Fic: The Impossible Dream (2/5) (RL/SB) Novella
Title: The Impossible Dream (2/5)
Author: Sam I Am
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Summary: What if that night at the Shack in Harry's 3rd Year had ended differently?
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Author's Notes: This fic was partially inspired by the song 'The Impossible Dream' by Andy Williams, which could've been written specifically for our favourite werewolf!
i - Invincible
Part Two: Incomplete
~ Twenty-five years later ~
The sky is grey and dull and the world is filled with rain. His eyes are mirroring the sky. They show no sadness, but looking at them I feel grief, thick and unnatural as it, like the clouds, covers everything.
He sits and stares out of the window a lot now. Silent. Lost.
The drizzly November dawn has barely risen and the cottage is still dim inside, lit only by the muted light and the sooty paraffin lamp he’s lit. My thinned robes barely keep out the cold and my joints ache in the damp air, but all I do is wrap the coarse material slightly closer around me as I stand, watching him from the doorway.
His dark hair is shorter than he used to like it, but he never complains when I cut it. I don’t know why I don’t just leave it to grow into the almost shoulder-length mane he’d had when we were young. Maybe it’s because, without his hair that way, he reminds me less of the Sirius I knew back then, the boy who had inspired me. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t care what length it is anymore. Maybe it’s because I want him to care… because then he would be himself again, his usual handsome-and-fully-aware-of-it self.
He doesn’t look away from the window as I approach, slowly so as not to startle him. My voice is harsh to my ears when I speak, momentarily drowning out the crackling of the rain against the window pane, “You’re up early. Did you sleep alright?”
Sirius blinks unfocusedly and speaks, his voice seeming so far off and unnatural, “Fine. The rain woke me.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
He looks at me then, although he never meets my own gaze, before he replies quietly, “Yes. Thank you, Remus.”
“You’re welcome…” I reply, but he’s already lost to me again, grey eyes tarnished with amnesia and rain clouds.
Even Sirius’ piercing light did not escape that black hole eight years ago. Dumbledore says that the Dementor’s kiss wasn’t completed; that most of Sirius still remains, locked away by his brain for protection, but I cannot see it.
I have clung to every hope, to every shred of humanity left in his body, and yet eight whole years have passed by and he is still lost. The only place that he is whole is in my dreams now.
I turn and walk into the kitchen, drawing out my wand and wearily flicking it at the kettle. Every morning is the same; every day is measured in the same sequence of hope and despair. Sirius’ memory is so fragile and I constantly worry that it will shatter; it took him over a year to remember my name and only in the past five years has he been able to recall the fact that I’m a werewolf without any reminding.
It’s difficult for him. Knowing that faces and names should mean something when they don’t. He understands that we’ve been friends since we were boys, but that is only a fact he has been taught, like the alphabet or gravity. I spend every day with him and still my presence jogs no long lost recollection.
It breaks my heart when Harry visits every Sunday. Sirius seems so much more distracted than usual, uncomfortable. He knows Harry is his godson, he knows that he sees him every week and yet, every time the young auror steps into the room and greets him, Sirius struggles to recognise his face. Harry, just like Sirius and I, is a victim of cruel fate. The night Sirius was Kissed, he asked Harry to come and live with him. He should’ve been able to fulfil his wish, to be the parent-figure Harry had always needed, but before James’ son even got to know the real Sirius, it was drained from him.
And so, I am the only person left in the world who remembers exactly how Sirius was. That is my curse, worse than Lycanthropy. Other people don’t remember enough, don’t remember everything. But I always will, every single thing. I can’t forget and the past haunts me, filled with images of Sirius asking me to runaway with him in Seventh year. I am the only one who can bring Sirius back now or, at least, the fragments that remain.
I sometimes wish I had taken up Fudge’s offer of a permanent healer in my place; he said it was the least he could do after such a ‘miscalculation’. Sirius would probably have been happier without the constant reminder that there are people like me who care about him, but that he can never remember why, can never return the sentiment. However, I declined the offer; whether he knows me or not, I don’t think I could bear any more time without him.
