Title: Blue
Author: Trickssi
Rating: Adult
Warning: Everything is sic, thank you very much. And these aren't mine. However, there exists a certain blue shirt.
Summary: His haphazardly-tossed possession makes everything far too real. RLSB, post-OotP.
He approaches number thirteen, where it has been a clear, warm night. Soundlessly, the dwelling appears for him, not disturbing the neighbors. He reaches for the cast iron handle, pauses. For a moment, he steps back and glances at number eleven, then thirteen again, then eleven. Just as the sense he's forgotten something hits him, he decides to ring the doorbell.
There is no one there.
This is all right, he thinks, because he is not expecting anyone to answer it for him; and so, he sets about opening the unlocked door himself. Upon closing that heavy, ancient passage, he comes upon the blessed screeching of Walburga Black. It's quieter, of course, now that nobody's here to add to the din and fuss. He kicks over the umbrella stand just to be certain.
"HALF-BLOOD, SCUM OF THE WIZARDING WORLD, HOW DARE YOU ENTER MY HOUSE! HALF-BREED, MUD IN YOUR VEINS, SHAME TO THE HOUSEHOLD—" The litany rings from a nearby wall, the familiar slough of curses. He walks past the portrait, paused, stares coolly back at it. Almost childishly, Mrs. Black goes back to calling him a "WEREWOLF," along with some other terrible names for his state. He simply stares back.
The words come calmly from his mouth. 'It's all right now, Mum, dear. You see, nobody's here but Kreacher.'
Mrs. Black continues to scream into the darkened hall, paying no regard to what was just spoken. Remus closes her within the moth-eaten velvet and shuffles to the kitchen.
'I wonder when Molly will be home,' he thinks aloud. He glances at the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, reminisces about the lovely meal he'd eaten earlier. Remembers that he'd heaved up what little was left of it in an alleyway two blocks down the street from the Ministry of Magic. Shame, really. His stomach growls at him now, but there would be no eating; just that pile of encrusted dishes.
It's the second one down, a little voice urges. The knife is in the rack and the fork is the sideways one closest to you on the right side.
Remus presses on past the ridiculous sink and the old-fashioned stove and begins to walk upstairs. Lingering at the top of the staircase, he thinks, I wonder if Buckbeak is all right. But he does not advance to that wing of the house. He instead traces trained footsteps to his bedroom—His bedroom.
His bedroom, with the big bed and the armoire with an annoying creak, and a crumpled blue t-shirt on the floor: it suddenly seems a lot bigger, that room. Alien. He goes to move the shirt—catches a glimpse of the latest clipping on the floor beside it. Kingsley's silly little gift, because the clock would keep ticking. One month, two days, sixteen hours, and some odd minutes away from the anniversary.
Shots of cartoon Sirius wickedly conspiring somewhere in Albania.
'Can you believe it? This is the best one yet,' Kingsley said. Remus scours it now, sees the ink blots moving in pixels across the tiny square. Albania must be nice.
Below this and to its side is the article "Black Being Tracked in Albania, Say Experts." It explains circuitous reasons for why he's there, what he's up to; it offers comically horrid quotations from said Experts. He knows there are no experts. He scoffs.
'He's not in Albania,' he reminds himself, but he has to catch his tongue before saying he knows where he actually is. Meanwhile, cartoon Sirius does not wave at him or smile; this one's not been charmed to react to real life people.
And so, he carefully rips the page straight down the middle and then again from the two torn pieces. These he lets fall into the hallway. Let Kreacher pick up the damned remnants. Swaying, staggering to find some manner of support in the room…
He is on the bed, sitting stiffly at its left edge. The sheets are rumpled, and they are rumpled, and they are like the shirt on the floor and so, so unlike this morning. He's glad that he didn't make the bed.
He goes to move the shirt—swoops it up into his arms and takes a long look at it. It is not new, does not remind him of when he mocked Sirius for wearing the oversized thing to bed. There are holes and worn spots. He doesn't deserve this shirt, he doesn't deserve to wear it to bed, not after...
Instead of the crisp Padfoot odor, there is a dull scent of skin and old soap. As he clings to it, he smells sweat of the restless night before, the ever-so faint musk of a male. He's glad that his single moment of forgetfulness allowed him to keep this piece of fabric. And he's sort of glad that he was careless when he took it off Sirius's back and flung it in a sticky hurry.
Still holding the shirt, Remus sort of flops back onto the bed, sprawling out with the grace of a plank. The only thing that's changed is that now he's alone in someone else's house. Fifteen years have not passed, really. Let tug the relentless little heartstring.
He cannot think, so he drifts off into a colorless sleep.
The dawn is bright and hot. There will be no rain today.
Molly Weasley raps lightly on the door, but Remus still jolts awake. She opens the door a crack, pokes her head in cautiously.
'Remus? Oh, thank Merlin you've woken.'
Meekly, he asks, 'Breakfast is ready, then? Or have I missed it?'
He's forgotten about most of this, or has tried to. His voice is hoarse. Molly steps in and reveals a black-haired girl standing behind her. It's Tonks, but she doesn't look like a Tonks. She insults the stray black furs that dwell in the corners of this room. How dare—
'We were so worried,' the girl says. 'You didn't wake up no matter how we tried.'
'I…'
Remus sits straight up. He has on his shoes, still, and his dirty, warm clothes from the night before; the blue shirt is clutched tightly in his fingers.
'Now that you're up, you'd best shower and get dressed, Molly advises. If you want, I'll clean up a bit for you.' Immediately, Remus apologizes for the pieces of paper he left on the floor. Molly doesn't know anything about it; and even if Tonks did, he could not bring himself to look at her.
Molly approaches the bed, which Remus does not move to cover. She turns an unnamed shade of red. Knows not what to think about the semen. That mortal glue. He doesn't care. He just mechanically moves his mouth.
'You must not. You know this…'
Tonks looks somewhat disheartened. 'We're...'
'We are all,' he replies. He shoots them both a glance that means "leave" in the most imposing manner he's ever mustered. Then—he just knows.
There couldn't be a funeral. This is already the sarcophagus.
Remus looks swiftly between the two women. Empty. Pulse echo. Where do you mean. Newspaper clipping. No nothing/anything/something.
'We'll… bring you up some food,' Molly suggests. They leave. He's not hungry. He is alone. He could do it. He could just…
'Sounds great,' he stutters. They go downstairs.
A/N: Please read and review. It's been kind of a rough month. 3 Trickssi