The sun was on the rise again before I returned to my flat. I went everywhere else I could possibly think to go; the wake at Emmeline Vance's home, the Leaky Cauldron – where the celebration of the lives of Lily and James Potter continued well into the early morning hours – and several other nameless establishments along the way. I wandered around aimlessly until there was no place left to go but home.

If you could even call it a home, that is. Sirius had been given a nice sum of money from an uncle of his, and James generously paid my rent using the enormous fortune he had inherited from his parents. Even so, Sirius and I had elected to live modestly (inconspicuously) in a small, two-bedroom flat with outdated appliances and ugly yellow wallpaper. While it had reminded me – quite fondly - of a favorite story of mine, Sirius had insisted on covering the "monstrosity" with posters and anything else he could find. Almost every inch of the living room was covered with muggle pinup girls, motorcycles, and anything else he could scrape together to hide the wallpaper beneath.

I couldn't wrap my mind around it, even then. The man I had been living with for over a year, who had been one of my dearest friends for more than half my life, had not only been passing information to Voldemort, but murdered Peter Pettigrew and twelve other people.

When had it started? When had Sirius joined up with the Death Eaters? How long had he been planning this? Was it even planned at all?

I had lived with him! The Daily Prophet had described him as mad, yet in all the time we'd spent together, I detected no hints of insanity… other than what would be considered "normal" for him, at least.

I should have noticed something. There must have been some subtle change in behavior, something I didn't think was important at the time…

"He could have killed me," I realized aloud, dragging my feet with exhaustion on my way to my room. It was a sparsely furnished space, containing only a mattress and my trunk, which was currently being used as a table for my record player. "He knew I was part of the Order, he knew about all of my vulnerabilities. He could have killed me any time he wanted."

It should have been me, I thought, stripping down to my underwear and slipping into the cold sheets. I'm not even half as valuable as Lily and James were. I don't have a child…

Poor Harry; he was the real victim. Dumbledore had assured me that the boy would be raised by family – which was the best thing for him, I thought at the time – but that wasn't the same. Because of Sirius, Harry would never know his parents.

"It isn't right," I sobbed, covering my face with an extra pillow. "Sirius was the boy's godfather…"

I must have drifted off to sleep at some point, because eventually I woke up. The curtains had been left open, allowing the late-fall sunlight to flood the room. On any other day, I might have found that a pleasant way to wake up. But, as things stood, I found myself cursing under my breath as I pulled my blanket over my head to block out the light.

It's always so cold in here, I thought, curling up in the warm space my body had occupied during the night. Why did we choose to live in this hellish place? We could have found a modest dwelling that wasn't so damn cold…

I confined myself to my room as much as possible; only leaving when it was absolutely necessary. I must have eaten at some point, but I'm not sure when or what. The only thing I remember drinking was the bottle of Fire Whisky Sirius had hidden under the sink for "special occasions". When I finished, that, I drank murky tap water.

Now that the war was over, I was out of a job – if you could even call working for the Order of the Phoenix a job. It paid nothing, but it kept me busy. It was sickeningly ironic; the thing I had fought so long against was finally defeated, and as soon as I noticed its absence, I missed it.

And then there were the flowers. At first, I found them heartwarming; bright pockets of energy in my otherwise dull existence. But they quickly became a plague that I would do anything to be rid of. They occupied every spare inch of the flat; I couldn't even use the loo without knocking an arrangement over.

There were flowers to compliment my work as a member of the Order. There were flowers to console me for my many losses. It seemed as if every person I had ever met suddenly felt the need to send me foliage in some shape or form. There were all types of flowers; carnations, roses, violets, tulips, sunflowers, even a few exotic breeds I didn't recognize. There were no lilies. Individually, each bloom was gorgeous. Together, they were grotesque and obnoxious.

"If I never see another flower again, it will be too soon," I muttered to myself as I watched a pot of marigolds wilt in front of me while I ate my breakfast of plain oatmeal.

There was a knock at the door, and I swore that if it was another florist I would strangle them with my bare hands. I was surprised, however, when I opened the door and found the landlady on the other side.

She was a plump woman, with graying hair that puffed out in a way that added several centimeters to her height. Even with this added height, the top of her head hardly cleared my waist. Her skin was wrinkled and saggy; I was always afraid to take a guess at the woman's age, for fear of insulting her. For the most part, she kept to herself in her basement apartment, coming up for air and rent once a month.

"Good morning, Bea," I said, hoping I sounded happier than I felt.

"I think you mean afternoon, Remus dear," she said. She might have sounded sweet – grandmotherly, perhaps, or possibly flirtatious – but Bea's voice had gone raspy from years of cigarette smoke, and it was difficult to interpret what sort of tone she was using.