I make the tea, setting out his customary Hurricanes Quidditch mug, chipped and faded. The only reason I keep using it is in the hope it may trigger some memory, but it never does. James bought him that mug for his thirteenth birthday along with a miscellaneous box of Zonko’s gifts. It was funny at the time because Sirius hated the Hurricanes; he was a Puddlemere United fan and had refused adamantly to drink from it. He’d given it to me and it has remained in my possession ever since.
I carry the steaming mug back into the library, light beginning to improve. Sirius hasn’t moved from his chair beside the window; today is one of those days that I doubt he will at all.
I lower the mug onto the windowsill, watching as a dribble of milky tea quivers at the chipped lip before slowly meandering down over the face of one of the Hurricanes beaters, waving his bat threateningly at me for my carelessness.
“Remus?”
“Yes?” I reply quietly, looking down at my friend’s drawn face, so dull and pale. His eyes haven’t shifted from the deluge outside, saturating the muddy grass and swelling up the stream at the bottom of the garden.
“What day is it?”
“It’s Saturday, Sirius. November 28th.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday. Harry comes on Sundays. Harry is my godson. He has glasses.”
Sirius speaks to himself, lists the things he knows. It sounds like madness, but it isn’t. He’s just frightened he will forget it if he doesn’t continually remind himself, trying to overcome the blank spaces and gaps in his recollection. It is an echo of my own mind. Except I list the things that Sirius doesn’t know, the things that keep me awake at night when all I can think about are the fingerprints that once filled my scars.
He doesn’t remember Lily and James. He doesn’t remember Padfoot or even what an animagus is. He doesn’t remember Peter, that night at Godric’s Hollow or the Dementors either, which I am at least partly thankful for. He doesn’t remember Voldemort or the War we fought against him, the War Harry won against him.
He doesn’t remember me… He barely remembers me now when I am just that eccentric werewolf who makes him endless cups of tea and waits in vain for the irreparable damage to reverse itself, for everything to come flooding back. He certainly doesn’t remember why I’m here with him, searching every day for some sparse light at the end of a collapsing tunnel. He doesn’t remember why, even with no hope left, I’m still here, still waiting for a miracle even after so long.
He doesn’t remember that he loved me once and that I’ve never been able to let him go. When things got darker, back when James and Lily were still alive, when Sirius began to drift away, I thought that what I’d feared was coming true, that he’d stopped loving me. Perhaps he did. But now I’ll never know. I’ll never know what he felt for me that night he was Kissed, aptly the first time I’d seen him since I realised that I was and always had been hopelessly in love with him.
I’ve never spoken to him about our past, not in detail. Dumbledore, who is usually right, insisted that in such a fragile state just telling Sirius about his life would send him over the edge. Any huge shock could wipe it all away, perhaps permanently. If he was ever going to remember any of it, it would have to be by himself.
Nothing seemed to stir any recognition from him. I had always expected that he would remember me eventually. We had been together since that night James proposed and he loved me fiercely I think, until that terrible few months before Lily and James died. Before that we'd been friends for seven whole years; we'd grown up together and even those happy days have been extinguished within him.
I guess that I hate the fact that he can forget me so wholly when he is all I can think about. He is still the reason I get up in the morning. He is still the person I would die for. He is still Sirius Black to me, even though realistically I know that there is none of his personality left, nothing unique. Just a body that has his genes and his faded eyes.
“Are you alright, Remus?”
His voice is softer now; he is softer now without his stubbornness, ferocity and wild joy. His face is harder though, thinner, and the angles his body makes are sharper. He is constantly off-balance with the world, disconnected but still attached, and it shows through the taut lines of his body, the thin shape of his mouth.
I try to smile reassuringly, but I know it looks weak, “I’m fine, Padfoot…”
I regret it the moment I say it because now Sirius is worrying again, something in his head telling him he should remember this. He’s frowning slightly, eyes focussed on me as if staring at my scarred face long enough will just fix the problem, although he’s tried it before to little success. His lips are pursed slightly making him look sad and troubled.
