It was an unseasonably cold day in London. The sort that snuck up on them, darkening the sky to a foreboding grey and laden with wind that bit them to the bone. Most people kept their heads down, but Remus kept his head up, inhaling the wind as it shot down his throat, tiny pinpricks in his lungs that reminded him he was alive. Not many other people were following his example, but he knew that this would change later rather than sooner.
He walked against the wind, tired brown eyes glancing back and forth at shadows and light and dull color, searching. Always searching. Before, they had little more than hints and guesses. But for this, the Second Great War, they would have an advantage of knowing their enemy, knowing what was behind those masks of scraped skull and hoods of a shade still avoided by the majority of the magical populace.
In this Second Great War, Remus had no intention of being surprised. He would not be distracted. Constant vigilance over those he had left and over himself. He had already lost one as the wind reminded him, burning his insides with frost. Yes, he was gone, and soon more would die. But not with him there. No, not again. They would lose him before he lost anyone else. Selfishly, he couldnít stand the pain of it.
Sometimes, he would hear a ghost whisper in his ear, the whistling wind distracting and deceiving him. It sounded like the echo of his name from a place without stinging winds and biting chill. Only then would he shut his tired brown eyes, tell himself that he didnít hear a thing, and inhale.