InsaneJournal

Remus had only meant to say hello.

To stop in, briefly: a quick chat with a friend; an offer of congratulations on the impending nuptials of Ron Weasley’s best mate, Harry, and his sister, Ginny.

Upon entering the dimly lit pub, however, Remus could tell that Ron was in a less than celebratory mood. He sat, his back curved and his broad shoulders hunched so that they almost reached his earlobes.

“Hello there, Ron,” Remus had ventured tentatively, taking a seat beside the youngest Weasley boy.

Nothing.

“Ron?” Remus persisted, craning his neck towards the disinterested young man.

“Hello, Professor,” Ron reluctantly replied. His voice echoed the dissatisfaction of his having to interact with his former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.
“I think that you can perhaps call me Remus now, Ron,” Remus said: it was, Remus knew, a rather futile attempt at joviality.

Ron continued to stare numbly at the rich, timber grain of the bar. Wrapping his long fingers around the glass tumbler that sat before him, he sipped the Firewhiskey that had, until Remus Lupin had so thoughtlessly interrupted him, been his only company on this depressing afternoon.

Remus chewed his bottom lip in thought. His front teeth tugged at the cracked skin, peeling it away as he pondered how best to approach whatever incredibly delicate subject it was that had affected Ron so.

“Is there something you would like to…talk about, Ron?” Remus asked, in as tentative a tone of voice as he could manage without his words becoming lost in the crash and clatter and raucous cackling of the pub’s other patrons.

Ron ran his fingertip along the rim of his glass in silent circles. His skin sticking momentarily from the place where he had been drinking, he stared numbly down, as though trying to bore a hole in the base of the glass through willpower alone. He looked up, slowly, as though the very act of turning his head to face Remus required a mammoth effort.

“Harry,” Ron said, “Harry.”

His voice cracked at the last spoken syllable.

And Remus knew.

Remus knew why it was that Ron sat, suffering in a fog of despondence in a dank pub on a sunny afternoon; why it was that some invisible force appeared to be tugging his thin lips ever downwards: why it was that he seemed determined to deny the existence of the world around him at this moment.

Heartbreak.

“Oh, Ron,” Remus said. His voice a whisper, Remus gazed into Ron’s pale blue eyes, swimming with sorrow, “I’m sorry.”

Ron scoffed silently. “Yeah,” he said. Turning his own gaze from Remus’ concerned expression to conceal the blush rising in his cheeks - the almost ghostly pale white tinged by the faded crimson hue of embarrassment – and made to step down off his stool.

“I’d, ah, better be going,” Ron said, slurred words mumbled through barely parted lips. Misjudging his movements, he stumbled from his seated position and into Remus, nearly knocking off his chair.

“Oops, be careful there, Ron,” Remus said. Catching the unbalanced Ron, he hoisted him up: “Come on, I’ll get you a room for the night. You can’t go home in that state.”

Smiling gently, Remus placed a consoling hand on Ron’s back, “Molly would never let you hear the end of it.” For the briefest moment, Remus could have sworn he saw the flash of a smile in the shimmering blue of Ron’s eyes.

His hand still firmly on Ron’s back, Remus walked with Ron up to the room. Leaving the shouts and laughter of the pub in the room below, the two were greeted by the heavy silence of the empty hall.

“Well, here you are,” Remus said as Ron propped himself up against the wall.
“Take care of yourself, Ron.” With a brief wave of his hand, Remus turned to go.
“Wait,” Ron called hoarsely, “Prof – no, Remus,” he corrected himself, “wait.”

Remus looked over his shoulder.

“Stay,” Ron mouthed, his eyes pleading: “Stay.”

Remus stood, entirely still, and entirely uncertain.

He had only meant to say hello.