Elena's fists thump dully against glass. A crack spiders away from the tiny knot of her hand.

"No. Not anymore," William says. "Used to."

She hits the glass again, and a stream of blue fluid spurts out. Within the gravcouch, Jeremy's eyes meet his sister's through the pane. His hands scrabble on the other side, starfishing white and helpless; his throat convulses.

But then it's Heather's throat convulsing. Fatigue burns in her lungs and her feet are getting heavier, but she has to run because she has to find-- "Takeshi!" It is, absurdly, some form of a primary school that running steps are taking her through. There's a child's laughter bouncing around the empty bend of the corridor, but by the time she stumbles there, he's gone. At the end of the hallway, the doors are open. There's a car pulling away from the curb, and Takeshi's red backpack winks through the window. The counselor's voice follows her. "Mrs. Mason," he says. "In the future you will have to leave the panda at home."

When she remembers home, she remembers lying in her own blood while a stranger steps over her. Or is that her father below, as the stranger stinks of gunmetal as he carries her away? She didn't know, at five-years-of-age, that a body can hold as much blood as what's spreading over the floor now, jolting vague, viscous ripples when her father's hand spreads to reach--

—for the Muggle alarm clock on his bedstand. The swipe of Remus' hand is too haphazard; he knocks it off onto the floor, where it flips over like a turtle and upends an empty whisky bottle on the way. In this dream, Remus is young. His apartment is grey and quiet with growing colonies of undisturbed dust, but the memory is fraught with green flashes of light, imagined screams, the probability that James had dropped his wand in the final spasm of death. Remus half-falls away from sheets that he'd forgotten to pull over himself anyway. His foot slides haphazardly across the floor, and nausea lurches up his throat.

He'd forgotten the paper he'd discarded down there beside the assortment of finished drinks and derelict timekeeping device. Sirius' head thrown back in the headlining photograph, maniacal laughter ripping out of his open mouth.

"Sometimes I feel like I ain't missing out on much."