Woodsmoke and Cinnamon

Harry nudges open the door of Grimmauld Place. The smell hits him first. It is by no means unpleasant, just odd, and rankly musty, with an underlying note of familiarity that he can't quite place. He slips through the partially opened door, ghosting past Mrs. Black's portrait on silent feet.

The light inside is dim, filtered through years and memories. Dust particles sparkle and dance in a lone sunbeam, drifting in the breeze of his passing.

He hears the house settle around him, but can see no sign of habitation on the ground floor. Up. Onwards and upwards, he thinks to himself, heading for the stairs. As he pauses for breath on the first floor landing, he hears the rasp of his breathing echoing unevenly back. Forgetting his need for oxygen, he dashes up the last few steps, and pauses at the head of the stairs.

Instinctively, he pads to the room at the end of the corridor. Pressing at the door lightly, he is not surprised to see it swing inwards under his touch.

Remus is slumped on the bed. His hair is disheveled, and his clothes are askew. He does not acknowledge Harry's presence in any visible manner; his eyes remain fixed on the ceiling and his fingers continue their ceaseless movement through the fringing of a scarf.

Harry stands inside the door and watches the older man's fingers thread through the golden wool. He moves forwards to stand next to the bed. Remus does not take his eyes off the ceiling. Harry gingerly lowers himself onto the bed next to the other man.

.

"He always said he never loved me enough, you know."

Remus' words echo strangely in the small room. Harry notices the smell is stronger here, in his position by Remus' side.

Harry is lost for words as Remus' fingers continue their incessant dance. Strands of red and gold wool catch on his fingernails.

Molly has sent him here today, but he cannot think why, as he sits on the edge of Remus' bed and watches him mourn.

Harry clears his throat, coughing awkwardly in the hush. He misses Sirius as well, but he never knew him in the ways Remus did. He cannot imagine what it would be like to lose your best friends, one by one. He can only envision what would happen to him, if Hermione and Ron died. He vaguely wonders who would be sent to console him, in the event of their deaths. He hopes he never has to find out.

"I miss him too," he ventures into the silence. He carefully doesn't look at Remus' face, choosing instead to focus on his own fingers, picking nervously at a torn cuticle.

Remus' hands still. The fringing sways for a few seconds, hypnotising Harry with its momentum. Remus looks at Harry, and opens his mouth. His words seem half formed and his voice rusty.

"Harry. It's only me left, now. Your parents entrusted you to Sirius. Sirius entrusted you to me. But I can't - " his voice quavers and breaks on the next word. Harry pats his arm, shyly, in an attempt to lend him strength.

Remus takes a breath and plows determinedly on. "I can't do it, Harry. I can't take responsibility for you. I can barely take responsibility for myself."

Harry nods. He understands. Everything is so confusing and muddled. Sometimes it seems like he's swimming through cloudy water. He can't see if the direction he's paddling in is the right one. He just has to hope and pray that his friends won't leave him to drown.

'"You're going to catch a cold, Harry," Remus says, abruptly. He sits up on the bed, crossing his legs. Harry looks baffled, and Remus strokes his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Here." He wraps the scarf he's been fiddling with around Harry's neck. "It was your father's. But after Sirius' parents kicked him out, James gave it to him. It's all I have left. I think you need it more than I do." His diction is perfect, each of his words carefully said, so as to have no inflection at all. Harry turns on the bed to look into Remus' eyes.

He can't look for long; the depth of pain is too great for him to share. He presses his forehead against Remus'. The tears, when they come, surprise him as always with their taste, the sudden salt flooding his mouth. He puts a hand up to wipe them away, but Remus' hand is already there.

His fingertips brush Harry's skin; Harry's cheek, which suddenly seems super-sensitive, every touch magnified a thousand fold. Remus takes a deep breath and smiles at Harry. Their faces are less than two inches apart.

Harry can't breathe.

Remus moves forward a fraction of an inch, and Harry moves to meet him. Their lips meet clumsily, and Harry bites at Remus' lip overenthusiastically. The older man pulls away.

"Harry. You understand why I can't do this, don't you?" He doesn't wait for a reply, standing and moving to the door. "Come. Molly's probably worried stiff. I'll show you out."

He leaves the room. Harry stays where he is for a fraction of a second, brushing his fingers across his lips. Had... that really happened?

He follows Remus to the front door, waving a dazed good-bye to the werewolf. As the heavy door closes behind him with an audible click, Harry nestles his face into the scarf, and his eyes widen with recognition. The smell. The sharp tang of woodsmoke and cinnamon. Severus.

Harry turns his face to the sunshine, and laughs aloud.