A/N: I feel so on top of things with this collection. If only I was as on top of things in real life... Maybe it's because Izzie is so awesome she inspires me to torture Sirius. Who knows?
3. September
Two years ago I said, "I never want to write our break up poem."
It is the 1st of September 1982, and Sirius is crying.
It is broad daylight - as bright as it gets in the pit of Azkaban - and Sirius is lying flat on the floor, arms spread, legs straight, and remembering this very day eleven years ago. He was younger and braver and more whole, wearing Black pride in his smiles but Gryffindor pride in his walk and he was confused and incomplete and then Remushappened along.
He sat down with Sirius. He brought a book, as Remus is wont to do. He told him that he was okay. He wasn't the very first Black to end up in a House that wasn't Slytherin, but he was the first in Gryffindor. Sirius was proud of this fact. He beamed and said thank youand hugged the slight, little boy with the scars on his neck and the apprehension in his eyes.
On the same day, just two years ago, Sirius woke in Remus' bed. He wrapped his sleep-heavy arms around Remus and let the rise and fall of Remus' chest become the rhythm of his own lungs, until they were breathing in sync. Remus would never know, but those were the moments in which Sirius felt closest to him.
Remus had mumbled something about Hogwarts and trains and silly little boys. Sirius had kissed him good morning and asked if he'd change anything at all.
"Yes," Remus had said.
Just yes.
Sirius understands that yesnow more than ever.
It is September 1st.
Sirius lies on the ground, his eyes following the curves in the stone of the ceiling, his skin cold and numb. He thinks of Hogwarts. Of before.
He thinks of Remus.
He thinks of James. He thinks of Lily. He even thinks of Snape. He thinks of riding that scarlet train to the first real home he has ever known. He thinks about gorging himself on wonderful food and falling asleep full-tummied and smiling. He thinks of Dumbledore, of McGonagall, of Slughorn.
But mostly he thinks of Remus.
He thinks of Remus, and of yes, and he lies there and cries.