“It’s alright, Sirius,” I murmur, looking out the window just to avoid the eyes of this vulnerable impostor, “You don’t need to remember. Try not to think about it…”
Silence drags on after that though and I wonder if Sirius is still trying to remember, despite me telling him not to before I realise that that is exactly what Sirius would’ve done obstinately before the Kiss. Nowadays, he does pretty much what I tell him to, almost infuriatingly compliant. I’ve tried to get a rise out of him a few times, but there is nothing except vacant eyes and silent acceptance of all I’ve said.
I glance at him and I’m surprised to see he is staring even harder than before, frown deepening the furrows in his forehead, jaw gritted. He looks angry, but I know better than to think he still feels anger. I blink and fleeting hope flaps uselessly in my ribcage like a fish dying out of water, slapping its body against the solid ground in some futile effort to survive.
Sirius rises from the chair achingly slow, standing before me, eyes searching my face for something that is obviously close but still out of his reach. My heart begins to beat slightly faster as I whisper, uncertain whether if I speak I will make or break whatever momentary connection we have, “Sirius…?”
Sirius hushes me hurriedly, stepping closer slightly as he breathes, “There’s something. I know it, I can feel it…” There’s emotion in his voice, slight desperation, and I can see a glimpse of something long amputated from those silver eyes. I remain silent as the broken man had bidden me, standing perfectly still, wondering if the epiphany will actually come this time.
It feels like hours pass and I notice vaguely that the rain has gotten heavier, but everything has become hazy, has floated into a peripheral dimension. All there is is Sirius, fighting to discover himself, and hope, becoming more and more desperate for some sign that it hasn’t be misplaced.
I feel his hands rest over my elbows lightly, but I think he’s lost what he found however briefly. His eyes fall from my face and he sighs. I open my mouth to speak, to murmur the same comforting words which always gnaw at my endurance, but I can’t do it. Today I can’t bear to say ‘never mind’ or ‘it’ll come to you soon’. I’m tired of lying to myself, to him. Eight years of ‘never mind’s and ‘better luck next time’s have destroyed me, eroded away my will to continue.
‘But he needs it…’ I remind myself bitterly, ‘He needs hope.’
I step back and try to stop shivering, but the chill of the rain outside seeps through my threadbare robes. I can’t look at him as I squeeze out, “Never mind, Sirius…” I turn quickly and stride towards the doorway.
“Remus. Wait,” he mumbles, lacking any conviction or strength. I stumble into the kitchen in order to make breakfast but I hear him following, “Wait. Don’t… Just…” Suddenly his voice cuts off like he’s been struck mid-syllable with a silencing charm and then he breathes something in a voice which sounds parched and stunned, “M-Moony…”
I spin around so quickly I almost lose my balance. I feel all the blood rush from my face and I know I’m shaking. I must look like I’ve seen a Grim, but I must be hearing things, he can’t have just said that name…
“Wha… W-What did you say…?”
Sirius’ voice quivers as he mumbles with more certainty, “I… I used to call you that…”
I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch behind me blindly, trying to find something for stability. The work surface is cold and solid beneath my fingers and errant toast crumbs get ingrained into my finger pads as I press them down against it.
“I’m sorry, Remus. I can’t… I can’t remember any more.”
I release a long breath, trying to quell the dizzying nauseous feeling inflating within me. I open my eyes slowly, watching him between eye-lash obscured slits before focussing on him in greater details. He’s wandering back to his chair, shoulders bent, far too weighed down by the world to be the same Sirius Black who’d dragged me from the dormitory, full of boyish excitement and that smile which had convinced me we were invincible…
He sits down in that old armchair and goes back to staring out the window; I know better than to disturb him again today.
~~~ * ~~~
I noticed the knife I’d charmed to chop the vegetables has finished and I flick my wand at them, causing them to fly into the broth already simmering on the stove with perhaps a little more carelessness than usual, a couple of rings of carrot and leek over-shooting the mark and a cube of potato falling onto the floor. I’m distracted as usual.
I haven’t eaten today and now the darkness of approaching December is falling rapidly outside. The sky had been filled with muffled light all day and I’d spent most of it alone in my tiny cluttered study, finishing some spell translations from Ancient Runes for Dumbledore. I’d hardly noticed the time until I realised I was squinting at my writing in the gloom; I try to forget that I’m getting older and blame the poor light.
