PROMPT: Shopping List
Remus knows a shopping list is essential when sending Sirius to Diagon Alley; otherwise he'll get distracted and buy everything but what he ought to. (There'll be a bit of that anyway, but this is always a handy way to curb it.)
It feels very normal, very domestic, sitting at the little desk and swirling his quill in an inkpot, gazing pensively at a list of objects to make a house a home.
Crib - find an Ever-Growing one if you can
pulling him from the wreckage of his room; transfiguring a love seat into something safe and comfortable and ridiculous as Sirius holds him to his chest
Food - you remember what he needs, right?
watching James pick one of everything, willing to let his son choose what he wanted; stepping gingerly through the ruins of the pantry
Toys - try to restrain yourself
finding a battered lion with a soft roar, the charred remains of a toy broomstick stirring feebly towards his hand, a fluffy black dog that yips when tickled; leaving the rat behind
Curtains - red and green - nothing garish, please
cheerful bickering about House colours as the newlyweds decorate the little house in Godric's Hollow, quiet musings on what defines you, bemused friends playing diplomat
Frames
digging through dirt and ash and rubble, debris tearing at his hands as he searches for anything, anything at all; shoving torn photographs of a broken family into his pockets
His hand shudders to a stop, almost ruining the word. His eyes close against emotions that would only hinder him. Stop him from doing what he needs to do. From being what he needs to be.
The list, though, can wait.
He sets the quill down with a steady hand and rose, heading to Harry's room. He knows he'll find Sirius there, that their silence will be strained with the suspicion and secrets that had simmered between them for years.
One day, their friendship will be mended, and they'll be as close as they were before war took its toll.
One day, the crib will be worn, and the pictures will make them smile.
One day, this will be a home, and they will be a family.
That is what he tells himself as he strides through the dusty corridors, and that is what he must believe.
Hope, after all, is all that's left.
It feels very normal, very domestic, sitting at the little desk and swirling his quill in an inkpot, gazing pensively at a list of objects to make a house a home.
Crib - find an Ever-Growing one if you can
pulling him from the wreckage of his room; transfiguring a love seat into something safe and comfortable and ridiculous as Sirius holds him to his chest
Food - you remember what he needs, right?
watching James pick one of everything, willing to let his son choose what he wanted; stepping gingerly through the ruins of the pantry
Toys - try to restrain yourself
finding a battered lion with a soft roar, the charred remains of a toy broomstick stirring feebly towards his hand, a fluffy black dog that yips when tickled; leaving the rat behind
Curtains - red and green - nothing garish, please
cheerful bickering about House colours as the newlyweds decorate the little house in Godric's Hollow, quiet musings on what defines you, bemused friends playing diplomat
Frames
digging through dirt and ash and rubble, debris tearing at his hands as he searches for anything, anything at all; shoving torn photographs of a broken family into his pockets
His hand shudders to a stop, almost ruining the word. His eyes close against emotions that would only hinder him. Stop him from doing what he needs to do. From being what he needs to be.
The list, though, can wait.
He sets the quill down with a steady hand and rose, heading to Harry's room. He knows he'll find Sirius there, that their silence will be strained with the suspicion and secrets that had simmered between them for years.
One day, their friendship will be mended, and they'll be as close as they were before war took its toll.
One day, the crib will be worn, and the pictures will make them smile.
One day, this will be a home, and they will be a family.
That is what he tells himself as he strides through the dusty corridors, and that is what he must believe.
Hope, after all, is all that's left.