Page 394

Page 394

His hands never seem to get clean.

They're always smeared with oil these days, the skin rougher than ever, and the nails are as black as his name. The grime stays on, even when he is finished for the day and has come trudging through the portrait hole, for once calm and contentment thoroughly settled on his features; and Remus wonders after a while, has to wonder, if Sirius actually doesn't want to get rid of it. Doesn't really want to be clean at all.

They are never invited to see the actual motorcycle. They have to make do with Sirius's words for it and the smudges he leaves on their textbooks when he borrows them; and while the others clean and wipe and brush, Remus lets the prints stay, not looking up as he stows the books into his bag for safekeeping, carefully trying not to touch them so as to keep the mess just a little bit longer.

Sirius Black leaves a mark on all he does. All he says, writes, looks at, touches, is left full of him; and even though his spirit usually is light and teasing, Remus's disposition is more seldom so. Oh, Sirius is forgiven. It would be impossible not to. But Remus has rightfully grown more silent now, and he is not sure he is benefiting from all this thinking.

*

Sirius has been working on it for two months now. Two months, and Remus's new Charms book is now two shades darker than before. The prints have simply merged themselves into a black cover, quietly wrapped themselves around everything. As often as not, Remus is sitting alone in the dormitory, waiting for everyone's return from wherever it is that everybody has suddenly started to go, and the texts that managed to solace him before now make him sink into the pillows and think about next year, when he'll have no school books at all, instead.

Really, books used to be all right before they started bearing things other than knowledge and escape. Now they just confuse him.

Come November, Sirius starts sitting next to him in class. Tells him he deserves a break from putting up with Peter's constant questions, and while Remus quite likes explaining things, he never really manages to explain what suddenly goes off inside him as Sirius stretches languidly and disturbs a few of the hairs on the back of Remus's head as his hand creeps slowly by.

Of course, they use Remus's books in class as well.

*

Sometimes, Sirius does his homework. Sometimes, he even gets Remus to help him. Remus knows that Sirius knows that Remus knows Sirius can manage perfectly well on his own, perhaps even better, but every time Remus sighs with a little indulgent smile on his mouth and makes room for another on his little table.

The table ought to be bigger. Neither of them minds very much though.

One day, they turn up for class unprepared, not quite sure where all the time spent yesterday evening at their table actually went, and behind James and Peter's backs their faces grow hot as they don't have the right answers to anything. Remus finds it too much an effort to joke it away, and for once Sirius is silent too. It is difficult to look each other in the eye today, and when Sirius reaches out to turn the page his oil-smeared fingers make the now-worn leaves flutter slightly more than usual. Today their legs keep carefully to their rightful side of the shared desk, and Remus has never felt so thoroughly frozen as he does when Sirius flees at the end of the lesson without shutting the book after him. Remus does it himself then, and cannot bear to look at the tips of his fingers until he has washed them clean.

*

Sirius is too black against the soft snow of December. He does not flash his white teeth as often as before, and every time his eyes meet Remus's, they darken, and darken even further when he turns them away.

They both stay for Christmas. Sirius says he doesn't want to pester the Potters with his presence more than what is absolutely necessary, though his tone isn't at all his usual confident drawl. Only Remus notices though, and hopes the difference had not been too little to be true. Perhaps he did nothing but imagine it, the way he's been imagining a lot lately, and nearly all of it is triggered by James's delirious expression as he tightens his hold of Lily's waist by the fire.

The full moon falls on Christmas Eve this year, and while he misses his mother's Christmas pudding and his father's carol-singing tie, it's not the greatest loss in the world when in exchange he gets to snuggle the big black dog for a calm half hour before it awakens. In the dust on the floor Padfoot lies just that little bit too long before transforming to help him the far too short distance to the hospital wing, and in the dark of the tunnel white teeth are just barely visible as Sirius grins.

Remus does not care for crackers, other than when Sirius is pulling on the other end before fumbling with the gilded crown inside and placing it on Remus's head. He does not care for sprouts, other than when Sirius is offering to share the one that has accidentally followed his potatoes in his rush to get them there; and when Madam Pomfrey walks in at midnight, she very gently lifts Sirius into the next bed from his slumped position at Remus's feet. He misses the warmth at the end of the bed, for of course Remus is awake, of course he sees all through his half-closed lids, and of course he had to stagger his intake of breath as Sirius started stroking his legs in his sleep.

Remus is not sure who wakes first, but somehow during the night they have shuffled around in their respective beds, so that when they eventually open their eyes, the first thing they see is each other. He wants to laugh all of a sudden, and he does, nearly shyly so, although his aching ribs prevent him from doing it for long. Sirius joins in and continues even when Remus has to leave off; this then becomes the morning when everything suddenly rights itself, and the white, white snowflakes outside temporarily stop falling when Sirius's laugh trails off and the only remaining sound is their deliberately slow breathing.

The following days are silent, things are muffled by the white outside it seems. The fire in the common room is what keeps Remus from shivering as he awaits Sirius's return from his motorcycle; where he's hidden it he still will not say. His steps are as usual smoother when he comes back, and as Sirius slips down next to Remus in the sofa, the new black streak on the sleeve of his robe is all that Remus can focus on. The days pass with waiting, eating, reading and more waiting, and in the evenings they aimlessly prowl the castle corridors, the risk of being caught by Filch, or the other noticing that they walk that one inch too close keeping their pulses galloping. Sirius has started laying his arm around Remus's shoulders when he is in a particularly good mood, and Remus imagines how it would be to do the same with him. If the house-elves are annoyed by the increasing number of dirty robes they don't mention it when the boys visit the kitchens. The warmth seemingly seeping out of Sirius's fingers and into Remus's shoulder is another matter altogether; washing it away would be nearly impossible.

