Title: … Is Not the End of It
Author: Trickssi
Rating: Meh, whatever. I wrote it under the assumption that they were an item, and it makes it a painful thing to think about. Let's go with T.
Other: Dedicated to the person could kick my ass if they realize what inspired this piece. Sorry in advance?
Sirius stared down the mirror of an upstairs loo. His hair was getting longer again—shoulder length. Should he cut it? After a moment, he decided, no, to let Remus cut it if he minded because it was a bother to keep short. His bangs would get in his eyes, but there would be no acceptable way to brush them away without looking like he was going through a mid-life crisis. At least if it were longer it could be bound with a tie.
Remembering what he was there for, he filled a pail of water and headed to his mother's room.
Everything was a task. The house was too empty. He'd given up waiting at the door as Padfoot; he didn't try to cook a decent meal and expect Remus to be home to eat it. There was something here more vacant than his previous cell.
He opened the door and set the pail quietly in front of the sleeping hippogriff.
When he thought about it—when he truly thought about it, Sirius would doubt Remus Lupin's honesty. Not whether or not he had cleaned the windows or some rot. Did he even care that Sirius was here alone? And where the hell was he going that he was always out so late?
Ever since moving into Number 12 in July, Remus had been more and more absent. They hadn't finished re-christening the place when Dumbledore began calling with seemingly urgent news. Their moments together would be brief and feel unfinished. And though Remus seemed to have reawakened all the passion he'd lost over the years, he would often be gone in the morning, or worse, at night.
When Sirius walked down the stairs, his bat of a mother began screaming again. It would be great fun if it weren't for the fact it was his mother. All right, maybe it was fun anyway. Sirius often tried to make his mother's portrait ill with disgust—tried to get her to call him things like 'No-son-of-mine-is-queer' and 'P-p-pansy!' for the reassurance. This time, he just kept walking straight through to the study.
"Mistake of a child! Shame of my flesh!" cried Mrs. Black.
The study always held some sort of mysterious power over him. In his childhood, it was where his father would be conducting secret meetings for grown-ups. Now, it was where Remus kept all of his favorite things. The gramophone was there, along with some old records. (Sirius smiled when he caught a glimpse of Bowie.) Every famous muggle book was alphabetized, Austen to Wilde. Alongside these were novels from wizards and witches worldwide. Sometimes he left a book out on the desk which begged Sirius to skim it.
"The Dark Arts and You," he read aloud; today's selection. It was printed in '84. There were, of course, endearing little yellow papers stuck between the pages with Remus's artsy handwriting all over them. 'Taught all of these' and 'Harry should know about this' and 'Inform l-garou'(which he didn't understand) and the like. Something stung in Sirius's heart. This handwriting used to write him long letters dripping in affection. This hand used to dedicate three rolls of parchment to him. Not work—not anyone else.
This was his territory, this house his perimeter, although it felt nothing more than a prison. Sirius, giving up on the book in front of him, turned to the shelf full of muggle poetry. He dared to leaf through a thick collection of Shakespeare. Expecting at least one small yellow marker, he found nothing. He tried Pablo Neruda, Williams, Byron, Shelley. He didn't bother to pick up Keats.
He wasn't—angry. He wasn't outright sad, either. It was just as if he were a ghost in this room. He longed for his sets of Remus-written parchment.
But wait; Remus kept all of his writings here, too. Of course, that notebook was generally off-limits, but he wouldn't be home for at least another half-hour. Sirius could snatch it, read it for a bit, then put it away afterward. He was skilled in the details of a scene, if nothing else. All he did was open the drawer.
The bottom corner of the beginning page was marked with 'mien,' which was another one of those French words that Sirius didn't bother to translate. He flipped past some empty white space—aha. The first poem. He knew this one:
'I
Miss you in fa
Ll when y
Ou
Never g
Et to
Leave
Yourself.'
Sirius especially liked the part that said "Leave." It was funny, because the poem was about autumn. He laughed like it was the best joke he'd heard in years. It probably was.
Some hands were scribbled in ink on the next page, observations of someone's toes poking out of sandals on the next. Sirius hadn't imagined Remus to be quite the little sketch artist—the next pages were full of doodles. Some of Harry playing Quidditch. A page with Sirius's hair sprawled out on the pillow when he was sleeping (how did Remus manage that?). Oddly enough, one of what looked to be his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, but Remus couldn't draw women well enough to be able to tell. Then, he found the three sonnets Remus professed to have written. They were delicate and descriptive.
Journal entries; he flipped past.
'—love him too much to know how to tell him—'
He tried to stop the following barrage of pages but failed. Heart racing, he flipped back in the entries to try and find this ode. Right side, edge of the page, right side, edge of the page, right—
It wasn't there. It wasn't going to be there. Had… he imagined it? No, no—it was in Remus's handwriting, in his voice. He searched again, passed pages three times over—nothing. He convinced himself that the line had meant something about Harry.
More pages of journal, lots here about the Moon Cycle… Ah, a page that actually mentioned his name:
'Sirius seemed disturbed after our cleanup today—we had to go into Reggie's old room, and there was a picture of me from ages ago hidden under a stack of books. Personally, I find it endearing that Reggie thought he could stalk me. And secondly, how jealous Sirius was—as if Regulus were ever a threat! I must remember to love his fierce protection of me.
