Chapter Text
The library smelled of old books and candle wax as Remus sat over some translation work, which was way overdue, smoking a cigarette. It was late, and he was tired. Smoke curled up underneath his nose as he exhaled. The lights were so dim that he had to squint to read what he was translating - some stupid Latin assignment he had procrastinated on. The letters were starting to blur together, and even though languages and translation came to him with ease, he couldn’t get it to sound right.
Remus had a way with words. The way he could write wonderful paragraphs in multiple languages with practiced skill was unfathomable to many. His brows furrowed as he tried to place the case in which a verb would be; he wracked his brain: dative, accusative, nominative… Nothing fit. If only he had stayed a literature major and not switched to that Classics and Linguistics class that made him suffer through these late evenings. He was sure the library was closing soon; he was waiting for the librarian, an old, skinny lady, to come and tell him they were closing. His brain was working overtime until the translation clicked, and he moved on to the next sentence. He had spent hours on this translation; he didn’t know what time it was at this point. To his surprise, it wasn’t the librarian who snapped him out of his trance; it was none other than Sirius, appearing out of the darkness.
"How’s your translation going?" Sirius asked, leaning over Remus to look at the paper.
"Ah, it’s almost done. Remind me to never put off work again" Remus sighed.
Once he wasn’t focused on Latin anymore, he noticed how chilly the library was. This particular one wasn’t as crowded as the other library on campus, whether that was due to the size, location, or atmosphere, he did not know. The library itself was full of books. The shelves were stacked, almost overflowing with books, creating narrow walkways in between themselves. If you stood in between these bookcases for too long, you’d get the feeling of the walls caving in on you. The sheer amount of books would make this place seem like any average academic’s dream, but it wasn’t quite that. The silence was almost extreme; you couldn’t find a more silent spot if you tried. The quietest of whispers seemed loud. You could hear every stroke of your pen, every page turned, and every breath. Remus stared at Sirius’s hands, resting on either side of him, then looked up.
"What time is it?" His voice was quiet, genuinely asking, as he looked at the elegant watch on the pale boy’s hand.
"Time for you to stop working." Sirius remarked, sarcastically, but his voice never went over a whisper.
"Sirius." Remus warned.
"It’s just past nine," Sirius answered
Remus packed down his books, pen and ink bottle, his work, and slung his bag over his shoulder. The two stepped out of the library silently, the crisp autumn air hitting their faces as the wind whisped the leaves on the ground. The campus was beautiful at this time of year, with orange and yellow leaves lying on the ground like carpets, and the cold wind, cut with rain, filled the air. Sirius and Remus walked silently. Remus’s cigarette was hanging limply from his lip, the smoke dancing in the air. Sirius’s long black hair moved graciously in the evening wind, shining in the light from the lamps on the side of the road. Remus silently offered Sirius a cigarette, and the other accepted it; it was a common occurrence, the two sharing cigarettes. They finally reached the dorm building and stepped inside, the warmed hall immediately providing comfort from the harsh cold outside.
"Coming in with me?" Sirius suggested, causing Remus to raise a questioning eyebrow, "I have some wine." He offered
Remus considered the offer and nodded, "Sure," He answered, short and simple.
The two went inside, Remus hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes. He sat down on the run-down leather couch in the other boy’s dorm room. The sofa sank ever so slightly under his weight, and Remus relaxed into it. Sirius poured him a glass of deliciously dark red wine and handed it to the other boy. Remus accepted the glass gratefully and took a sip.
"You look like an old, troubled philosopher." Sirius remarked, breaking the silence, grinning.
"Like Socrates drinking his poison, don’t you think?" Remus posed dramatically with his glass of wine.
"Quite dramatic,"
"I would rather call it poetic."
The two drank probably more wine than they should have that evening. Remus took notice of the way Sirius’s eyes glimmered and how his lips wrapped around the wine glass; not that he was staring, why would he be staring? The two conversed comfortably throughout the evening, making jokes and discussing simple matters, such as the wine and music, as well as deeper matters such as who was dating whom and which philosopher they reckoned would be the best lover. This was the formula for an ordinary evening with them: some expensive wine which only Sirius could afford and bad jokes. The warmth hit after a couple of glasses, enveloping Remus like a blanket and causing him to loosen his tie. Both he and Sirius were loose and laughing, and smoking one cigarette after another. Many evenings such as these were spent in the company of others in the incredibly selective Classics class.
Remus drunkenly stumbled down the hall to his dorm after a couple of hours of getting wine drunk and laughing at Sirius’s jokes. He crashed into bed, his bag on the floor, and fell into a dreamless slumber; the darkness of the room enveloped him, guiding him into a peaceful state.
The following morning was foggy and chilly. Remus hadn’t turned on the heater before sleeping; he woke up shivering, able to see his breath. He had a headache; he didn’t know whether that was because of last night’s wine or unrelated. The clock on his bedside displayed the time, 6:37 AM. Remus had always been one to wake up early; he had never been one to sleep in. He stood up, joints hurting from the cold, and went to turn the heater on, though he knew it wouldn’t do much. Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, he went to make himself a tea in hopes of warming up. He changed while the tea was brewing; he wore a simple outfit, a shirt with a sweater vest, and simple black pants; he hoped that was enough for the weather, as he was still shivering. The tea warmed him up, and he lit a cigarette. The smoke pleasantly burnt down his throat, but he only half-smoked it, letting it burn between his fingers as he drank his tea and read a book.
