Author's Notes: Yes, Scotty-dear, this is dedicated to you…(sneer)
An Exercise in Rhetoric
"You need to stop running about in this weather, Remus, or you'll catch your death of fever."
Which translated to: Stop chasing leads to the Dark Lord, you'll get yourself killed.
I am standing on his front porch. His front porch. Sirius Black's front porch. The man I haven't had a proper conversation with for nearly fourteen years, when the ministry's goonies carted him off to Azkaban, him laughing like a madman. Laughing with that madness that lingered in his eyes long before James and Lily ever died, long before our Hogwarts graduation.
He had to be mad, to fall in love with a monster like me.
"It's pouring out there, come inside and get those wet things off. I'll set up some tea."
Which translated to: I've been worried about you, please stop all this nonsense.
He takes my umbrella before I can protest and ushers me off the front porch, into the humid warmth of his mother's home, his home now, number 12 Grimmauld Place. The stale air is rank with his smell, with the reek of hippogriff two floors above us, the scent of many feet of long-gone visitors. Their emotions are still strong here, enough for me to catch them, translate them to names; anger, annoyance, fear, hope.
He reeks of hope, even as he moves about the hallway, ripping the curtain over his mother's portrait closed and bustling with my umbrella as he attempts to fit it into the already overstuffed stand. I don't know why he has so many umbrellas, I know no one else is here. He smiles at me when I look at him and shoves my proffered coat into the closet before limping his way downstairs to the kitchen.
"It's been a while since you came last, how is everything? I heard Harry's busy at Hogwarts, does he write you too?"
Which translates to: If I'd known you'd show up at my doorstep, I'd have taken a bath. Buckbeak doesn't much mind my smell if I don't, you see, but I'd want to look nice for you. I'm worried about Harry too; does he know where you're staying? Can he tell me if I ask?
I slide onto the bench close to the fireplace, shedding sopping layers of stinking wool; my gloves, my second coat, my shirt, rife with holes, my shoes and socks, both meanly patched by my own hand. He takes them all and lays them out to dry on a rack. They will smell like smoke when they're done, but at least they'll be warm. I shiver and he tosses me a blanket before setting a pot on a hook and swinging it into the flames to boil.
"I was recently evicted," I say slowly, "Couldn't pay the rent."
I haven't held a job down since I worked at Hogwarts two years ago. The Wizarding world doesn't want a werewolf. The Muggle world has no interest in a man who looks as poor as he is. They don't like the haggard look for their bartenders, which is the only thing I can do. I never got the grant for my bookstore idea. My writing career went out when they took the last of my friends to prison.
The kettle whistles and steam fills the air. I breathe it in and shut my eyes. More humidity, but the thickness of the warmth is like a blanket, suffocating and calming, like drowning. I open my eyes when Sirius plops a mug in front of me, brimming with dark tea. It smells like willow and honey. The beeswax of it is melting already and the memories it brings are as heady as its scent.
Thick, frothing butterbeer and a few shots of firewiskey, James and Lily's wedding reunion. I should've have let him kiss me. All those years ago…it ruined me, ruined my sense of control.
"Why don't you stay here with me? This place is driving me mad. I won't even ask for rent." There it is again…that stench of hope. God, I hate that smell…
Translation: Stay here, I'm lonely. We can pick up where we left off, try being friends again…
The ticking of my father's pocket watch is calming to me, its weight keeping my head from its daydreaming. I pull it out and check the time on its aged face, its swirling numbers. It is time.
"Dumbledore sent a letter to you, figured I could rest here for the night and then keep on my way. We all have our jobs to do, Sirius, and I have to keep an eye of the dark creatures…it's the only thing I can do to help right now. You would do well to keep your mind on your own task. We can pick up later, when this is over."
Always the serious one, the sensible one. I've never liked that role. Not for the first time do I wish that I could shuck that title and submit to him. He's never had to hide his feelings, for him it's all fair game. For me, well…I don't like cheating.
He takes the letter but does not open it, the hope in his face gone now as he turns away.
"You can stay in the room you had before, then. Do say goodbye before you leave in the morning?"
Translation: Go away, you make me feel old.
I finish my tea and stare down at the dregs, shivering at the omen it brings. My future was always one of despair. I catch Sirius's cup, my eyes flicking up at the back of his face in horror. It is too soon…I've never gotten a chance to tell him…
He eyes my face warily as I get up from the bench and move toward him. I stop just out of arm's reach, and though I wish my voice were stronger, this whisper is enough.
"Of course, Sirius."
Translation: I love you, Sirius.
I turn away and make my way up the stairs, the darkness of the house closing over me and I wish I were drowning, for the peace it brings in those last moments of life.
Fin of An Exercise in Rhetoric
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Author's notes: Inspired by the pocket watch my best friend brought over from Spain as my birthday present…and repeated viewings of Harry Potter number four.