Chapter Text
He floated.
Not in water. Not in air. But in something thick and cloying, like memory turned to syrup. The world around him pulsed without form, a grayish swirl of fog and noise. Sometimes it was silent, sometimes pierced by sounds that didn’t belong: metal on bone, a child’s laugh, a shout that may have been his own.
He didn’t know where he was. Or when. Only that he had been here for a long time.
Time didn’t exist here. He wandered through memories twisted just enough to unsettle him. The corridors of Hogwarts stretched too long. Faces blurred and shifted. James laughing, Lily crying, Sirius shouting something he couldn’t hear. And Harry - a baby barely walking, reaching out with hands Remus couldn’t grasp.
At times, he became a child again—cold, barefoot, hiding under a staircase, heart pounding. His mother’s voice calling from far away, muffled by walls. Then he’d blink, and he was a man again, bleeding on a stone floor. Then something else, something monstrous. He turned and turned and the scenes changed. Forests too dark, the moon too full. A cell with silver bars that glowed. Cold hands. Pain.
He ran sometimes. He hid. He screamed. But there was no waking.
The fog thickened. Days or years passed. He didn’t know which. But then—
A flicker.
Not light, not exactly. More like warmth. Familiar, though distant. It curled around the edges of his fog like candlelight in mist. He turned toward it without thinking.
And there—just at the edge—he saw someone.
A woman, solid and real in this formless place. No blur to her face, no distortion. She wore red robes and had kind, practical eyes. She wasn’t from the dream. He knew that.
“Remus,” she said gently. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You've been so brave. You can rest now."
Her voice curled around him like a blanket. The fog didn’t vanish, but it quieted.
Then the light dimmed, and she was gone.
A touch of colour had begun to return to Remus' face, just the faintest blush across his hollowed cheeks. The worst of the burns had dulled. The tremors that once wracked his limbs had stilled.
There were no dramatic changes. No miraculous awakenings. But there was movement. Meaningful, hopeful movement.
His fingers twitched.
Just once, almost imperceptibly. But Madam Pomfrey saw it. She stood, heart catching, and watched closely.
“Remus?” she said softly, stepping closer.
The motion came again. Slight. A second twitch. Then his brow furrowed, ever so faintly, as if responding to a sound too far away to understand.
"It’s all right. You’re safe. You've been so brave. You can rest now."
Behind her, Sirius stirred in the armchair. He blinked blearily, looking at Pomfrey with sudden tension in his shoulders.
“What is it?” he asked hoarsely. “What’s happening?”
“He moved,” Pomfrey said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp. “Twice now. Small. But deliberate.”
Sirius was at the bedside in an instant. He leaned in close, gripping Remus’s hand—not tightly, just enough to be felt.
“Moony?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”
No answer. Not yet. But there was something in Remus’s expression now. The slackness of unconsciousness had changed. His jaw tightened, then loosened. His lips parted, as if to form a word. The line of his brow wrinkled slightly before smoothing again.
“He’s closer,” Pomfrey said quietly. “Whatever world he’s been trapped in, he’s finding his way out.”
Pomfrey laid a fresh cloth across Remus’s forehead and replaced the potion vials with practiced efficiency. “This is what I hoped to see,” she said gently. “The body responds first. Next will be the mind. It may come slowly, but it’s progress.”
Sirius let out a shaky breath and sat back, still watching Remus like he might disappear if he looked away. The exhaustion from the past week weighed heavy on him again, but it was softer now—buffered by something unfamiliar:
Hope.
Something had changed. The fog no longer held him as tightly. It had thinned in places, fraying at the edges.
Not evenly. Not all at once. But somewhere deep inside, a thread tugged—gently, insistently—at the edges of his mind. A ripple of colour. A pulse of warmth. And something more than that.
Presence.
A shape beside him. Not in the fog—but through it.
There was pressure on his hand. Light, rhythmic. As though someone were tracing slow circles against his skin. The fog shivered in response, pulled tighter for a moment, and then... loosened.
A voice.
“…should’ve told you sooner… Always meant to, Moony…”
It didn’t reach him clearly. Like trying to hear through water, the syllables distorted and dream-thick. But there was something in it that steadied the world. Not the words—but the feeling behind them.
A flicker of memory stirred. Not whole. Just a spark.
Moony.
That was him. Wasn’t it?
Another voice—firmer, feminine. Magic behind it. Kindness.
“He’s stabilising. Reflexes are improving. He’s responding to stimulus, even if he’s not conscious yet.”
The pressure on his hand increased. A thumb brushed the back of it, soft and steady. The contact was anchoring. He tried to squeeze back, muscles sluggish and reluctant. There was no way to tell if he succeeded. But the hand didn’t let go.
Then the first voice again—sharper this time, hope breaking through the edges of fear.
“You’re nearly there. You hear me? You’re not alone.”
Not alone.
The fog thickened again, as if offended by the intrusion. But the cracks were forming.
Memories didn’t return in sequence. They flickered—snapshots, impressions. A laugh under moonlight. The feel of parchment beneath his fingertips. Blood. Screams. Cold stone. Silver.
He flinched. His body twitched, just once, but enough for someone to notice.
“There,” said the voice—her voice, gentle but bright with purpose. “Again. That’s the third response today.”
There was movement in the room. He could feel it, even if he couldn’t open his eyes. A shift in the air. A rustle of fabric. Something magical passed over him—a soft, pulsing charm. Diagnostic, maybe.
The warmth beside him never left.
“Don’t rush it,” the womens voice said, rough and hoarse with exhaustion. “He’s fighting. I can feel it.”
The fog recoiled at those words. Fighting. Yes. He was fighting.
It had taken so much from him. His voice, his body, his time—stolen in silence. But something inside him burned stubbornly bright.
He gripped the hand.
This time, he felt it. His fingers—weak and barely more than a tremor—tightened. A whisper of motion.
The voice beside him broke.
“Moony?” it said, cracking with disbelief. “Merlin—Remus—do that again, please—”
He tried. Tried harder than he ever had. Muscles screamed in protest, nerves fizzed with jagged fire—but his hand shifted again.
Then he heard something he didn’t expect:
Laughter.
Rough and wet with relief, but unmistakably laughter. A hand cupped his face, gentle and shaking.
“You bloody brilliant bastard,” the voice choked. “You’re still in there.”