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hp fic: In the Aftermath
Title: In the Aftermath
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Words: ~900
Summary: Remus has empty hands.
Notes: Written for the Bonus Round of![[personal profile]](https://www.tumblr.com/favicon.ico)
winterwolfstarwank. I was on Team Erecto, and the prompt was Post-Azkaban.
In the Aftermath
Losing Sirius is twice as hard the second time around.
It shouldn't be. Remus already mourned him once, years and years ago, when he was terrified and alone, younger and far more vulnerable, mourned him as a traitor and a criminal, as a murderer, the reason James and Lily and Peter were dead, that Harry was an orphan. He'd let his better memories of Sirius sink under the ballast of Sirius' supposed wrongs, drowning the laughing, reckless boy who'd kissed his mouth and touched his skin and whispered into his hair as he tried to scratch out an entirely new life, a solitary life, starving and freezing and sleeping under hedges, working odd jobs for a bare handful of Knuts, suffering his transformations in sheds and shacks and warehouses, in abandoned buildings and the basements of empty Muggle homes.
Maybe that's why. Maybe it's the heft of Sirius' innocence that twists the knife into Remus' churning gut, the cold knowledge that Sirius paid for Peter's betrayal with a third of his life and received almost nothing in return. He dreams of it, watching Sirius fall over and over on the rare occasions he manages to sleep, and wakes with bile on his tongue and his breath knotted in the back of his throat, can still feel Harry shaking against him, screaming into his chest, his fingers clutching at Remus' jumper, pulling until the tired seams started to creak and split.
"He died well," Moody says, with the gruff economy of a warrior, his grizzled hand heavy on Remus' shoulder, barely lingering, not quite squeezing. Remus knows that's the truth, that Sirius would've chosen to go down fighting, protecting his friends, protecting Harry, who'd become Sirius' reason, a bright spot in Sirius' narrow, frustrated life at Grimmauld Place, a light that could often clear out the dust and gloom that darkened Sirius' thoughts, but it doesn't ease Remus' gaping loss, the sudden fissure made by Sirius' absence, a ragged wound that bleeds and festers, aches constantly, refuses to heal.
The house harbours numerous ghosts, more than Remus can possibly count, centuries of pureblood malice hidden behind the walls and under the floors, looming in every corner and crevice, seething with both hatred and upheaval. Walburga complains less now that Sirius is gone, her voice thin and stretched, his death blunting the points of her angry teeth, but her silence only sharpens the house's shadows, reminds Remus of all the places Sirius had been, should still be. He finds a pair of Sirius' shoes under the couch, a thatch of Sirius' hair in the upstairs shower, only stays long enough to uncurse a few books he thinks the Order could use, to tidy up anything that could give the Order's true purpose away.
"You look awful," Arthur says, catching Remus' sleeve near the towering lee of Flourish & Blotts, his voice harsh and honest in the humming bustle of Diagon Alley. They pause into an absurd pantomime -- Remus' tattered robe and grey, weary face, Arthur's hair flashing like copper in the sunlight -- and Remus sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, digs his fingernails into his palms as Arthur catalogues the thin lines of Remus' jaw, the deep hollows underneath Remus' eyes. "You should stop by for supper. Or tea. Molly has -- she worries, you know. We all do."
Remus retreats to his flat, two dingy rooms above a second-hand junk shop, just inside the yawning mouth of Knockturn Alley; he could afford slightly better with the salary he earns running errands for the Order, but this one reminds him of the place he shared with Sirius after school, the place they laughed and talked and fucked and lived, two boys with no money between them, with no real plans for the future outside surviving the war. They'd eaten take-away straight from the containers and slept on a lumpy, narrow mattress Transfigured from a milk crate, and Remus thinks he was at his happiest then, until the trust they shared was curdled by suspicion, until fear swallowed everything, pushing in around the edges.
It had been strange and wondrous and satisfying, bearing the brunt of Sirius' intensity, being the sole focus of his attention, the thing Sirius came home to every night, one of the only people Sirius truly cared about.
Days pass. He drinks tea that tastes like ash, writes letters to Harry he can't bring himself to send, afraid of upsetting Harry further, burdening Harry with his own sorrow and distress.
"You loved him," Tonks says, her long fingers laced around her tea, her hair curly today, a surprising salmon pink that hints at orange where it brushes her shoulders. She has sweat dotting her upper lip, shining across the bridge of her nose; it's early August, and the Burrow is overly warm, sleepy in a content, peaceful way Remus almost resents.
"I always did," Remus admits, honest with himself for the first time in fifteen years. He never really surrendered Sirius, just buried his memory under anger and grief and the harrowing shock of being the only one left alive.
