Recaving

Like anyone else, the four of us believed the sun rose and set for James Potter. As his closest friends, one might think we were in the best position to have known the extent of his subterfuge. I would say it was quite the opposite, that we were the most vulnerable to believing him.

Regardless, his secrets weren’t why we killed him. On the contrary, they might have saved him, had he shared them with us. As things went, they were, in fact, almost our undoing as much as they’d been his.

It had been a quiet death, unsuitable for our colorful, boisterous friend, and it would be years before I would realize Regulus must have known even more than he’d allowed me to discover; that there must have been a tesseract of possible scenarios he’d foreseen and prepared for, far beyond the plot we’d stumbled into. It was as he’d said then, that the randomness of life would unravel all intentionality, no matter how intricate, and so must be left room for consideration. “A wild card,” he’d called it. Something wonderfully, horribly unexpected. Even he could only account for so much.

Despite proof of Regulus’s fallibility, I don’t believe we could have been merely lucky. Regulus Black had eradicated my belief in coincidence, not because I believe in fate, but because he showed me just how elaborately one might scheme behind the scenes of any act. Thanks to that year with him, I have grown more irritable and suspicious with time, haunted by an over-abundance of awareness, to this day see ill-intended shadows at the edges of even the kindest personal interactions. With people like Black on the loose, no one is safe. Perhaps it’s lucky he was such a rare bird.

The longest weekend of my life commenced in the spring of 1990, a fresh decade blooming with potential and fawn lilies. The previous fall term at Abernathy had, in contrast, flown by much too quickly, giving way to the most dreadful winter I’d known before or since. In my delirium through the cold, I might have sensed the coming events, but if my unconscious had offered any knowledge, it was lost to sleep and fever. I’d been kept in the dark through most of what led us to James’s death, and in many ways, I believe the extent of my ignorance is vaster than I care to contemplate for long. By the end, however, after watching him charm his way through the meal as usual, unaffected by our nerves as he drained his glass—by the end, I would have been mad to claim I was in any way innocent.

I’d never seen such a fuss like that which arose in the aftermath. What should have been a clear suicide had quickly festered within the locals’ disbelief. Indignant, as if personally insulted, no one bought that James Potter would have killed himself, nor that he would remain alone and unchecked for an entire weekend in his dorm with not even his closest friends looking in on him.

Foul play was afoot, surely, and our lot must have had something to do with it, for how odd were we to be as surprised as anyone else that James was in far worse shape than he’d seemed? How convenient, they said, were his secrets, our ignorance, the nature of his death. If only they’d known all of that was true, and that there was a far worse truth that soured the former’s sanctity; that the fact that they were right played into how we would not be caught.

There were problems with our accusers’ logic, of course. It was thought we must have known something, but if we had, killing him would have implicated us thanks to having been aware of his issues to utilize as cover. Though true, theirs was not a compelling narrative (“Truth rarely is,” as Regulus put it), but the cognitive dissonance hadn’t mattered in the slightest: at the very least, it was reasoned, our proximity to James made us somehow responsible no matter what. We ought to have known, they said, ought to have prevented it. Such were the last whimpers of an attempt at justice in the face of our foul verdict of innocence.

We got away with it all, but, truly, it got away with all of us as well. None made it out even remotely unscathed, and I’ve always thought it fitting. We had done something truly vile, unforgivable, no matter our reasons. Loss of sleep was the least we ought to have endured for it.

I am alone in this view, however, alone in my self-pity disguised as martyrdom. Let the suffering commence isn’t a mantra one embroiders on a throw pillow, but I wear the thread of it every moment of every day, as if it makes a difference. This has always been my nature.

While every person has qualities which might grate on others’ nerves, our group was composed of people with hair-triggered receptors for fatal flaws, and couldn’t seem to keep from coaxing them to the foreground. In our quiet way, we were always asking for trouble, like surly middle-children with mood disorders. For my part, I’d turned my nose up at James’s naivety, Peter’s lack of integrity, Sirius’s aloof vanity, even Regulus’s cold pretension, powerful as it was. In turn, I’m sure they all loathed my evasiveness and penchant for the blackest, most pathetic forms of pessimism.

