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"Super high functioning anxiety." That's what James called it.
"You probably had anxiety before," he said. "But now it's just... super high functioning anxiety."
Remus spun his fork in his hand three times. He had hardly touched his meal, fearing the sauce on his steak had begun to pool a bit too much like blood did – something he knew now because of how Sydney's blood spilled so quickly from her chest and across her shirt, across the wood floor, across his hands. Remus put down his fork.
"And what about the panic attacks?" he asked. James pursed his lips and blinked quickly, as if to erase the worry from his face before Remus could recognize it – but, of course, Remus already recognized it.
"Just try to remember that it wasn't real, I guess," Sirius said. "I used to get them all the time, remember? You just have to sort of center yourself as best you can."
"Yeah." Remus looked back down at his plate and forced his eyes to distinguish between sauce and blood. He just had to force his mind to distinguish between what was real and what was a boggart.
"I bet you'll tease your mum a lot less about when she first met your dad, huh?" Peter said with one of his I'm-trying-to-be-supportive half smiles. Remus forced his lips into a line and nodded. Peter was right. Boggarts, it seemed, were far scarier than Remus ever could have imagined.
Lily entered the Great Hall first. She and Marlene made a wall of sorts, as they laughed and said words over their shoulders to people Remus couldn't see. But he knew she was there. She was everywhere now – in the dining hall for meals, in the common room when Remus was reading, beside him in class, in his room waiting for James to get to Quidditch.
He supposed she was everywhere before, too. But before, her hair fell into her face, it wasn't spewed across it. Before, her legs would run and her arms would drag Remus along with them, they weren't twisted in unimaginable directions. Before, her eyes would shine and her smile was bright, her face wasn't silenced to shreds. And before, she would dress in Remus's clothes and look small, she wouldn't dress in Remus's clothes and look... dead.
Remus pushed himself to his feet and the world swayed. He nearly tripped as he tore his legs out from under the table, but he was able to steady his body as his mind fell to pieces. The echoes of nearby conversations grew tremendously loud, only to be burned away by a piercing ring. Some of the people were talking at him, Remus knew, but his head was heavy, and he had to get out.
His feet would have to move, swiftly or not, they would have to move, and they would have to get him out. Out of the hall, out of the corridor, out of the castle, anywhere. He forced himself through people, through doors, through the grounds until he was in the middle of the grass and far enough so no one could pretend to empathize or try to diagnose him or even speak.
But no matter how far his feet went, they couldn't get him out of his head, out of that night in the shack. His feet could run, and the moon could wane, but Remus would still be there for an eternity and a day.