It was only once I left my office that I passed the library again. I peered inside. He was out of his chair and stood in the middle of the library, muttering to himself. I’ve considered calling Dumbledore round to have a look at him, check if he’s alright. Sirius always says he’s fine, but he always looks so lost. I guess I worry too much.
I think that there must be some other place his mind drifts off to. Either he sits in that chair and his eyes glaze over or he wanders around, always searching for something, but he never finds it. I wonder what he’s looking for, whether it’s always the same thing or if he’s just seeking a discovery of anything.
He’s trying too hard today; he gets almost frantic for answers when he remembers something important. I shouldn’t have reacted so badly when he called me ‘Moony’ earlier. It’s my fault he’s going to work himself up into a state. I know he will; he always does.
The day he first remembered that we’d known each other since we were boys, he ran away. I think in some way he was ashamed that he’d only just remembered, that he’d never realised before that I was anything more to him than a carer. It was cold out, the hillsides covered in snow that had frozen over. I immediately called Harry round and, after an hour of unsuccessful searching, a few other ex-Order members joined us. It wasn’t until the early hours of the next morning that Severus found him. He’d walked miles and collapsed half-way up a mountain; his bare feet were frostbitten and his pyjama-clad body hypothermic.
He spent the rest of the day in bed and when he finally woke up, he cried and smashed anything in reach, including my nose, which he apologised for profusely afterwards. The frustration must've been unbearable. That was the worst episode; thankfully he’s never done anything as dangerous as that since, but he’s still not himself whenever he remembers something, the old question coming back to haunt him: 'What else have I forgotten?'
I can’t hear his muttering from the library anymore; I try not to worry. He’d probably be annoyed with me if I check on him again, well as annoyed as he can get these days. But I notice the broth is almost ready and Sirius probably hasn’t eaten all day either so he’s bound to be hungry.
I open the kitchen door to call Sirius when I stop still. That’s when I hear a sound from above, filtering quietly through the open doorway. I frown as I recognise the tinny thrum of brass instruments and look up towards the ceiling, hardly believing me ears, “Glenn Miller?”
~~~ * ~~~
Part Three
A/N: Please give me feedback! I like it even more than Glenn Miller and Remus!
Sam x
Author: Sam I Am
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Summary: What if that night at the Shack in Harry's 3rd Year had ended differently?
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Author's Notes: This fic was partially inspired by the song 'The Impossible Dream' by Andy Williams, which could've been written specifically for our favourite werewolf!
i - Invincible
Part Two: Incomplete
~ Twenty-five years later ~
The sky is grey and dull and the world is filled with rain. His eyes are mirroring the sky. They show no sadness, but looking at them I feel grief, thick and unnatural as it, like the clouds, covers everything.
He sits and stares out of the window a lot now. Silent. Lost.
The drizzly November dawn has barely risen and the cottage is still dim inside, lit only by the muted light and the sooty paraffin lamp he’s lit. My thinned robes barely keep out the cold and my joints ache in the damp air, but all I do is wrap the coarse material slightly closer around me as I stand, watching him from the doorway.
His dark hair is shorter than he used to like it, but he never complains when I cut it. I don’t know why I don’t just leave it to grow into the almost shoulder-length mane he’d had when we were young. Maybe it’s because, without his hair that way, he reminds me less of the Sirius I knew back then, the boy who had inspired me. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t care what length it is anymore. Maybe it’s because I want him to care… because then he would be himself again, his usual handsome-and-fully-aware-of-it self.
He doesn’t look away from the window as I approach, slowly so as not to startle him. My voice is harsh to my ears when I speak, momentarily drowning out the crackling of the rain against the window pane, “You’re up early. Did you sleep alright?”
Sirius blinks unfocusedly and speaks, his voice seeming so far off and unnatural, “Fine. The rain woke me.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
He looks at me then, although he never meets my own gaze, before he replies quietly, “Yes. Thank you, Remus.”
“You’re welcome…” I reply, but he’s already lost to me again, grey eyes tarnished with amnesia and rain clouds.
Even Sirius’ piercing light did not escape that black hole eight years ago. Dumbledore says that the Dementor’s kiss wasn’t completed; that most of Sirius still remains, locked away by his brain for protection, but I cannot see it.
