ficlet: things that stay (remus, gen)
[things that stay | remus, mourning | gen | 500 words]
things that stay
The house still smells of Sirius, small puffs of stale air in odd corners of rooms. It's strongest in their bedroom, of course, the one Remus can't bear to sleep in any more. He visits it on his way to the room he'd taken as his own when they first moved in, the room he'd never slept in until now, and breathes the last vestiges of Sirius in. He finds it funny (peculiar, but also amusing -- Sirius always said he was morbid) that the scent of dog and firewhisky, and a few stray black hairs clinging to the sheets and carpet are all that's left of Sirius's life, that a man can disappear so completely, even from his own home.
The others let him have his grief for now, and he supposes on some level he's grateful, though it's not as though he hasn't done this before. He should be used to wandering forlornly through empty rooms, trailing his fingers over undusted furniture, looking for answers in the way the dust resettles after he's disturbed it, semaphores of some truth he can't understand.
They talk around him at meetings, or listen too intently, with faces schooled to say, "I care," even when their actions don't.
He welcomes Snape's brusque disdain, because that, at least, he can count on to never change.
He also welcomes Harry's roiling fury, agreeing when the boy launches into a tirade about his utter uselessness. He nods along at Harry's indictment of him, his own resentment welling up, because hasn't he suffered? Hasn't he lost just as much, if not more? But he swallows it, as he has for years, knowing his calmness will drive Harry to even greater heights of rage, the way it used to do Sirius.
When Harry flings a dirty mug at his head, he ducks it easily, but his hands are shaking when he bends to pick up the pieces, and he bins it instead of repairing it. Some things can't be fixed, and some things shouldn't be.
Harry's shaking as well, eyes bright with unshed tears (more anger than grief if Remus were to guess) behind his smudged glasses and skinny shoulders heaving with every ragged breath, and in him, Remus recognizes not only James and Lily, but Sirius, in all his grief and rage and unhappiness. He feels something ease in his chest then, because this is their legacy -- this boy and the terrible burden he bears -- and it's Remus's turn to guide him.
He lets Harry vent his anger, his own now dissipated, and offers him a cup of tea when he's done ranting. Harry shakes his head in disbelief, but he laughs, and Remus thinks he remembers how to do this, how he did it once for James, for Sirius, even for Peter.
He helps Molly clean the house, no longer needing to seek Sirius in particles of dust and puffs of air, when he has Harry in his life. He knows he will never forget him.
end
***
feedback most appreciated.
*
things that stay
The house still smells of Sirius, small puffs of stale air in odd corners of rooms. It's strongest in their bedroom, of course, the one Remus can't bear to sleep in any more. He visits it on his way to the room he'd taken as his own when they first moved in, the room he'd never slept in until now, and breathes the last vestiges of Sirius in. He finds it funny (peculiar, but also amusing -- Sirius always said he was morbid) that the scent of dog and firewhisky, and a few stray black hairs clinging to the sheets and carpet are all that's left of Sirius's life, that a man can disappear so completely, even from his own home.
The others let him have his grief for now, and he supposes on some level he's grateful, though it's not as though he hasn't done this before. He should be used to wandering forlornly through empty rooms, trailing his fingers over undusted furniture, looking for answers in the way the dust resettles after he's disturbed it, semaphores of some truth he can't understand.
They talk around him at meetings, or listen too intently, with faces schooled to say, "I care," even when their actions don't.
He welcomes Snape's brusque disdain, because that, at least, he can count on to never change.
He also welcomes Harry's roiling fury, agreeing when the boy launches into a tirade about his utter uselessness. He nods along at Harry's indictment of him, his own resentment welling up, because hasn't he suffered? Hasn't he lost just as much, if not more? But he swallows it, as he has for years, knowing his calmness will drive Harry to even greater heights of rage, the way it used to do Sirius.
When Harry flings a dirty mug at his head, he ducks it easily, but his hands are shaking when he bends to pick up the pieces, and he bins it instead of repairing it. Some things can't be fixed, and some things shouldn't be.
Harry's shaking as well, eyes bright with unshed tears (more anger than grief if Remus were to guess) behind his smudged glasses and skinny shoulders heaving with every ragged breath, and in him, Remus recognizes not only James and Lily, but Sirius, in all his grief and rage and unhappiness. He feels something ease in his chest then, because this is their legacy -- this boy and the terrible burden he bears -- and it's Remus's turn to guide him.
He lets Harry vent his anger, his own now dissipated, and offers him a cup of tea when he's done ranting. Harry shakes his head in disbelief, but he laughs, and Remus thinks he remembers how to do this, how he did it once for James, for Sirius, even for Peter.
He helps Molly clean the house, no longer needing to seek Sirius in particles of dust and puffs of air, when he has Harry in his life. He knows he will never forget him.
end
***
feedback most appreciated.
*