The Smallest of Smiles.
"It's yours."
I can't turn around and look at him. Oh, the unfairness of it all. If I told him now that I knew… what I knew, well he'd probably never forgive me. Or worse: he would.
I run a white forefinger over the end of the banister, leaving a trench in the dust. I want to crawl into it and shoot myself. What on Earth he must be thinking I can't even imagine. On the third step up, on the right, floundering in the dirt is the white rose he wore to the funeral five, no six days ago. It should be dead. It's petals are crushed on one side where he tried to stamp on it and missed.
"It belongs to The Order now," I croak.
I need to clear my throat but it would be too loud. He moves silently past me and glides up the stairs. I'm meant to be having the tour of what's 'mine'. I'm expected to follow him: so I do.
Why are all the doors on the second floor open? I want to shut them all and then maybe it would seem less empty. He's got halfway across the hall and I scuttle after him in the pretence of an inspection of my property. My tongue tastes like skelegro and I have dust in my nose hairs. I'm so engrossed in not gagging that I don't notice he's carried on up to the third storey before he disappears. Oh God, I don't want to go up there. I haven't had much occasion to in the past, but I know exactly what I'll find.
I trudge up the narrow wooden slats to the attic rooms, dirt rising to my ankles in little puffy drifts. I stop at the top, my breath held. He hasn't noticed I'm there. I know because I take the chance of looking at him. He has no expression in his mouth and forehead but I swear to God, if he looks this way, his eyes are going to make me break down completely. Resigned despair. He came back and now he's gone all over again.
This time he won't come back.
He takes a breath and leans a hand on the doorframe. As I shuffle closer I can make out the cleanest, most beautiful and lived in room in the house: Sirius' bedroom. And I can't tell the man struggling to get a grip that I know. Because I think he might curl up and die.
"It's yours," he whispers.
I'm startled beyond belief; I didn't think he even knew I was there. While I'm thinking about it he's done his disappearing act again. I want to follow, but there's nothing I can say. I dither around for a while, then return my attention to the room.
I can't go in, it's too personal, but I just want to look.
The ceiling slopes over a bed that's impossibly small but it's a double. There's an incredible green globe in the corner with gemstones stuck to it –easily the most expensive, unnecessary item in the small room. Hundreds of extremely dusty books propped up at the ends with old whiskey bottles. By the bed is a glass with an enormous crack in it. And on the bed is a black jacket. A blazer for a funeral. It does not belong to Sirius. I know I must go downstairs.
I'm not prepared: we lock gazes immediately and I didn't want to. He looks incredibly calm. He knows now that I know. Possibly even that I knew. How could he not know.
"Oh God," he says. His voice is matter-of-fact. It always is. He sits on the bottom step and runs a hand over his stubble, which is slowly progressing into a definite beard.
"It should be yours."
I didn't even think before I spoke, but it's true.
"Remus, I know. I've always known. Please, take this. He'll… always be here."
And then I leave, before I see him give the smallest of smiles.
disclaimer: harry, remus, sirius and grimmauld place were lent to me temporarily as a christmas present but unfortunately have been seized by the police and sent back to JK.
please leave a short snappy response to this fic, or alternatively half an essay: it's your call. Ta. Merry Christmas xxxx