A/N: I don't really know where I meant to go with this, honestly. It's supposed to be friendship and vaguely, distantly romance-ish. It didn't go the way I thought it would, probably because it had no intended direction to begin with. But still, I hate to let ideas go to waste so I figured I'd post this anyway. After all, there's much worse stuff out there. (My Immortal, anyone?)
Set around The Marauders sixth year, Sirius's POV, obviously taking place in Number 12, Grimmauld Place
Home
The posters on my bedroom walls are fading and crumbling, the bikini-clad Muggle girls are stock-still, their wide smiles perpetually frozen on their bright, makeup-caked faces. The rest of my room is plastered with Gryffindor pendants and banners. The gleaming crimson and gold theme of my room is almost comically out of place in the unfriendly Slytherin aura of the rest of the house.
My bedroom is different from the rest of them. The black sheep, the outcast, the loner, like me. The one courageous Gryffindor standing alone in a family of nefarious Slytherin cowards.
"Padfoot?"
Remus is standing leaning against my doorway, frowning slightly, his hands in the pockets of his robes.
"'Ello, Moony," I reply.
"What's wrong?" he asks, furrowing his brow and scrutinising me intensely.
"Nothing, why?"
"You're lying."
This man can state the obvious like you can't bloody believe.
"You don't say?" I ask sarcastically, raising an eyebrow and laughing in spite of myself.
He rolls his eyes and crosses my room to sit on the edge of my bed, smoothing the scarlet bedding as he speaks.
"This place isn't good for you," he says, his voice streaked with worry.
"I grew up here, Moony."
"Yeah, but you don't belong here."
His voice is soft, awkward almost. Like he's trying to explain a concept he himself doesn't fully grasp yet. I shrug my shoulders. I know I don't; I've been the odd man out since I was Sorted, but I've tried not to let it affect me.
"Doesn't feel like home, you know?" I say nonchalantly.
"Home is where the heart is," he replies. An everything-and-nothing sort of tone. Unreadable.
Our eyes lock for a moment, golden brown on silvery blue. He looks as though he's trying to discern something, to solve a difficult problem. I contemplate his statement for a moment before determining something.
"I don't know where I belong."
"Think about it," he says, standing up abruptly and running a hand through his sandy coloured hair. "It'll come to you."
The deep, grey scars on his face look as visible as ever against his pale skin as he exits the room. I sense the slightest bit of disappointment, but then it fades.