He was rereading Dante’s Inferno yet another time. There was something about that book he loved; the way he noticed something new every time he read it. He had read it cover to cover, both in the original language and the English translation, multiple times. He knew the book intimately; every line and word meant something to him. If he wanted to, he could recite the majority of the book, as well as talk about it enthusiastically for hours. The pages of the book enveloped him and drowned him in them; he could stay wrapped between them for hours. Remus’s room was full of books, messy, overflowing bookshelves, and stacks of books on the floor. Remus was often seen with a book, whether it was in his hand, on the table in front of him, or nestled away in his bag. Many people carried their books under their arms when walking to class, but Remus had a bag; he had some sort of emotional attachment to that bag, it seemed. It was a worn-down, brown messenger bag he wore over his shoulder, usually weighed down with books. After finishing his tea, Remus stubbed the half-finished cigarette into the ashtray and went to put on his shoes and his coat. The coat was a dark, rich colour and quite a nice, soft fabric. It was warm enough, enough for a cold autumn day at least. He stepped into his shoes and left the dorm, hoping for the fireplace in the Commons to be lit so he could warm up. He walked down the hall to happy to see that the fireplace was lit and that no one else was in his spot, the chair right by the fire. He curled up with his book, and suddenly the world around him was gone.
He only snapped out of the focused state because people were starting to walk to places, the cafeteria or their early morning classes. The clock hanging on the wall in the Commons displayed the time; it was time for him to start walking to his class. He walked out of the commons building and started to walk over to the Lyceum, which was a small building on the edge of campus covered in ivy, almost camouflaged within the landscape. The autumn leaves crunched underneath Remus as he walked. There was a fog stretching over campus, similar to the damp from Remus’s breath every time he exhaled. He watched the fog, which was curled up in mysterious patterns and shapes. Remus was walking slowly, eyes focused on the book; he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the passage he had read so many times that he could recite it from memory. No one quite understood how he could read this very book over and over; matter of fact, he didn’t feel as if anybody truly understood him. He could express that feeling in all six languages he knew, yet no one could truly understand him in any of them. Remus wasn’t seeking to be understood; he had a longing to be understood, sure, but he was never seeking it out. It’s better to be realistic than to yearn for something you’ll never get, right? Remus arrived outside the Lyceum and let himself in, walking up the old, creaking staircase and down the empty hall to his professor’s office. He found that James had already let himself in with the key he had to the office, which happened to be their “classroom”. Remus sat down next to James.
"Hey," Remus greeted the other.
"Are you reading the same book again, Remus?" James asked, sarcastically.
"I am."
James huffed and shook his head, "Of course."
The others started shuffling into the room. Peter and Lily walked in now the last person they were waiting for was Sirius. Sirius was always fashionably late, not that anyone ever complained. It was ironic that he was the one to be late; always showing up in a new suit or with some other flamboyant fashion item that Remus didn’t even think existed. Sirius’s fashion sense was quite dramatic; maybe it was a silent rebellion against his conservative family. He walked in, just as Remus anticipated, wearing a shiny silk overcoat over his usual shirt and pants. Sirius sat down at the table as they all waited for the professor. Their professor was no one other than Albus Dumbledore, their peculiar professor at Stow. To those who didn’t know him, he was a mystery and one to speculate about. He had this aura about him; when you made eye contact, it seemed as if he read your mind, and he always knew what to say. He and his students were often a subject of campus gossip, all so isolated and pretentious that nobody really knew them. Of course, just between them, they saw each other as completely normal people. Just as ordinary as the average person next door in the dorm building. Remus felt comfortable behind the mask of enigma; he didn’t like people he didn’t know intruding on him and his life. He had been told he was intimidating, but he never knew why; he was tall, sure, but he wasn’t large, in fact quite lanky. He wasn’t rich or of any high status like some of his friends either; he was on financial aid and wore clothes from thrift stores, unlike Sirius or James, who always had fancy clothes of the highest quality. It made him feel different, not quite like an outsider, but different. James or Sirius would always pay for your drink if you asked them to, with pleasure. Remus never asked, only accepted when they suggested. He did have a job, not a very well-paying one, but it was something. He worked in the school library as a library assistant; none of his friends actually knew that, they assumed the hours in the library were spent reading or studying. But Remus had to quit soon, he couldn't find the time for both work and school. They imagined Remus must study a lot; he knew extremely many languages, almost unbelievably many.
The topic of the class today was tragedy. Remus was invested, perhaps more than usual.
“Why do we enjoy such things as tragedies? They’re all about human flaws, fate, and suffering. Why are we as humans attracted to watching the suffering of others? Is it because it feels so human, or do we feel better about our less tragic lives? Is it the downfall of the heroes we like to see? The Greeks loved tragedies as much as we do, but why is that?”
The discussion went on for the entire two hours they had that day. The conversation comfortably slid from English to Latin or Greek and back to English. The discussions went fast, and for one not used to this pace, they might’ve been overwhelming. Remus had a lot more to say than he said. He had always loved reading tragedies, written by Greeks or by Shakespeare, or by people writing them currently. There was something so raw about tragedy, something so human about the flawed characters and their doomed fates. They were far more raw and real than the stories where you could predict the ending or see everything twist to turn out happy. Remus loved the tragic and melancholic, but he couldn’t quite place why; it was just how he was wired. He listened intently to the others talking, enjoying the cadence and flow of the conversation.
"We are attracted to tragic characters, sometimes because we identify with them, and sometimes because we’re happy we don’t."