to the rain, it was just how he had imagined it in his adolescent idealist life.
And then he thought about how he couldn't go in. How selfish of him to refuse to burn his youth fantasy and too scared to face his made up heroes. So he sat at the foot of the door trying to recall how he got here.
His ears could remember a boyish weeping of someone apologizing, he thinks he was in his room because of the faint smell of cigarettes, differing to the musty cigar smell that had soaked the halls of every other room in the house. He remembers a tight embrace of smaller arms. The placing of the leather handle to the heavy case and then the bony inhuman hand grabbing his own and then the rain, the street, the house, and the name bold on the mailbox.
Metallic taste filled his tongue and the sting of a busted lip— the back pain of his uncomfortable position, the pounding of his head, the unnatural tightness of his stomach cursed with magic, with external wounds cruel in the exposed raw throbbing. He banged his head on the door as if his conscious trying to escape the reality of his flesh and body.
-
Anastasia heard the knock from the door. She was up late in the first family room to the manor. She didn't like sleeping at the Potters. Afraid to fall asleep would be to lose time in the house. She liked to walk around and act as if it was her own, as if she had grown up here and knew where everything was and had no guilt or hesitation in her actions. That her parents were asleep upstairs and she was a rebel prepubescent girl up past her bedtime.
When she opened the door she couldn't recognize the lively boy she had known, he looked infantile like his makeup of dramatics and flirting had been washed away to show a sad scared boy.
She could contain the gasped at the blood. "Sirius."
Author Note:
This had me close to tears writing it. And it took me only a day to write I just took a break from writing, for a few days and I have been reading a bunch of books and sewing my Taylor swift concert gif. I hope you like it so much angst i promise it'll be happier next chapter it's friends Christmas!!!
What your favorite color? Mines yellow and orange
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