I have clung to every hope, to every shred of humanity left in his body, and yet eight whole years have passed by and he is still lost. The only place that he is whole is in my dreams now.
I turn and walk into the kitchen, drawing out my wand and wearily flicking it at the kettle. Every morning is the same; every day is measured in the same sequence of hope and despair. Sirius’ memory is so fragile and I constantly worry that it will shatter; it took him over a year to remember my name and only in the past five years has he been able to recall the fact that I’m a werewolf without any reminding.
It’s difficult for him. Knowing that faces and names should mean something when they don’t. He understands that we’ve been friends since we were boys, but that is only a fact he has been taught, like the alphabet or gravity. I spend every day with him and still my presence jogs no long lost recollection.
It breaks my heart when Harry visits every Sunday. Sirius seems so much more distracted than usual, uncomfortable. He knows Harry is his godson, he knows that he sees him every week and yet, every time the young auror steps into the room and greets him, Sirius struggles to recognise his face. Harry, just like Sirius and I, is a victim of cruel fate. The night Sirius was Kissed, he asked Harry to come and live with him. He should’ve been able to fulfil his wish, to be the parent-figure Harry had always needed, but before James’ son even got to know the real Sirius, it was drained from him.
And so, I am the only person left in the world who remembers exactly how Sirius was. That is my curse, worse than Lycanthropy. Other people don’t remember enough, don’t remember everything. But I always will, every single thing. I can’t forget and the past haunts me, filled with images of Sirius asking me to runaway with him in Seventh year. I am the only one who can bring Sirius back now or, at least, the fragments that remain.
I sometimes wish I had taken up Fudge’s offer of a permanent healer in my place; he said it was the least he could do after such a ‘miscalculation’. Sirius would probably have been happier without the constant reminder that there are people like me who care about him, but that he can never remember why, can never return the sentiment. However, I declined the offer; whether he knows me or not, I don’t think I could bear any more time without him.
I make the tea, setting out his customary Hurricanes Quidditch mug, chipped and faded. The only reason I keep using it is in the hope it may trigger some memory, but it never does. James bought him that mug for his thirteenth birthday along with a miscellaneous box of Zonko’s gifts. It was funny at the time because Sirius hated the Hurricanes; he was a Puddlemere United fan and had refused adamantly to drink from it. He’d given it to me and it has remained in my possession ever since.
I carry the steaming mug back into the library, light beginning to improve. Sirius hasn’t moved from his chair beside the window; today is one of those days that I doubt he will at all.
I lower the mug onto the windowsill, watching as a dribble of milky tea quivers at the chipped lip before slowly meandering down over the face of one of the Hurricanes beaters, waving his bat threateningly at me for my carelessness.
“Remus?”
“Yes?” I reply quietly, looking down at my friend’s drawn face, so dull and pale. His eyes haven’t shifted from the deluge outside, saturating the muddy grass and swelling up the stream at the bottom of the garden.
“What day is it?”
“It’s Saturday, Sirius. November 28th.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday. Harry comes on Sundays. Harry is my godson. He has glasses.”
Sirius speaks to himself, lists the things he knows. It sounds like madness, but it isn’t. He’s just frightened he will forget it if he doesn’t continually remind himself, trying to overcome the blank spaces and gaps in his recollection. It is an echo of my own mind. Except I list the things that Sirius doesn’t know, the things that keep me awake at night when all I can think about are the fingerprints that once filled my scars.
He doesn’t remember Lily and James. He doesn’t remember Padfoot or even what an animagus is. He doesn’t remember Peter, that night at Godric’s Hollow or the Dementors either, which I am at least partly thankful for. He doesn’t remember Voldemort or the War we fought against him, the War Harry won against him.
He doesn’t remember me… He barely remembers me now when I am just that eccentric werewolf who makes him endless cups of tea and waits in vain for the irreparable damage to reverse itself, for everything to come flooding back. He certainly doesn’t remember why I’m here with him, searching every day for some sparse light at the end of a collapsing tunnel. He doesn’t remember why, even with no hope left, I’m still here, still waiting for a miracle even after so long.
