hp fic: Boys Don't Cry

[xylodemon]

Title: Boys Don't Cry
Character: Harry
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,900
Summary: Harry talks to Sirius one last time
A/N: For circe_tigana, because every time she opens her mouth a bunny falls out of it. Usually into my lap. Originally posted here, in response to this. Vaguely beta'ed.

Boys Don't Cry

::

Malfoy's parting words ring in his ears, even now; a month after the fact. Harry knows it's not his fault, knows Lucius Malfoy got exactly what he deserved, but there is still a small, unmentionable part of him that feels bad, because Malfoy is now as fatherless as he is.

It's been a month since school let out for the summer, a couple more since Sirius died. He spend a scant week at the Dursley's; Dumbledore sent his rescuers early out of pity, he's sure, and he's been at Grimmauld Place since, but he knows that will not last.

With Sirius gone the house has changed, and only for the worse. The house seems to be closing up, closing in, seems to be -- impossibly -- alive with death and decay. Mrs. Black has fallen eerily silent, and Harry wonders if she actually mourns the loss of her last and oldest son, or if his passing simply stripped away her will to fight.

With Sirius gone, the house is empty, packed with the spaces and hollows that Sirius used to fill. Others come and go, visiting less and less as the Order's headquarters are moved to a new, less volatile and depressing location. The only permanent residents now are Harry and Remus, and they live in silence and separately, a Sirius-shaped fissure spreading slowly between them.

The Order's relocation means that Harry's and Remus' days are numbered, and Harry has taken to wandering the house, flitting from room to room like a ghost. He hates Grimmauld Place, hates it for imprisoning Sirius and for driving him insane, but it's one of the last pieces of Sirius he has left, and he is reluctant to let it go, to watch it fade away as Sirius did.

He flits from room to room because he's afraid to stand still. He knows if he does, they will catch him -- Sirius and Cedric and his parents, Amos Diggory and Cho and Remus' sad, gold-flecked eyes.

Ron and Hermione have visited, but not often, and never for long periods of time. He does not blame them, because the Burrow is a far more cheerful place, a place full of laughter and voices instead of emptiness and regret. Mrs. Weasley has offered for him to stay there, but Harry has refused, because he knows Remus will refuse, because he does not want to leave Remus alone or bring Sirius' specter to haunt the Weasley's happy home.

Ron and Hermione have each other now, and while he does not begrudge them that, but he worries. Their feelings have become plain over the last couple of years, and he's always known it was only a matter of time, but he wonders if a stable relationship can be built on a foundation steeped in war.

His tea is cold. Remus always pours him a cup when he makes it, and Harry always accepts it even though he knows he will not drink it, because he knows it is all Remus has to give.

Harry wants to talk to Remus, but he doesn't know how, doesn't know what to say. Harry lost a godfather he never got the chance to know, but Remus lost a best friend and possibly a lover, Remus lost his last link to the past so soon after found it again.

He thinks Remus hates Grimmauld Place as much as he does, possibly more. He spends much of his time in the room he never officially shared with Sirius, and when he ventures downstairs he sticks to the once doxy-infested sitting room, staring at the fire with eyes Harry is sure do not see.

A chill wind whips through the sitting room, sickly and stale and colder than Harry's tea. Silently, Remus curls in on himself and pulls his shabby robes tightly around his body.

Harry wonders at Remus' robes, and at the patched cardigan on the peg in the entryway as he passed it on his way upstairs. Remus has the money now, half of what Sirius had been left by his Uncle Alphard, but he refuses to spend it; he'd refused to take the key when Dumbledore tried to hand it to him.

Sometimes Remus watches him, his eyes wide and almost curious. Harry waits for him to speak, but he never does, and Harry understands. He knows Remus doesn't know what to say anymore than he does.

Harry sleeps in the same room he shared with Ron last summer, but it is empty without Ron's trunk and Cannon's bedspread, dark without Ron's freckles and crooked smile.

He's often tempted to sneak across the hall and slip into Remus' bed, so he can hear another person breathing, so he can fall asleep knowing for certain there is another person in this cold, dead house. But he doesn't, because he's afraid to intrude, afraid of being rejected, afraid that Remus will not want to make another friend now that all of his are dead and gone.

The mirror is small, and the square corners dig into the palms of his hands. The frame is dirty, tarnished along the raised edges of the scrollwork, and his reflection is distorted by the jagged crack that runs diagonally from the top right corner.

Harry hates to look at it, because it was a gift from Sirius and he broke it so carelessly, because it he knows no matter how many times he calls, Sirius will never answer.

He runs his finger along the crack, tracing the unevenness of the glass until it cuts, slicing into his skin. The glass is sharp and he doesn't quite register the pain until he feels blood well warm and thick on the pad of his finger, and he brings it to his mouth quickly, unwilling to damage the mirror further.