All—I should clarify—apart from James. The sunniest of us, oblivious to the clouds which hung low and dark around the ones he loved most. What was a storm to a star? But when Sirius had said something to that effect, and Peter responded by whining that if we’d known who James really was things might have been different, I’d felt as sick as the night we’d killed him. To imply any fault of his death laid with James himself was not only morally dubious (by then, none of us could claim authority on discerning what was moral anyway), but would also be simply untrue. James Potter’s one and only crime was having been a fool amongst snakes.

(hi, so, Im also very new to Tumblr and don't know how to Tumblr, so I'm just reblogging the og post and putting the fanfiction here. No idea how you guys format fic, but I'll figure it out. Hope this isn't a weird way. 😅)

Okay, here ya go:

There's a hole in the box’s front right corner. Remus can feel the vinyl’s sleeve through it, cool and smooth on the pad of his index finger. He worries it, absent-mindedly presses up into the hole and tries shifting the weight of the stack inside. The stack doesn't move much. Maybe it's too thick.

It's every record Remus owns. Zeppelin, Beatles, Floyd, T. Rex, and more, but Bowie is most prized in the collection. There's even a limited edition Ziggy record, which Remus made sure to put on top. His buyer didn't seem nearly as interested in the rest over the phone.

The car parked across the street is silver. Clean mirrors, dirty rims. Remus looks for more little contradictions it might possess, which makes the task of not looking down a bit easier. The gap between the box’s flaps wouldn't close completely after he packed everything in, and he's already made the mistake of peeking once. It took a terribly long time to pull himself together, but it was simply too much to see the Ziggy cover and almost feel the songs associated with it. Remus doesn't need to look down in order to see that on-the-pavement view, dark blue night sky beyond all the brick and metal, buttery streetlights and windows, the scene somehow perfectly crooked…

It's really no good, whether he's looking at the thing or not. Sudden as summer rain, tears crash into the flimsy cardboard, and Remus tilts his face up so they'll roll back instead of down. Shifting the box under one arm, he dries his face with the back of his wrist.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters, “just selling some music.”

It's more than music, but it doesn't matter. Remus needs the money. He does, he does—he needs it. There's no getting around it this time, and his record collection (so long as the buyer meets his asking price for the LE Ziggy) will sell for just enough to make it this month. What Remus will do for money next month, he couldn't tell you, but for this month, this is what he's got.

It's a rational conclusion, and it does nothing whatsoever to stop him from reducing to a puddle of tears.

When the buyer walks up, he offers a hand Remus wouldn't be able to take even if his own hands weren't full, because Remus doesn't see him at first. Remus vaguely notes someone is standing beside him now, that the stance and overall shape reads as masculine, that the buyer smells expensive and rather lovely, but the extended hand isnt noticed until it drops to the buyer’s side.

“Sorry,” Remus blubbers, trailing his wrist furiously over his eyes. “God, I'm sorry, just—”

“S’alright,” says the buyer, sounding friendly enough. “You Lupin, then?” A shape rises and falls past the box, stirring the air between them. Remus sees enough through the blur to note the buyer’s gestured at the sign above the shop behind them. “This your place?”

He shakes his head. “Just where I come,” Remus explains.

“Never been,” the buyer muses. His head tilts, and Remus sees the dark blur around his head and shoulders isn't a hood drawn up in the late summer afternoon, but a long, thick mess of black hair. “Must be good if you found that Bowie record.”

The stupid tears won't stop, but Remus catches his breath enough to hold a conversation. “My mum used to take me…”

Ah. No, it seems he was wrong. Can't get another word out, breath catching—and God, is that snot on his upper lip now? For fuck’s sake—

“Do you want to sit down?” asks the buyer. “Looks like there's a bench in here.”

And suddenly Remus is being guided into the shop’s foyer, which is a terrible idea because the scent of old cardboard, dust, and vinyl hits him in a wave so soft it almost makes him properly sick.

