Summary: Sirius has returned to his old home to wait. Implied Sirius/Remus.
Spoilers: OotP, incredibly slight HBP
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters, including and especially Sirius and Remus, or any of its settings.
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Their flat was so shabby. Sirius doesn't remember it being so shabby. He steps slowly, as if afraid that the light tread of his feet will break the floor, and he gazes around, his sigh falling, slippery, over the spare furniture and the grimy windows. He runs one finger down the countertop and it comes away covered in dust.
He's glad to learn he's been exonerated. He still has no idea where Peter went off to, (and neither does anyone else) but when that deceitful empire falls, he'll fall too. Sirius almost hopes Moony will be the one to kill him, but then, the thought of Moony killing anyone has started to make his weary stomach feel sick.
Sirius sits down at the table. He can see the cobwebs beginning to form at the corners of the cupboards; the chair he's sitting on wobbles under him; there are bugs scurrying at his feet, faintly iridescent beetles and ants. Sirius almost smiles to see them, and then, he almost cries.
He is all, or mostly all, contradictions now. The body he carries with him is heavy, but often, he feels light as air. The past and his human hopes sustain him, yet the thought of all that he was is the sharp arrow that sticks between his rotting ribs. He's been looking for the ones who left before him—calling for James in the Hogwarts halls and peering for Regulus under the Black family beds—but the world is oddly and frighteningly deserted.
He has come back home now—to his first adult home, and the almost stifling warmth of the love and hate that battled and consumed him here—to wait. His body is tattered now. He is full of holes. The past whistles through them; he shivers through the humid air. He closes his eyes.
He closes his eyes.
Sirius, something whispers. Sirius, why did you leave?
Moony?
He doesn't speak, doesn't open his eyes, but he reaches out his hands through the empty space. The springs are sticking out through the sofa cushions now; the covers on the bed are threadbare; the books left in the bookcases are growing dirty mold. Sirius can see it all without seeing anything. He strains his ears. He strains to hear that missing voice again.
Sirius. Sirius, I wish I could talk to you again. Sirius, I'm in a room full of people and I'm lonely still. Sirius, you won't believe how crazy I am to still be thinking about talking to you even now. Sirius.
Moony.
Sirius.
Moony!
Sirius, I miss you.
Moony, I'm here, Moony…!
The voice has stopped completely now. Sirius opens his eyes and covers his vision with his hands, and slides from the chair down to the floor. He is weeping softly without even realizing what he is doing.
He is waiting now, though he doesn't know why. He is waiting for something to arrive, for someone to arrive, for something to happen, for his weary bones and weary heart to be carried away. He is waiting. He is tired. He is waiting.
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