He doesn’t remember that he loved me once and that I’ve never been able to let him go. When things got darker, back when James and Lily were still alive, when Sirius began to drift away, I thought that what I’d feared was coming true, that he’d stopped loving me. Perhaps he did. But now I’ll never know. I’ll never know what he felt for me that night he was Kissed, aptly the first time I’d seen him since I realised that I was and always had been hopelessly in love with him.
I’ve never spoken to him about our past, not in detail. Dumbledore, who is usually right, insisted that in such a fragile state just telling Sirius about his life would send him over the edge. Any huge shock could wipe it all away, perhaps permanently. If he was ever going to remember any of it, it would have to be by himself.
Nothing seemed to stir any recognition from him. I had always expected that he would remember me eventually. We had been together since that night James proposed and he loved me fiercely I think, until that terrible few months before Lily and James died. Before that we'd been friends for seven whole years; we'd grown up together and even those happy days have been extinguished within him.
I guess that I hate the fact that he can forget me so wholly when he is all I can think about. He is still the reason I get up in the morning. He is still the person I would die for. He is still Sirius Black to me, even though realistically I know that there is none of his personality left, nothing unique. Just a body that has his genes and his faded eyes.
“Are you alright, Remus?”
His voice is softer now; he is softer now without his stubbornness, ferocity and wild joy. His face is harder though, thinner, and the angles his body makes are sharper. He is constantly off-balance with the world, disconnected but still attached, and it shows through the taut lines of his body, the thin shape of his mouth.
I try to smile reassuringly, but I know it looks weak, “I’m fine, Padfoot…”
I regret it the moment I say it because now Sirius is worrying again, something in his head telling him he should remember this. He’s frowning slightly, eyes focussed on me as if staring at my scarred face long enough will just fix the problem, although he’s tried it before to little success. His lips are pursed slightly making him look sad and troubled.
“It’s alright, Sirius,” I murmur, looking out the window just to avoid the eyes of this vulnerable impostor, “You don’t need to remember. Try not to think about it…”
Silence drags on after that though and I wonder if Sirius is still trying to remember, despite me telling him not to before I realise that that is exactly what Sirius would’ve done obstinately before the Kiss. Nowadays, he does pretty much what I tell him to, almost infuriatingly compliant. I’ve tried to get a rise out of him a few times, but there is nothing except vacant eyes and silent acceptance of all I’ve said.
I glance at him and I’m surprised to see he is staring even harder than before, frown deepening the furrows in his forehead, jaw gritted. He looks angry, but I know better than to think he still feels anger. I blink and fleeting hope flaps uselessly in my ribcage like a fish dying out of water, slapping its body against the solid ground in some futile effort to survive.
Sirius rises from the chair achingly slow, standing before me, eyes searching my face for something that is obviously close but still out of his reach. My heart begins to beat slightly faster as I whisper, uncertain whether if I speak I will make or break whatever momentary connection we have, “Sirius…?”
Sirius hushes me hurriedly, stepping closer slightly as he breathes, “There’s something. I know it, I can feel it…” There’s emotion in his voice, slight desperation, and I can see a glimpse of something long amputated from those silver eyes. I remain silent as the broken man had bidden me, standing perfectly still, wondering if the epiphany will actually come this time.
It feels like hours pass and I notice vaguely that the rain has gotten heavier, but everything has become hazy, has floated into a peripheral dimension. All there is is Sirius, fighting to discover himself, and hope, becoming more and more desperate for some sign that it hasn’t be misplaced.
I feel his hands rest over my elbows lightly, but I think he’s lost what he found however briefly. His eyes fall from my face and he sighs. I open my mouth to speak, to murmur the same comforting words which always gnaw at my endurance, but I can’t do it. Today I can’t bear to say ‘never mind’ or ‘it’ll come to you soon’. I’m tired of lying to myself, to him. Eight years of ‘never mind’s and ‘better luck next time’s have destroyed me, eroded away my will to continue.
‘But he needs it…’ I remind myself bitterly, ‘He needs hope.’
I step back and try to stop shivering, but the chill of the rain outside seeps through my threadbare robes. I can’t look at him as I squeeze out, “Never mind, Sirius…” I turn quickly and stride towards the doorway.
