A Filled Space

by carpetfibers

"Too young, he thinks, to have so occupied his thoughts. Far too young for a grown man, her once professor, to stare at so openly, so longingly. The sting of her blue flames pinches his fingers, but he grasps her palm between his own and lets the warmth of her skin block the self-disgust that swells when he finally admits to it: He cares for her, and he does not hide from it." RLHG

3. Five-Six

For Peque Saltamontes

A Filled Space

5

Remus decides, on a sunny morning buffeted by a cool wind, that while she might choose not to speak, he still can. He draws carefully from his cup of tea, watching as she scrubs the cracked grout on the kitchen floor, and considers his words with purpose.

"Harry showed me the ring last night."

The falter is minute, but he notices how her rhythm stutters, staccatos off beat for a brief second, before leveling.

"A bit overdone, in my opinion, but surely to Ginny's tastes. Some kind of goblin-wrought piece, thinly braided and dotted with dragon pearls."

He drinks again from his tea, the liquid bitter as he reaches the bottom of the cup. The taste swirls over his tongue, and he continues, eyes intent on the grip of her hands on the scrubbing brush. "I thought it strange that he didn't want to use his mother's ring."

He remembers with unfair clarity the joy that filled Lily's eyes when James casually opened the box that held the ring. The simple band, studded with tiny emeralds that glittered and glowed, slid easily on her finger; she cried and James cried, and Remus promised them both that only happiness would find them.

He always was skilled at giving empty promises. Dora knew that all too dearly, and her son- his son- will learn it in due time, Remus is sure.

"Harry plans to propose on Christmas."

The brush catches on a broken edge of tile and a thick line of blood oozes along her thumb. She rises stiffly and runs the length of her fingers under the faucet, taking far longer than probable to clean the cut; when she turns to face him, nothing of his words are reflected. Her brown eyes look to a point beyond his shoulder, and she's careful to step around him as she passes through the doorway.

The last of the tea is thick with leaves and he questions the shape left in their settling. A definite wheel, intersected with concentric knots- Sybil Trelawney would interpret an early death or near-fatal disfigurement. But a wheel promises change, a steady movement toward a vacillating future, bound by worry and fear, surely- but still, change.

Remus has no faith in fate or providence; he empties the leaves in the sink and readies the kettle for a fresh batch.

6

It's not that Hermione is in love with him; her feelings for Harry are not the things of childhood puppy love and unresolved tension. It's that she loves him, and that she loves Ginny, and she knows this to be a stupid, stupid decision. But Harry doesn't listen to her- he's never really listened to her. Not when it counted, not when his opinion differed.

She remembers the taste of too-sweet elvish wine, thick with elder leaves and holly berries; sweat beading along her jaw; the sharp edge of a mantle against her back.

The ridged kitchen tile digs into her knees, marking long lines in her skin as she shuffles over the floor, scrubbing and scouring. She hopes she's wrong.

But she's seldom wrong, not when it comes to Harry.