The tears come as a surprise, without blurring his vision or prickling at the corners of his eyes. They simply fall, tumbling down his cheeks, splashing hotly on the joints of his thumbs, hitting the surface of the mirror with a soft, wet plink.

He never says Sirius' name, beyond a quiet, broken sob that is more exhalation than words, but somehow, Sirius is there.

Sirius looks different from Harry remembers, not younger, like in Moody's photo of the Order or in the picture Remus keeps in his trunk of he and Sirius in their seventh year. He's the same Sirius, but healthy and strong, without Azkaban and his family's house weighing on his shoulders and nipping at his heels.

"Boys don't cry, Harry," Sirius says lightly, "but when they do, they shouldn't cry alone."

The dam breaks, bringing tears that stream fast and furious down his cheeks. The guilt that always lingers bitterly in his mouth begins to taste like salt, and the litany of sorry sorry oh my God I'm so sorry is so waterlogged he doubts Sirius even understands.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry."

"It was," Harry chokes out, snuffling. "If I hadn't--"

"No, Harry. If I hadn't," Sirius says, his voice soft and kind, but firm around the edges. "I should have known better from the beginning. If I'd stopped to think, if I hadn't been so desperate to get out of that bloody house, I would have owled Dumbledore instead of running off."

"But you went because of me," Harry insists.

"I did," Sirius concedes, "but that doesn't make it your fault. I shouldn't have gone in the first place."

"But--"

"You know, Harry, it was you that got me out of Azkaban," Sirius says. "My innocence was what kept me sane -- my innocence, and you, knowing that I had to get to you to keep you safe."

"But you died trying to keep me safe."

"I wish I hadn't died that night, Harry, because I hate that I've left you alone, again. But if I'd had to choose, I'm glad I died protecting someone I loved instead of rotting away in Azkaban."

Harry gasps at that, because Hagrid had told him as much, though he hadn't wanted to hear it at the time. It doesn't make it hurt any less, but the tears stop, and when looks in the mirror, Sirius doesn't shimmer and swim before his eyes.

"But, Cedric--"

"No, Harry." Sirius says, firmer than before. "That wasn't your fault, either."

"Sirius."

"Harry, you've seen too much and you've grown up too fast, but you are still a child. You're not going to make the right decision every time, and you're not always going to have all the answers."

"People have died," Harry says, his voice small and thin.

"That happens, with war," Sirius replies, "and Harry, this war started before you were born"

"My parents--"

"--loved you very much," Sirius finished, "and like me, they would have rather died protecting you than doing anything else in the world."

"They wouldn't have needed to protect me if I wasn't me."

"Your parents had a choice, Harry," Sirius says. "They could have not had children when everything was falling apart, but they wanted a bright spot in their lives."

"But the prophecy, Sirius."

"They knew about that, Harry," Sirius says. "James caught wind of it right after Lily got pregnant. The potion to end a pregnancy is illegal and dangerous, but they could have managed it. They didn't want to. James said he and Lily weren't going to let some Divs rubbish control their lives."

""But if I hadn't been born--"

"If you hadn't been born, Voldemort might well have won fifteen years ago." Sirius says. "Voldemort started this long before your parents were even on speaking terms, and Voldemort is the reason people have died."

It sounds like the truth, and for a moment, with Sirius' clever, gray eyes looking back at him, he can almost believe it.

"I miss you," he says. "I miss you so much."

"I miss you, and I'm proud of you," Sirius says. "James and Lily are, too. They always have been."

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

"I have to, Harry," Sirius says. "I shouldn't even be here. I honestly don't know how you made the mirror work. I doubt they were meant to work on the other side, and I didn't have the other one with me the day I fell, even if they were."

"I love you, Sirius."

"I love you, too," Sirius says. "And so does Remus. Don't ever forget that. He loves you, and he's there for you. He would have been, even if I was still alive."

Harry stops at the foot of the stairs, taking Remus' patched cardigan from the peg and pulling it on. It's a bit too long, and the frayed cuffs hang almost to his fingers, but it's warm, and it smells of Remus in a way that reminds him of Sirius.

The firelight bathes Remus in an orange-red glow, dancing across his face and disguising the gray in his hair. He doesn't look over when Harry walks in, doesn't even notice Harry is in the room until Harry pries the teacup from his fingers and crawls into his lap.

He stares at Harry for a long moment, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of his own cardigan, then he sighs, a deep, hidden shudder like something inside him is breaking, and wraps an arm around Harry's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Remus says, smoothing his hair. "I've not been around much for you."

"It's okay, Remus," Harry replies. "You're here now, and so am I."

FIN