The Sun, Moon & Stars

61. Resignation

TW: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE & LIGHT SWEARING

June 8th, 1994
Remus' POV

'Ah, Remus — you got my message. Care to have a seat?'

Sunlight poured through the panes of glass on the windows in Dumbledore's office — the old, familiar and kind man he had grown up with gesturing for him to take a seat, eyes twinkling and half-moon spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Periwinkle robes — tassel hat — and long, coarse beard tied neatly; he was exactly the same as he had been when Remus was a wee boy, eleven and terrified of the world, coming to a school he never dreamed would have such an impact on his life.

Opting to stand, Remus gave Dumbledore a mere nod of greeting as he inspected the room — hands behind his back, basking in the familiarity of it. He tried to compose himself as he surveyed the room — hoping with every fibre of his being he could manage to control himself; control his anger.

Fawkes sat on his golden perch, the portraits were alive (to an extent) and well — greeting him as he passed — and the endless amounts of books he had fawned over as a boy now seemed less intimidating; having read almost every one.

He had been in here multiple times this year — when he was worried, or furious, about Ophelia's safety; or lack thereof, more like. Still, he wasn't sure the feeling would ever get old. When he first entered this office, he was a timid young boy that could barley utter a sentence without trembling. Now, he was a teacher — a Dad — a friend, not a student.

'Nothing much has changed, has it?' Dumbledore murmured.

Remus turned, shaking his head slightly, 'Everything, yet nothing all at once.'

Dumbledore hummed — agreement — not gesturing to the chair in front of him as Remus had presumed, but instead rising from his seat. He strolled over to where Remus stood — a good distance apart — as he interlocked his hands behind his shimmery, periwinkle robes.

'How are you feeling?'

'I've been worse.' Remus admitted, not turning to look at him.

'Well, that's something, I suppose. You've always been strong.'

'It doesn't seem like it.' Remus murmured.

'Strength differs for each person. You possess an unimaginable amount, contrary to your belief.'

He didn't answer.

'How are you feeling, Remus?'

'You just asked me that.'

'No — about the past few days.'

Remus sucked in a breath, turning to look back at the bookshelf, eyes trailing over the minuscule details in front of him; the grains in the wood, the embellishments on the various books, contemplating how to answer — and if he was going to be honest.

If he was honest, he was infuriated; among other things. Grateful they were all alive. Confused about feelings arising from that night in the Shack. But above that he was torn between being angry, or wallowing in self-pity; because Sirius was innocent, and had been all along, and he lost out on twelve years with the love of his life because someone didn't do enough in his investigation.