And then Sirius came back, blowing into Remus' life like the hurricane he always was, crawling into Remus' bed, sneaking his hands under Remus' shirt and tucking his face into the curve of Remus' neck, and then laughing as he died, leaving Remus with a slow ache under his ribs and empty, shaking hands for a second time.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Words: ~900
Summary: Remus has empty hands.
Notes: Written for the Bonus Round of
Losing Sirius is twice as hard the second time around.
It shouldn't be. Remus already mourned him once, years and years ago, when he was terrified and alone, younger and far more vulnerable, mourned him as a traitor and a criminal, as a murderer, the reason James and Lily and Peter were dead, that Harry was an orphan. He'd let his better memories of Sirius sink under the ballast of Sirius' supposed wrongs, drowning the laughing, reckless boy who'd kissed his mouth and touched his skin and whispered into his hair as he tried to scratch out an entirely new life, a solitary life, starving and freezing and sleeping under hedges, working odd jobs for a bare handful of Knuts, suffering his transformations in sheds and shacks and warehouses, in abandoned buildings and the basements of empty Muggle homes.
Maybe that's why. Maybe it's the heft of Sirius' innocence that twists the knife into Remus' churning gut, the cold knowledge that Sirius paid for Peter's betrayal with a third of his life and received almost nothing in return. He dreams of it, watching Sirius fall over and over on the rare occasions he manages to sleep, and wakes with bile on his tongue and his breath knotted in the back of his throat, can still feel Harry shaking against him, screaming into his chest, his fingers clutching at Remus' jumper, pulling until the tired seams started to creak and split.
"He died well," Moody says, with the gruff economy of a warrior, his grizzled hand heavy on Remus' shoulder, barely lingering, not quite squeezing. Remus knows that's the truth, that Sirius would've chosen to go down fighting, protecting his friends, protecting Harry, who'd become Sirius' reason, a bright spot in Sirius' narrow, frustrated life at Grimmauld Place, a light that could often clear out the dust and gloom that darkened Sirius' thoughts, but it doesn't ease Remus' gaping loss, the sudden fissure made by Sirius' absence, a ragged wound that bleeds and festers, aches constantly, refuses to heal.
The house harbours numerous ghosts, more than Remus can possibly count, centuries of pureblood malice hidden behind the walls and under the floors, looming in every corner and crevice, seething with both hatred and upheaval. Walburga complains less now that Sirius is gone, her voice thin and stretched, his death blunting the points of her angry teeth, but her silence only sharpens the house's shadows, reminds Remus of all the places Sirius had been, should still be. He finds a pair of Sirius' shoes under the couch, a thatch of Sirius' hair in the upstairs shower, only stays long enough to uncurse a few books he thinks the Order could use, to tidy up anything that could give the Order's true purpose away.
"You look awful," Arthur says, catching Remus' sleeve near the towering lee of Flourish & Blotts, his voice harsh and honest in the humming bustle of Diagon Alley. They pause into an absurd pantomime -- Remus' tattered robe and grey, weary face, Arthur's hair flashing like copper in the sunlight -- and Remus sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, digs his fingernails into his palms as Arthur catalogues the thin lines of Remus' jaw, the deep hollows underneath Remus' eyes. "You should stop by for supper. Or tea. Molly has -- she worries, you know. We all do."
Remus retreats to his flat, two dingy rooms above a second-hand junk shop, just inside the yawning mouth of Knockturn Alley; he could afford slightly better with the salary he earns running errands for the Order, but this one reminds him of the place he shared with Sirius after school, the place they laughed and talked and fucked and lived, two boys with no money between them, with no real plans for the future outside surviving the war. They'd eaten take-away straight from the containers and slept on a lumpy, narrow mattress Transfigured from a milk crate, and Remus thinks he was at his happiest then, until the trust they shared was curdled by suspicion, until fear swallowed everything, pushing in around the edges.
It had been strange and wondrous and satisfying, bearing the brunt of Sirius' intensity, being the sole focus of his attention, the thing Sirius came home to every night, one of the only people Sirius truly cared about.
Days pass. He drinks tea that tastes like ash, writes letters to Harry he can't bring himself to send, afraid of upsetting Harry further, burdening Harry with his own sorrow and distress.
"You loved him," Tonks says, her long fingers laced around her tea, her hair curly today, a surprising salmon pink that hints at orange where it brushes her shoulders. She has sweat dotting her upper lip, shining across the bridge of her nose; it's early August, and the Burrow is overly warm, sleepy in a content, peaceful way Remus almost resents.
"I always did," Remus admits, honest with himself for the first time in fifteen years. He never really surrendered Sirius, just buried his memory under anger and grief and the harrowing shock of being the only one left alive.
And then Sirius came back, blowing into Remus' life like the hurricane he always was, crawling into Remus' bed, sneaking his hands under Remus' shirt and tucking his face into the curve of Remus' neck, and then laughing as he died, leaving Remus with a slow ache under his ribs and empty, shaking hands for a second time.