79I'm not a fan of Dorcas/Remus anymore (I've fallen for Wolfstar. Blame my friends.), but I like making it into angst, and you guys seemed to like the last chapter (Crushed). I'm bored and quarantined, so…
To be honest this is just a pile of flashy description and angst. Sounds great, right?!
Thanks to Prawn Flamingo for the reviews! I managed to find space for your clever rhyme in this chapter.
MONOCHROME SKIES
When the fire blows itself out, the world is left in monochrome. Remus stands on the pavement like a ghost, staring around himself as if he's never been here before. He hasn't recently; not since seventh year, and that seems a world away.
There is dust in the seams of his clothes and smeared on his face like war paint. It clings to his skin and washes out the colour.
There's nothing left.
He had once compared the building before him to a palace. It had stood proud at four floors tall, windows stylishly large and bricks stylishly pale. There had been pillars either side of the door and little plants out front like guards. He remembers this from when he came here hand-in-hand with her, with Dorcas, smiling and happy. Everything had been bright.
It's curious how fire - so dark, so red and orange and yellow, so alluring - can leach the colour out of everything and leave a palace looking like a battlefield.
Nothing remains but the shell of a building. Curtains flap out of smashed windows and dust blows on the breeze. Shadows swarm in the corners. The house, as Remus remembers, was not dark. It'd had the brightest lights, with lamps on every surface, fairy lights at Christmas and for birthdays, and huge mirrors covering whole walls would reflect shards of light in every direction. Chandeliers sparkled overhead and the shutters were thrown wide for the sun to reach inside.
Now, what is it? The palace has been turned into a kingdom of ash by a man with a wand. They say Voldemort came here personally. Remus's skin crawls at the thought.
He keeps staring. Staring at the monochrome mansion and the pillar of smoke still curling into the sky, almost like an afterthought. The sky is stained with it. As he stands outside, it itches in his eyes and throat.
He lets himself cry. He lets himself choke.
He steps into the building. They'd told him not to, the Muggle firemen. But who is Remus to care? He'll die soon anyway, and what is his life worth? The girl who had lived here, beautiful with her black mess of curls and sparkling eyes, had not wanted him. Now she is dead, and he has not spoken to her since he was seventeen. Regret claws at his heart for all the unspoken words, the explanations he should have screamed at her, the truths he should have inked onto her skin ('I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry.'). But he knows he never deserved her. Not really.
The doorway is intact, somehow, welcoming him in, standing just for him. Just so he could walk in and see the wreckage.
The rug is black beneath his feet. The walls rise halfway up the first floor. The second, third and fourth have tumbled into the garden. From the door at the end (the kitchen, Remus remembers), smoke wanders in, looking as lost as he does.
Remus drags his feet along the charred floor, runs his hands across the empty bones of the staircase. Splinters stab into his palms and he lets them bleed. Sometimes he thinks he deserves it - to hurt a little.
Gold trimming appears silver (he shudders at the thought of it). It's as if the house is trying to tell him he's not welcome; as if it's warding itself against him.
"I'm sorry," he says, finally having the courage to speak into the silence. "I loved her, you know."
The silence doesn't answer. The silver remains silver; a fallen chandelier twinkles mockingly; clouds of smoke still drift into the room from the adjoining kitchen. He knows that the kitchen is likely still dangerous, but stumbles towards it anyway, because his fear for his life has become old and weathered, and quite frankly, he doesn't care anymore.
Pewter-grey dust on marble counter-tops and memories of a girl looking coquettishly at him over the brim of a pewter cauldron in Potions class, her hair frizzing dangerously from the humidity, and a look in her eyes that says 'I couldn't care less.' He had always laughed at her and ran his fingers gently through the dark locks, and she'd hum in pleasure, and he'd feel her approval warm his heart.
When she'd left him, the warmth had flooded out in an instant and he'd been left cold and hollow. He still feels hollow now: a hollow man in a hollow house.
It'd been more than a house; it had been a home. While a house is built from walls and beams, a home is made of hopes and dreams (he can't bring himself to laugh at the absurdity of making rhymes, at this point). There's not much difference, in this case, Remus thinks. As the walls burnt, the dreams crashed down with them, and the name of house or home didn't stop the place becoming a pile of smouldering ash.
This is where it happened. The body is gone but scorch marks remain. This is where she stood, or where Voldemort stood, when one of them had cast the flames and let the house burn. She had been beautiful and brilliant, and she had gone up in flames. Now Remus is left in the ashes, remembering her smile and the feel of her lips, which no-one would ever feel again.
He starts spluttering and coughing on the smoke and he knows he should leave. Instead, Remus sinks to his knees in the kitchen and lets the cloud envelop him as he stares upwards, through the broken roof and into the monochrome sky.
PLEASE TAKE A LOOK AT THE POLL ON MY PROFILE! I'm useless at decisions and I need your help.
Reviews would be great!