For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Blah

Remus has stopped wishing for the sun. He isn’t sure precisely when he gave up hope of some distant, bright future and settled himself so easily into overcast. He supposes that to recognize light, one must be able to recall dark.

His fingers work without him, leafing through parchment, sorting and binding the short scrolls that once represented flesh and blood, transformed now to meaningless text. Even the wolf can no longer find a scent. Dear Remus, he reads, noting date and time. He files them away, thinking absently of lunch, betrayed by the healing powers of his own mind.

For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Awake

They hadn’t said a word when he stopped sleeping, not that he expected it, selfish prats. He supposed they’d grown tired of his restless turning, and were happy to be rid of him. They left the common room empty for him now, no schoolbooks left out for him to throw into the fire when the rage inevitably hit. He spent his nights in a tall chair facing the flames, eyes filled with visions of his father being carried off to Azkaban. His mind raced over plots of rescue and glorious revenge, knuckles white as he gripped the chair’s velvet arms.