I scratched the back of my neck, "That late already?"

"Remus," she said, pausing to cough into her hand. The noise was so loud and violent that I couldn't help but cringe. "Remus, can I come in? We need to talk."

"Oh, yes," I said, moving aside. "Of course."

I shut the door after Bea waddled in, making herself at home in my favorite armchair. She had to crawl into it like a child, and the image was just as endearing. Until she was settled, and pulled a cigarette and her lighter – a Zippo decorated with a half-naked woman – and lit up. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, the expression on her face suggesting that she had achieved Nirvana just as she exhaled.

Her eyes shot open, landing on me, "Well, sit."

I obeyed her order wordlessly, sitting down on the sofa across from her. Her eyes slowly scanned the room, stopping to glare distastefully when she spotted a poster that displeased her.

"I've never liked that disgusting wallpaper," she said before she took another drag. "My first husband picked it out, you know. That was back when we were living up here."

"I didn't know you used to live in this apartment," I said.

Bea nodded, "He died in the kitchen, you know."

I gulped, "Is that so?"

"Fell out the window, he did," she said offhandedly. "It was a shame, really. He was one of the best shags I've ever had."

"That's, er… wonderful."

"We might have made it, Ernie and I," she said. "We really had something special. You ever had something special, Remus? With a lady, I mean."

"No," I said. "I suppose I haven't."

She chuckled, "With a man?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I've always wondered," she said, putting her cigarette out on the table. "Two men, living together. Hardly ever saw any women come up here. And then there's all these flowers…"

Sirius brought girls up here all the time, I thought, but I bit my tongue. I knew she wasn't trying to upset me; Bea almost never thought about what she was going to say before she blurted something out. "I can assure you, it was nothing like that. And I didn't order these flowers. People keep sending them to me."

"There's nothing wrong, you know, if you are," she said, looking at me seriously. "I think my third husband might have been a homosexual."

I cleared my throat, adjusting the collar of my shirt, "Bea, I'm not gay."

"You're fidgeting," she said. "That means you're uncomfortable."

"My landlady just showed up out of the blue and started questioning my sexuality," I said. "Of course I'm uncomfortable."

"I didn't just show up out of the blue," she said as she lit her next cigarette. "I needed to have a word with you about your rent money."

"My rent?" I replied. "What about it?"

"I know this isn't a good time for this," she said. "The Potters haven't even been gone a whole month, the poor souls…"

I knew what was coming, and my gaze quickly landed on my shoes.

"Now that James is dead, it's very difficult for him to pay your rent for you," she continued. I knew she was trying to be funny – Bea wasn't a bad person – but hearing her mention my friend's death mentioned so casually made me shiver.

It occurred to me then that Bea never took death seriously. Whenever I spoke to her, she would joke about the death of one of her many husbands, relatives, or lovers. It occurred to me that it was possible – by the time one reaches Bea's age - to experience so many deaths that it becomes so trite that you stop being affected by it. I wondered how much longer it would be before I reached that point in my life.

"And Mr. Black can no longer pay his share of the rent, of course, being in Azkaban and all," she said, taking another deep. "I can't believe it; a man capable of murdering thirteen people has been living in my building for almost a year now!"

"Yeah," I said, forcing out a smile. "Hard to believe…"

"There's a man on the first floor who said he knew one of the people he killed," she informed me. "A sister in law, he said. Says he's going to be moving out soon, to stay with the family. Guess his niece is having a hard time."

"It's a shame," I said, unable to muster any emotions for these people I had never met. I could hardly muster enough emotion to grieve for the people I had lost.

"At any rate," she shrugged. "I'm going to need your rent money by the end of the week."

"The end of the week?" I said, looking up suddenly. "Bea-"

"I'm really sorry, Remus," she said, and her eyes looked half-sincere. "But with Jacky moving out I can't afford to cut you any slack. If you can't get the money together by the end of the week, I'm going to have to evict you."

"I understand," I said, trying to swallow my frustration. "You're in a difficult place here."

"I wish you the best, dear," she said, hopping off of the chair. She gave my shoulder a pat before she left. A cloud of smoke lingered in the air.

Bloody hell, I thought, glaring at the potted plant in front of me. Rationally, I knew it wasn't the plant's fault – those delightful pink blooms had never done anything to hurt me – but I felt a sudden urge to knock them over.

I don't remember actually doing it. I only remember sitting there, on the sofa, and then suddenly looking at a pile of dirt and broken porcelain, the back of my hand cut open and bleeding all over the carpet.