Remus Lupin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
askthemoon) wrote2018-11-24 10:07 am
askthemoon) wrote2018-11-24 10:07 am
[rp] for lostyourheart
It's the exhaustion from yet another full moon, alone and trapped in a cage, that drives Remus to do something stupid. The grief, and the helpless anger, and the loneliness, and the fact that it's only a few months on from losing nearly everybody in the world who mattered to him, have all been building inside him, restless and aching, but it's the full moon that finally drives him to desperation. The wolf takes out everything Remus doesn't have an outlet for, mourning the loss of its companions in its own way. Two days later and he still aches, even after using potions and spells to try and heal the damage from the wolf tearing at itself and attacking its cage.
He needs to get away from it, from all of it, from he doesn't even know what. From the flat he'll probably lose soon enough without James helping him to keep afloat; the last bits of Order business that Dumbledore drops at his door, in some misguided sympathetic attempt to keep him busy; the hurt that makes it so hard to breathe every day. From himself, somehow, but if he can't have that, he'll take away from here. He'll take whatever he can get.
The fact that he has the book at hand when the need to act strikes him is coincidence. His business for the Order has always been a bit off to the center, talking to people and gathering information rather than chasing down Death Eaters, and Dumbledore doesn't need that from him as much anymore; so instead, he's sorting through certain items the Order has found, trying to find any secrets and figure out what's dark enough to need careful keeping. Some pose a threat, but one of them -- he hadn't been able to find anything all that dangerous in it, but there had been something in there, something about escape, about freedom. The language had been more poetic than practical, but the things it had promised had appealed to him even before he'd considered acting on it.
He could just Apparate and hope he doesn't splinch too badly in the process, see where he turns up, but it can only give him physical distance. What he wants, what he can't hope to find but needs, is something more, and in desperation, he turns to the book. He can't imagine it would hurt, and if he's honest, he's largely past caring if it does.
The spell is disorienting; it's like a Portkey doubled, tripled, and Remus is stumbling and slow to reorient himself as it starts to fade. He's outdoors, and nothing looks familiar, and that's all he can grasp. He couldn't say where, and he can't figure out if there's anyone anywhere near. He's dressed for Muggles at least, if he can hide his wand; but there's no sign of what he should expect, wizards or Muggles or creatures or who knows.
There are a million reasons this could be a terrible mistake, but Remus is finding it hard to care much. It's not where he was, and something about that makes it a little easier to breathe, even as he starts trying to find ways to figure out where he is.
He needs to get away from it, from all of it, from he doesn't even know what. From the flat he'll probably lose soon enough without James helping him to keep afloat; the last bits of Order business that Dumbledore drops at his door, in some misguided sympathetic attempt to keep him busy; the hurt that makes it so hard to breathe every day. From himself, somehow, but if he can't have that, he'll take away from here. He'll take whatever he can get.
The fact that he has the book at hand when the need to act strikes him is coincidence. His business for the Order has always been a bit off to the center, talking to people and gathering information rather than chasing down Death Eaters, and Dumbledore doesn't need that from him as much anymore; so instead, he's sorting through certain items the Order has found, trying to find any secrets and figure out what's dark enough to need careful keeping. Some pose a threat, but one of them -- he hadn't been able to find anything all that dangerous in it, but there had been something in there, something about escape, about freedom. The language had been more poetic than practical, but the things it had promised had appealed to him even before he'd considered acting on it.
He could just Apparate and hope he doesn't splinch too badly in the process, see where he turns up, but it can only give him physical distance. What he wants, what he can't hope to find but needs, is something more, and in desperation, he turns to the book. He can't imagine it would hurt, and if he's honest, he's largely past caring if it does.
The spell is disorienting; it's like a Portkey doubled, tripled, and Remus is stumbling and slow to reorient himself as it starts to fade. He's outdoors, and nothing looks familiar, and that's all he can grasp. He couldn't say where, and he can't figure out if there's anyone anywhere near. He's dressed for Muggles at least, if he can hide his wand; but there's no sign of what he should expect, wizards or Muggles or creatures or who knows.
There are a million reasons this could be a terrible mistake, but Remus is finding it hard to care much. It's not where he was, and something about that makes it a little easier to breathe, even as he starts trying to find ways to figure out where he is.