Rating of PG-13.
I do not own the characters, JKR does. I simply borrow them.
Remus finds the best way to deal with the loss of his friends is by cleansing everything away.
Spring Cleaning
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It was something he did every day without a doubt. Every morning without fail, he would awake at seven sharp just as the old off the minute clock finished striking its seventh chime.
He would stretch and roll off of the worn burgundy arm chair that he'd called a bed for the past thirteen years. After a light breakfast that was really nothing more than a half a glass of pulp free orange juice and a weak fire had been produced in the hearth that was to keep the biting cold at bay as much as it was to keep his hands busy, it began.
The kitchen always saw the start of it. Dishes stacked high finally get the attention that was badly needed as do the counter tops, chipping mock wood floor, and the dew slicked windows.
The garbage followed, always the garbage after the kitchen had been taken care of. He would take it out in bare feet, the soles of his feet connecting with the warm earth, and the smell of rainwater overwhelming his sharp senses.
The living room didn't take nearly as long, yet he still spent the better part of an hour running the vacuum repeatedly over the same spot until he tugged so hard that the cord yanked itself out of the wall.
It'd always been that way for as long as he could remember. Ever since November of 1981. Since November the first when the post owl had arrived, bringing with it the Daily. He paid the impatient bird with a knut after digging through the couch cushions, sat down at the table with a strong cup of tea, and unrolled the paper.
His eyes had scanned the first paragraph while he took a sip of the herb beverage. Remus set the cup back down with shaking hands and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He didn't say a word as he locked all the doors and windows and proceeded to do nothing but clean for the following week. Cleaned the house even after there was nothing left to clean. When that happened, he provided the mess himself. Over turning potted plants, smearing dishes with a dirty rag, dragging in mud from outside to cover the glistening floors.
In his cleaning fit he struggled to forget, to scrub all of the memories from his mind so that they could not hurt him. Scrubbed them from his mind, from his body, from the very walls of his cramped one roomed cottage.
The box full of old letters and photographs, of ties and scarves of red and gold, and of broken quills and a pair of bronze rimmed reading glasses that were missing a right lens. All of these treasures where left untouched. Even despite his crusade to cleanse the memories of long ago days away so that they could not be a weapon against him that reduced even his best defenses into nothing but an incoherent whisper. Even despite that, the box remained completely untouched.
It still remained untouched by human hands and time. The cleaning frenzy continued on around the box of treasures as it sat, oblivious to it all, in the back of the closet.
It wasn't that the house was in need of a desperate cleaning. It was merely a distraction, something to keep both his mind and his hands occupied.
Sometimes, he'd find creative ways to reassure himself that he was indeed living in this nightmare that was so foolishly labeled with the title of life.
He'd hit himself hard around the ankles with the mop so that red streams pooled where he walked. By the time the floor was mopped a first time, he'd have to do it again to wash away the blood. By scrubbing the same floors with a deadly concoction of Muggle household cleaning supplies while the windows and doors are bolted to stop the poisonous vapors from escaping.
He would wash the dirty dishes with scalding hot water that left his hands raw. And then rewashing all of the other dishes that were already clean just because he could. He'd polish the silverware that he kept locked away for that sole purpose alone.
At night, while chopping vegetables because they were the only thing he ever had plenty of, what with the garden and all, he'd let the sharp knife slip too far to the left and soon his blood mixed with the watery vegetable juice. Vegetables that, after he was done chopping, he'd throw away without a second thought.
When he'd…
The list goes on.
It had only grown in the last thirteen years.
He'd be exhausted by the time nine o' clock rolled around. His body tired from the day of self inflicted torture that it already knows it'll have to endure the very next day. But he only had one thing left to do by nine at night anyway.
The only chore that didn't involve any bodily harm. What harm could one do to oneself when it came to the laundry? For the past thirteen years, he had attempted to think of something suitable, but nothing seemed to click in place.
He had heaved an armful of clothes worse for ware into the room and turn to go get another when he heard a mouthful whine.
Slowly, he turned and could just make out a cold, black nose under a faded forest green towel.
Remus swallowed the unbidden lump that had quickly formed in this throat and dropped to his knees. He did not wince as the abused flesh met the unforgiving floor.
With a trembling hand, he reached over and gently pulled the towel off of the dog he already knew laid beneath it.
He was right.
Sirius stayed and a spell broke.
He'd awake at noon on the twelfth chime to the feeling of Padfoot's warm weight tight against his body. The house was cleaned once a week and never at a set date or time. Sometimes, he'd even forget about it all together.
Either way, he took care to keep the mop away from his ankles and the silverware locked away to tarnish.
When they moved away he had been very tempted to hack away at number twelve until it was suitable for living. A firm hand on his waist and a stern voice in his ear that told him he'd do no such thing was the only thing holding him back from the fruit of temptation.
Molly never did understand why Sirius had lost his temper at her when she had asked Remus for help to restore the kitchen to its former glory.
Then Sirius fell.
And the spell revisited its former haunting grounds.
Only this time, it was just enough to kill him.
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