Seven: If Nobody Speaks
August 7th, 1977
They are awake late into the night, revelling in the heat of the last month before their last year in school, not wanting it to end. One by one, they drop into sleep-Peter in the middle of the living room floor where they will trip over him, James protesting even as his eyes close, “I’m awake, I’m awake.” Remus goes to sleep huddled in a corner, closing his eyes so as not to have to talk to Sirius alone. They are still awkward, in the aftermath of The Prank. Remus always thinks his habit of capitalising the significant events in his life is stupid, but still he cannot help it. The Bite, Coming to Hogwarts, The Animagi Transformation, The Kiss.
Sirius is not sure, later, whether he ever went to sleep at all.
The morning dawns early, cold and grey, and Remus wakes to find that he seems to have moved in his sleep. He is now on the sofa, with the afghan usually thrown over the back of it covering him to the waist. James is curled in a little ball in the armchair by the window, with Sirius’ leather jacket across his knees. Peter, lying flat on his back on the other side of the coffee table, is snoring softly, his hands rising up and down on his chest. Sirius is crushed into the space between the sofa and the coffee table. He is awake, and watching Remus.
“Hi,” Remus rasps, his voice hushed. “How did I get on the couch?”
“You looked really uncomfortable over there.” Sirius jerks his head at the corner Remus fell asleep in. “I, uh, moved you.”
“And didn’t take the comfortable spot all for yourself? Why, Padfoot, think of your reputation.” Remus doesn’t mention the afghan, though he can’t help noticing.
Sirius looks sheepish. “Well-”
“You needn’t answer that.” They are whispering, unwilling to break the silence. Mouths barely move, and it is almost as if they are not speaking at all, as if their voices contribute to the silence rather than take away from it. Remus reaches out a hand and brushes Sirius’ hair off his forehead. Sirius’ breath catches, and then evens out, heavy as in sleep. He wonders if he is asleep, and dreaming. “Sirius…” This is the only hour of the day that Remus can picture Sirius silent, and he wishes it was more common. Even before the business with Snape, when Remus used to wake early and watch Sirius sleep, it was not the same. Sirius awake and silent is more strange than Sirius calm and asleep. He makes small doggy noises in his sleep.
If nobody speaks, they will be able to imagine that nothing has changed. That they have been here all along, Remus’ palm against Sirius’ temple, sprawled across James’ living room, like they were last year. If nobody speaks of anything but the mundane things, small murmurings, like “The sun’s coming up,” and “I do not function on four hours of sleep,” and “Why can’t Prongs’ parents get carpeting, damn it,” they will be able to forget their awkwardness, and the thing that’s happening that they do not want to call a war, and the letter Sirius got not long ago from his parents’ solicitors, telling him he’d been disinherited.
If nobody speaks of remarkable things, if they say nothing but the things that do not need to be said, all will be well. It is easy, in this early morning half light, for Sirius to say that he is sorry, Oh God, so sorry, because it is something they both know is true. And Remus says, “You don’t need to say that.”
When this pause in time is over, when they world starts turning and they all wake up, things will become complicated again. They will have to think about the war and the future, and about what will happen if they don’t say the things that do need to be said before it becomes impossible.
Remus looks out the window, and smiles. He swings his legs off the couch, pulling Sirius up with him, laughing softly. It’s morning, but the birds aren’t yet singing. It’s still silent. “Come on, Sirius,” Remus says. “Let’s watch the sun come up.”
Day Eight