'Anyway, I let him keep the picture because it used to be his…'
He hummed a sigh. Remus in the picture was a shy seventh-year at the Quidditch finals, cheering on his friends. His face flushed in the heat though he wore no shirt (a couple of Gryffindor girls wanted to paint up all the boys to "show their support"; a couple of boys should not have been surprised that, when they stole some undergarments from the girls in their "show of support," they were smacked across the face). There it was—Sirius's number on his chest, and when he turned, James's on his back. Peter, the photographer, would have looked the same, except the numbers were switched. Sirius still liked to accredit the Gryffindor victory that day to Remus's patriotism, although it was James who ended up scoring the game point.
Yes, that picture was in Sirius's drawer now. No more prying hands to have it stolen. Well, apart from Kreacher, but he felt the same about Remus as did his mistress.
Sirius was almost to the end of the notebook when the empty pages began to appear: unfinished work. He paused. Should he write something? It seemed too private, this moment. He already violated some peace treaty between them by moving the notebook and this was risky. But… risky was exactly the game Sirius enjoyed playing, and this was no Escape from Azkaban. He took Remus's muggle pen from its container on the desk.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he told the paper with a smirk. Nothing appeared, of course. It was simply habit. And he wrote, and smiled at his quick genius. This was his way of giving Remus an opportunity to surprise him.
And he needed to know that Remus wasn't off somewhere doodling werewolves or cousins-first-removed.
And the days wore on, and after May the house recoiled at summer. This house would be too empty forever, they all believed, no matter how cleaning might resuscitate it. Remus had to return to the house after some time and did a preliminary sweep—things that wouldn't matter to Harry, the rest of the disgusting dark creatures, a few personal items. He took these away. The rest he kept at his modest flat. Then after the will was found, though Remus knew what it stated anyway, Harry came over to sort through things he might or mightn't want.
They began in the corner of Remus's living room where he had rearranged his book collection. No longer were the authors alphabetized—it was too much. He had already forced himself to take any remaining literature of Sirius's, and bugger all if that were in any sort of order. Everything of his was haphazardly tossed into a box.
"What's all this?" the boy asked, indicating the shelf of muggle-written books.
"Those," Remus replied, "Are my collection of the great works. You ought to read them sometime. Perhaps the Iliad or some Plato? I've got some old texts in Latin for practice. Anything's yours if you want it."
Harry opened an unmarked book. "William Williams," he said.
"Ah, excellent choice! My favorite poetry, that. Read me one, Harry," he said, emitting the first cheerful tone in a long while. He took the rest of the contents out of a box and placed them on the desk. On top was a strangely familiar notebook—green cover, leather-bound. That's where it had gone! Hiding in the box with Sirius's things like some boggart. He chanced to open the book a bit, making sure Harry was too engulfed in Williams that he didn't want to snoop. It opened to a page near the back that seemed to have a crease on it.
A chill passed through the room so that Harry stopped mouthing the words to "The Great Figure Five" and glanced at his old professor.
Remus felt—and looked—like his breath had been knocked out of him. This was eerie. He didn't write this, obviously. There was only one person who could have known where his notebook was…
"Professor Lupin?" Harry chanced. "Did you feel that? What are you reading?" Harry's call went unnoticed as Remus scanned the page quickly, and then read it over again. "Professor Lupin?"
"Oh. Harry—Don't call me that anymore. I wasn't always your teacher," he said quietly. "Ah, er—would you mind if I had that… that book of poetry for a second? I need to read something, I've just recalled…" His voice drifted off into his numbed subconscious.
Promptly, Harry handed over the collection of poems. Remus knew right where to find the plum poem—Sirius's favorite because of its frankness. In a calm and even voice, he said, "This Is Just To Say; William Carlos Williams." He paused. "I have eaten/ the plums/ that were in/ the icebox/ and which/ you were probably/ saving/ for breakfast." Another silence. "Forgive me/ they were delicious/ so sweet/ and so cold."
Harry was listening to the words so intently that he did not notice Remus putting the book down before saying the last lines. He remembered them. He had once known it by heart.
"That's… really deep, Pr—Lupin," Harry commented to break the quiescence.
"I think so," he echoed. "You ought to have that book," he continued, "because it influenced him greatly. And, if you want, I have this notebook here… It's not much, but it's got some little… quotations from poems that he really liked." Remus omitted the fact that he had written all of it.
"Are you sure about this? It seems like… like these really mean something to you."
"I don't need them anymore. That chapter of my life is over, but for you it has probably already begun. Besides," he said, "I don't think I can look at them."
"All right," Harry agreed. He took the books from Remus, who rose from his sitting position and went to the kitchen.
"Just a glass of water," he said.
Harry, in the meantime, paged through the green-covered notebook. He came upon a certain page—read it, reread it, and set the books onto his keep pile before joining his old professor in the kitchen.
Remus—
You are an artist. I am not.
Don't read this poem because it's rot.
Okay, I'm kidding. I felt like adding something to your journal. Don't be mad at me. Um, here's a better one. It's a hikeoo, or whatever you half-bred muggles call them.
Always the distance.
Separate months, days, people
tearing at our heels.
Don't laugh. I'm trying really hard. I'm no Keats. I just wanted to impress you like you've impressed me with your work. Well, at least I tried. If you get this, let me know. Give me a napkin with the plum poem on it at dinner... I miss you. You know where to find me, always.
Love and such,
Sirius.
A/N: Please REVIEW now that you're done with this story. I always appreciate input when it comes to this sort of thing... Sorry if it's depressing again, I didn't mean for that to happen; but ever since HBP came out, my muses have been feeling a little down. If you're looking for something uplifting, try "Banter" or any other of my fics. Thanks for stopping by--let me know what you thought!