Five: Thanks
Sirius waits in the kitchen after Remus leaves, leaning against the refrigerator, letting out the tension in his shoulders. He dumps their teabags in the rubbish bin, washes his mug and stares at Remus’s a moment before washing it, too. Finally he steps tentatively to the doorway and looks out into the living room. He wants to kick himself when he sees that Remus is plainly not there, for half expecting (wishing?) him to be.
There’s a stack of writing paper on the coffee table, some of it scribbled on, some of it crumpled. Sirius pulls out an almost-pristine sheet, grabs a quill and bottle of ink, and goes back into the kitchen. He doesn’t consider the kitchen table, just sinks down on the floor with his back against the refrigerator (which came with the flat and was once a source of much delight in muggle ingenuity). He’s doing this now, afraid he’ll become afraid to do it later.
Using his knees for a desk, Sirius uncaps the ink and dips the quill in. Remus, he writes. Here’s Harry’s address: 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Here he pauses, quill hanging in the air above the paper, and bites his lip. There’s so much he could say, and so little, really, to be said. It was nice to see you. I hope-he stops, scrunches up his nose, and scribbles out the last two words. Finally he gives up, and writes, Thanks, Sirius. He pulls out his wand and taps the paper, so that the letters rearrange themselves into a perfectly ordinary looking note, concealing Harry’s address, and folds up the paper. On the outside he writes Remus’s address, still memorized, and on the other side the word “mischief,” which is their old code to let the other know the letter has been coded. It is strange how easily this comes to him, the old motions of spelling a letter, which they used in school to hide their plans for pranks, and later to hide information about Order business, or notes to each other that seemed too personal. Sirius is confident that Remus remembers the key to unlock the letter. He does not quite let himself wonder what the implications are of sending a letter this way, which feels somehow very intimate.
Sirius whistles, and after a moment his tawny owl Oberia glides into the kitchen. She perches on his knee, looking sleepy, and glares at him. “Got a letter,” Sirius says. “You’ll know the place. It’s Remus. He’s probably still got the same owl; you can say hello.” He offers her the letter, which she reaches out a claw to grab, and then takes off through the open kitchen window.
Feeling bereft and stiff in his very quiet flat, Sirius tilts his head back against the refrigerator, pleasantly cool, and stares up at the ceiling. He rented this flat when James went to live in the house in Godric’s Hollow with Lily, when the flat in Diagon Alley they’d shared suddenly started to seem too big. He never expected to be here quite this long, had expected to move in with Remus, maybe, or else die in a blaze of glory. The oncoming war had stopped him thinking about what sort of job he wanted, and then he’d never thought to consider what he’d do afterwards. There hadn’t been an afterwards, except in unspoken moments with his face buried in Remus’s neck when he’d thought maybe…. Sirius had never expected to have to find something to occupy his time. That sort of thing had always fallen to him, and then he’d rather thought either it would keep falling to him in the form or Order work for the war, or he’d be dead.
Even after Voldemort was gone and James and Lily dead, Sirius hadn’t stopped to think what it would be like six or ten months down the road. He had tracked down Peter and all but killed him, and stunned four Aurors, and been in such a rage that he hadn’t stopped to explain that Peter was the traitor. It wasn’t till Dumbledore got there that he calmed down and explained, wand on Peter the whole time to make sure he didn’t transform. It was Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes that saved him, and Dumbledore had believed that he wasn’t the Secret Keeper but he’d still gone to Azkaban for two weeks because the Ministry still wasn’t sure he was not a Death Eater and after all he’d attacked Aurors. Peter was in the cell across from him, with spells on him to make sure he couldn’t escape as a rat. Sirius hopes he’d made Peter fear him, sitting in his cell day in, day out staring between the bars, hating him for the wreck he has made. That hatred got him through those two weeks, but he wonders sometimes if it would have lasted him longer, kept him sane. Even now, sometimes Sirius wakes with the cold of the Dementors creeping up his spine.
It’s a more comforting cold that puts him to sleep now, the cool metal refrigerator on the back of his neck in contrast to the warm damp August air. When he wakes again it is evening, the sun very low and spilling gold through the window. The air is still warm, but cooling fast. His owl is sitting on the floor next to his left leg, tapping at his knee, a slip of paper in her beak.
Sirius sits up sharply, his stomach turning over in anticipation of Remus’s answer. He extracts the note and pets Oberia on the head. There’s a beak-shaped dent in the paper, holding it closed better than the single fold does. Sirius opens the note.
What are you thanking me for? Thank you,
Remus.
The owl blinks at Sirius, waiting for a response. Sirius considers the note, and looks back up at the owl. “No,” he says. “It’s all right, you can go back to sleep.” But he slips the note carefully into his shirt pocket.
Hours later, he is still sitting on the floor, the refrigerator settling a chill in his back, composing endless answers he will never send to Remus.