[ If it were anyone else, it might have gone more like this: the sudden spark of a new mind with old memories, familiar places and people from a slightly different angle. But it isn't. Instead it's the vague sense of dreams, the stark flicker of cold and dark, and in the end all he's really gotten out of it is a headache and an inexplicably urgent sense of nostalgia.
Remus goes to the landfill because he's told to. The scent's nearly as overwhelming as the new minds, and there's a bitter sense of relief when the knowledge ripples out over the connection that they've been found. It doesn't stick. By the time he's back at the Bearings, relief's given way to a restless regret, small and persistent. He doesn't sleep. Instead he studies the empty walls of a castle on a map that no longer works, as if the sense of unease lies there — it doesn't, of course, and the map stays quiet.
It's pushing five when he gives up on sleep, steps out into the common room dressed in yesterday's clothes, wand in his pocket. He knows the room isn't empty; there's a presence, bracing and sharp and wary. Tired. The scent of blood and rot. And magic, at roughly the same time he looks up and sees Sirius Black.
It takes him a moment to draw his wand, but the emotional backlash is instant: traitor and anger, and love, and fear. All wound tight and shut out just as quick, and there's a stray thought, incarcerous — too frayed and distracted to hold any power, and his voice is sharp when speaks. ]
buddy!!!!!!!!
Remus goes to the landfill because he's told to. The scent's nearly as overwhelming as the new minds, and there's a bitter sense of relief when the knowledge ripples out over the connection that they've been found. It doesn't stick. By the time he's back at the Bearings, relief's given way to a restless regret, small and persistent. He doesn't sleep. Instead he studies the empty walls of a castle on a map that no longer works, as if the sense of unease lies there — it doesn't, of course, and the map stays quiet.
It's pushing five when he gives up on sleep, steps out into the common room dressed in yesterday's clothes, wand in his pocket. He knows the room isn't empty; there's a presence, bracing and sharp and wary. Tired. The scent of blood and rot. And magic, at roughly the same time he looks up and sees Sirius Black.
It takes him a moment to draw his wand, but the emotional backlash is instant: traitor and anger, and love, and fear. All wound tight and shut out just as quick, and there's a stray thought, incarcerous — too frayed and distracted to hold any power, and his voice is sharp when speaks. ]
Incarcerous.