“Remus. Wait,” he mumbles, lacking any conviction or strength. I stumble into the kitchen in order to make breakfast but I hear him following, “Wait. Don’t… Just…” Suddenly his voice cuts off like he’s been struck mid-syllable with a silencing charm and then he breathes something in a voice which sounds parched and stunned, “M-Moony…”
I spin around so quickly I almost lose my balance. I feel all the blood rush from my face and I know I’m shaking. I must look like I’ve seen a Grim, but I must be hearing things, he can’t have just said that name…
“Wha… W-What did you say…?”
Sirius’ voice quivers as he mumbles with more certainty, “I… I used to call you that…”
I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch behind me blindly, trying to find something for stability. The work surface is cold and solid beneath my fingers and errant toast crumbs get ingrained into my finger pads as I press them down against it.
“I’m sorry, Remus. I can’t… I can’t remember any more.”
I release a long breath, trying to quell the dizzying nauseous feeling inflating within me. I open my eyes slowly, watching him between eye-lash obscured slits before focussing on him in greater details. He’s wandering back to his chair, shoulders bent, far too weighed down by the world to be the same Sirius Black who’d dragged me from the dormitory, full of boyish excitement and that smile which had convinced me we were invincible…
He sits down in that old armchair and goes back to staring out the window; I know better than to disturb him again today.
~~~ * ~~~
I noticed the knife I’d charmed to chop the vegetables has finished and I flick my wand at them, causing them to fly into the broth already simmering on the stove with perhaps a little more carelessness than usual, a couple of rings of carrot and leek over-shooting the mark and a cube of potato falling onto the floor. I’m distracted as usual.
I haven’t eaten today and now the darkness of approaching December is falling rapidly outside. The sky had been filled with muffled light all day and I’d spent most of it alone in my tiny cluttered study, finishing some spell translations from Ancient Runes for Dumbledore. I’d hardly noticed the time until I realised I was squinting at my writing in the gloom; I try to forget that I’m getting older and blame the poor light.
It was only once I left my office that I passed the library again. I peered inside. He was out of his chair and stood in the middle of the library, muttering to himself. I’ve considered calling Dumbledore round to have a look at him, check if he’s alright. Sirius always says he’s fine, but he always looks so lost. I guess I worry too much.
I think that there must be some other place his mind drifts off to. Either he sits in that chair and his eyes glaze over or he wanders around, always searching for something, but he never finds it. I wonder what he’s looking for, whether it’s always the same thing or if he’s just seeking a discovery of anything.
He’s trying too hard today; he gets almost frantic for answers when he remembers something important. I shouldn’t have reacted so badly when he called me ‘Moony’ earlier. It’s my fault he’s going to work himself up into a state. I know he will; he always does.
The day he first remembered that we’d known each other since we were boys, he ran away. I think in some way he was ashamed that he’d only just remembered, that he’d never realised before that I was anything more to him than a carer. It was cold out, the hillsides covered in snow that had frozen over. I immediately called Harry round and, after an hour of unsuccessful searching, a few other ex-Order members joined us. It wasn’t until the early hours of the next morning that Severus found him. He’d walked miles and collapsed half-way up a mountain; his bare feet were frostbitten and his pyjama-clad body hypothermic.
He spent the rest of the day in bed and when he finally woke up, he cried and smashed anything in reach, including my nose, which he apologised for profusely afterwards. The frustration must've been unbearable. That was the worst episode; thankfully he’s never done anything as dangerous as that since, but he’s still not himself whenever he remembers something, the old question coming back to haunt him: 'What else have I forgotten?'
I can’t hear his muttering from the library anymore; I try not to worry. He’d probably be annoyed with me if I check on him again, well as annoyed as he can get these days. But I notice the broth is almost ready and Sirius probably hasn’t eaten all day either so he’s bound to be hungry.
I open the kitchen door to call Sirius when I stop still. That’s when I hear a sound from above, filtering quietly through the open doorway. I frown as I recognise the tinny thrum of brass instruments and look up towards the ceiling, hardly believing me ears, “Glenn Miller?”
~~~ * ~~~
Part Three
A/N: Please give me feedback! I like it even more than Glenn Miller and Remus!
Sam x