“No, no.”

The buyer opened the door for Remus to walk in, but came up behind him to follow, so when Remus suddenly turns around to leave at once, the box collides between their bodies. Overcorrecting, both men grab at the box to steady it before, somehow, they manage tearing it in two.

Records tumble out neatly, like a magician’s card trick gone wrong. They stare as the covers slap the ground between the doorway and pavement.

Remus, of course, can't see a thing within two seconds.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

“No, I'm sorry!”

It's a lot of this and not much else as they bend to pick up the stack. All apologies and humiliation and awkwardness.

That expensive cologne should absolutely be giving Remus a headache, but instead it fills his head with cotton. Warm and musky, with a peppery bite. It’s what he focuses on as the stack becomes a stack again, Ziggy on top.

The buyer holds them all, sans box, hands spread along the sides to keep all the records together. Remus’s eyes are dry enough to see the knuckle tattoos and patchworks that extend up the pale, slender arms. A few silver rings catch the sunlight as the men head out again.

“Sorry,” Remus repeats. “Haven't been in there since…s’been a long time.”

“No! No, no worries!” The buyer’s head shakes quickly. “I was stupid, pushing you in like that.”

He did no such thing, but Remus only nods, too tired to argue. The Ziggy record stares at him from the top of the stack, back corners scraping against the buyer’s black T shirt.

There's a mortifying pause. Then, suddenly, the buyer brings the stack to Remus again.

“Mind holding these while I grab my wallet?” he says. He doesn't wait for a response, but Remus automatically complies, careful with the sleeves as they're handed over. The buyer pauses for only a second, grey eyes looking Remus over before he starts patting his pockets.

Before Remus can worry-slash-hope that the buyer won't be buying anything after all, the wallet is produced, cash—far too much of it, surely?— is unceremoniously shown and then stuffed into Remus’s own pocket for him, and…

And Remus is still holding the stack of records. He waits, biting the inside of his lip as he forces his fingers to prepare letting them all go once more.

“Here,” Remus starts, taking a step forward.

But the buyer shakes his head again, stepping back. “No thanks,” he says, “I’ve seen enough. You're hired.”

“...Hired?”

“Yep.”

Remus stares at him, blinking back the fresh tears. “But I have a job.”

“Convenient this job’s a one-time gig, then.” Sirius smiles, and it's so easy Remus almost believes there isn't pity etched along the expression. “Doesn’t have to be, but if you're busy…” He shrugs lightly. “Oh, and you did great, so I threw in a big tip.”

“What—?” Remus shakes his head to clear it and starts towards the other man, but the man’s grin flashes more teeth before he turns around to walk quickly away.

“Wait! Please?” Remus calls, scrambling to reach a hand into his pocket without dropping anything. “What did I do?”

He glances down to the cash. There must be close to a thousand pounds in his palm.

There's something else, too. A scrap of paper with what looks suspiciously like a phone number on it. When did the guy even get the chance to write it down?

Remus looks up as his buyer calls down the pavement before turning the corner: “You've got great taste, thanks for showing me this place! Wouldn't believe how difficult it is to find a good personal curator these days—call me and we’ll talk more!”

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

*paw at you* let's make out

When I cry and scream that the real me is unloveable, wrong, they don’t flinch. They tsk at me and just say once more they want the real me. “I’m tired of these bells and whistles everywhere in you, what if you just relaxed?”

I’m shaking with shame, vibrating with rage for time lost. Crying because if I admit I am what I always was, I will be admitting that I wasted all that time being something I wasn’t. That all those years I could have been happy I wasn’t. I was a harlequin doll on a shelf yearning to be shattered.

As if they read my mind they take my chin and say “Every step you’ve taken has lead you to my feet, here I will give life to that part of you. I will breathe air into his lungs and give pulse to his heart.” I melt into it. I feel the stockings melt off my legs into the dirt, the makeup dripping from my cheeks. I feel the heavy weights of forced skirts and unwelcome lace seep from me.