On the last day before the other students' return he does it, awkwardly but firmly, and Sirius's hand holds him tighter as he feels his way over Sirius's back and comes to rest in a surprisingly comfortable spot. They do not look at nor speak to each other for a long time, just keep on trotting; there really isn't anything to say anyway. Just before they close the curtains on their respective four-posters that night they open their mouths to say good night, but nothing comes out save heat, and the last thing Remus thinks about before falling asleep is the curves of Sirius's open mouth while at the same time telling himself off fiercely for doing so.

*

Next day's breakfast is a clumsy affair; why Remus's legs are shaking under the table he doesn't want to guess, and he chews even slower than usual so as to make the most of the morning. He knows that afterwards Sirius will disappear, perhaps not come back until the others are here as well, and then Remus will have to think about what he can pretend he spent his whole holiday doing.

He is right, of course. Sirius enters the dormitory just as Peter and James have unpacked, all four of them grinning but only two trying not to seem as if they aren't sneaking a peak at the other. Food, they decide, and in the Great Hall Remus and Sirius slide down next to each other as they've done for two weeks now, but this time they have the crowded table as an excuse to shuffle their chairs even closer. Remus barely notices what little he has eaten, and paying attention to the chatter has not often been this hard. Afterwards Peter and James excuse themselves; James with his face of awe and bliss as he slips off to sit next to Lily further down, and Peter taking insecure steps out of their sight.

As one, the last two rise and take off too, a short round of the corridors, uttering nothing, before clambering through the portrait hole and barely managing to keep on their trembling feet. In silent agreement they draw away from the rest of the Gryffindors comparing holidays, away and up the staircase, and it is hard to look down at his shoes as Sirius climbs before him.

Remus closes the dormitory door with a soft thud and sits gingerly down on his fresh sheets, Sirius having walked straight over to the window, now standing and looking out on the snow. Some moments he wants to speak, just for speaking's sake, but for all the words Remus has read he cannot recall a single one that suits his purpose. Outside where Sirius looks is a world of undisturbed white, inside they have not bothered to light the lamps, and if Remus once thought it was only his textbooks that were covered in black, he now needs to think again.

He lies down, waiting for Sirius to turn around, perhaps even speak, and as he waits his mind starts drifting off, led astray by blurry images in the dark. When he next opens his eyes the duvet covers him not entirely uncomfortably, and a collection of different, low snores assure him that suddenly night has come. Night, black as usual, and Remus waggles his toes at the bottom of the bed as he thinks of what such blackness really entails.

He finds he doesn't care much, as long as it retains its colour.

*

The following morning they arise in silence, most of it stemming from the groggy state of their sleepy minds. Peter and James's presence acts as a bizarre reminder of the holidays as they all strip and get dressed with the ease of over six years' practice: Sirius hunting down the day's attire from where it has been scattered all over the room, James occasionally throwing the odd sock at Sirius whilst attacking his hair with a brush, Peter prodding his sweater with his wand to get rid of a stain, and Remus in a far corner slipping into trousers with thinning knees. It seems nearly too normal a morning, and had it not been for Sirius's swift glances at him while he struggled with his T-shirt, Remus might have convinced himself that the sudden state of excitement he is feeling when James leaves for breakfast with Peter in his wake is an inappropriate response to the situation.

He does not betray his excitement, however. Remus only calmly reaches for his shirt, neatly folded on a chair, buttons it and smilingly notices something black under his thumbnail.

In the corner of his eye, Sirius has been fiddling with his tie too long a time now to make it even vaguely plausible, and they are both aware of it. Remus simply stands up then; three steps are all he needs before he is standing before Sirius, seated as he is on the edge of his bed, and before he has been standing there very long Sirius raises a hand that soon tugs on the end of Remus's white shirt and pulls him down to sit.

They sit. That is all they do. They sit out the clunking noises of the showers and the footsteps on the stairs, and if by the end of it Sirius's head has come to rest upon his shoulder, Remus isn't really sure of it in the commotion that arises when James comes barging in and needs to retrieve a certain Head Boy badge from its holiday resort. He disappears in a great hurry leaving behind distressed mutterings of things they cannot quite make out, but as neither of them can make out anything that is happening these days this is not too surprising.

Some time after, they leave too.

*

A couple of days pass. Again at their table, Remus absentmindedly tracing his fingers over the scars in the wood, as he fails focussing on his homework because of the way Sirius's fringe falls over his forehead not more than ten inches away. It is late but they have barely started; pulling an all-nighter has seldom been more appealing, and they will probably have to in the end. Remus thinks he very nearly can live off the atmosphere of the evening for the rest of his life; it is ordinary enough not to pay any attention to it, ordinary enough to sum up his whole existence at Hogwarts with its crackling fires and sleepy but happy companions scattered all over the place, ordinary enough save for a foot nudging his and a slight clearing of someone's throat as he asks to be noticed.

He needn't have taken the trouble of asking, though.

With his ever-smudgy hands, Sirius gestures to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them lying half-buried under a crumpled piece of used parchment, and asks Remus to open it in a voice so casual that the very air screams suspicion. Remus's eyebrows do an odd sort of wiggle before complying, and when he is told to find page 394 they turn into an apprehensive frown. Sirius's grin twitches a little as Remus's fingers slowly leaf through the worn pages, their pace slowing until they stop completely.

A muffled little sound escapes then, so low that Sirius would have missed it had he not leant forward across the table, senses sharpened yet head spinning; spinning and from then on never stopping.

"Yes," he answers simply, before Remus can ask at all. Remus, who usually does all the explaining.

Around the depicted pale full moon is drawn a messy heart, childish in style, black as a starless sky, and the fingerprints are strewn all over the page.

His hands never do get clean.

fin