Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I neither own, nor am making profit from the writing or sharing of this story.
The door opens and I inhale, expecting that somewhat-stale musky scent to underwhelm me. I seek out the slight hints of leather and sweat and things teenage boys are supposed to reek of, but instead, all I can smell is—Hermione? No. No, this cannot be. There is nothing left, nothing left of him. I step forward into the room, careful enough not to wake the girl curled beneath the dust-kempt comforter. My frantic heartbeat thunders the words as my bare feet slap against the misused floorboards: g-gone, g-gone, g-gone. Beneath my fingertips, the frayed fabric tears just a stitch more and I must breathe deeply not to scream.
She cannot know what she's done. She cannot know what this means. She cannot know what it meant to see his winning smile aimed at me instead of the bird who'd been pining after him for months. She cannot know what it meant to run free beside Padfoot in the Forbidden Forest without having to hold back, without having to be something other than myself. She cannot know. Dear gods, whomever is still listening after all that has been taken from me, she cannot know what this last act of deprivation has done.
Just then, there is a stirring. Hermione sits up, rubs the sleep from her eyes and looks around the room as if confounded. She notices me, the tightness in my eyes and body. Perhaps she thinks it strange that I'm standing above her bed as she sleeps. Perhaps she is wondering if I've something important to say.
"Remus?" Her voice is child-like. I cannot answer. "What time is it? I'm sorry I fell asleep. I was just so tired. I didn't think this was your room, as it is full of children's things. I thought perhaps it belonged to Regulus. Was it all right that I stayed here?"
Still, I am unable to move. She has frozen me with her presence and her voice and her complete inability to help me process anything that has happened in the last five minutes, five hours, five days. I bring my hand up from the bedclothes and run it along the fragile line of my arm, almost afraid that if I am not touching some part of myself, that I, too, will disappear.
"Remus?" She sounds concerned now. I look up slowly.
"This room belonged to Sirius." It's empty now. "He's gone now." He doesn't need it anymore. "I suppose you can use this room, now." There is emphasis on the last word, but I cannot help it. She is not awake enough to hear it, but later she will remember and question. Later, she will understand. For now, I must hold on to something, anything, to keep him from drifting away entirely.
When I make it back to our room, the room we shared so briefly before he fell, there is one thing that distinctly smells of him. I take it out of the closet and gently lay it on the bed. There, in its faded and road-marked glory, is his—no, the jacket. I can't help but curl around it on the bed, afraid to touch it for mingling my scent with his. I nuzzle the shoulder, the one spot that already smells of me, and feel the wretchedness consume all that we were.