[ She already knows, and when she hugs him her arms don't pass through him and she doesn't disappear, and both of those things contribute to the long, stuttering, overwhelmingly relieved exhale that completely deflates his chest. If Remus were a crier, this would be the moment. But he's not.
He is a hugger, so his arms go around her and stay there, loose enough she can step back when she's ready but certainly not encouraging it. She still doesn't disappear. He can feel how hot her breath is when she talks. Merlin. God. The last time he saw her—he can't remember her face then. It was unfamiliar, made alien by lifelessness, and now it's a blurry spot, so he remembers feeling unsettled more than he remembers her face. The whole funeral is that way. He doesn't remember the helpful, but he remembers his father's worried hand on his shoulder, and the hiccupy crying from the wizard behind him. He remembers that Lily would have hated the robes they buried her in, but nobody had asked him.
But she already knows, so he doesn't have to say it. He remembers to inhale again, belatedly, at James, which is dizzying enough without adding in asphyxiation. James is looking for Sirius, of course, obviously, and it's equally obvious that he'll find him if he hasn't already, and coincidentally enough Remus' phone dings in his pocket, but he doesn't take it out to check just yet. And then Harry. ]
Neither have we. We've been looking, we've...
[ They've tried. He's tried. It suddenly doesn't feel like enough. ]
He's wonderful, Lily, [ he says—impulsive, trying to be reassuring. It should probably occur to him she might be looking for a toddler, but it doesn't yet. ] He's so much like you. He has to be here somewhere.
[ Because if the Orbiters bothered to save someone like him—or someone like, no offense, Sirius—they couldn't have left behind Harry Potter. Surely. ]
no subject
He is a hugger, so his arms go around her and stay there, loose enough she can step back when she's ready but certainly not encouraging it. She still doesn't disappear. He can feel how hot her breath is when she talks. Merlin. God. The last time he saw her—he can't remember her face then. It was unfamiliar, made alien by lifelessness, and now it's a blurry spot, so he remembers feeling unsettled more than he remembers her face. The whole funeral is that way. He doesn't remember the helpful, but he remembers his father's worried hand on his shoulder, and the hiccupy crying from the wizard behind him. He remembers that Lily would have hated the robes they buried her in, but nobody had asked him.
But she already knows, so he doesn't have to say it. He remembers to inhale again, belatedly, at James, which is dizzying enough without adding in asphyxiation. James is looking for Sirius, of course, obviously, and it's equally obvious that he'll find him if he hasn't already, and coincidentally enough Remus' phone dings in his pocket, but he doesn't take it out to check just yet. And then Harry. ]
Neither have we. We've been looking, we've...
[ They've tried. He's tried. It suddenly doesn't feel like enough. ]
He's wonderful, Lily, [ he says—impulsive, trying to be reassuring. It should probably occur to him she might be looking for a toddler, but it doesn't yet. ] He's so much like you. He has to be here somewhere.
[ Because if the Orbiters bothered to save someone like him—or someone like, no offense, Sirius—they couldn't have left behind Harry Potter. Surely. ]
We'll find him.