Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Chapter Three: Close My Heart

I could close my eyes, it's still there

Close my mind, be alone

I could close my heart and not care

But gravity has got a hold on us all

~Jack Johnson

Harry woke early after his first night at Grimmauld Place. After the previous day's events, he had tossed and turned for a long time, first awake and then in dreams, unable to release from his mind everything that had happened and all the things he'd said to his friends. Even now, he was unsure whether he regretted them or still felt a bit of the residual anger from when he'd spoken them. Remembering his conversation with Ginny had been the only way he was able to put the strained feelings behind him and finally fall asleep, where his previous thoughts had just come back to haunt him.

In the next bed over, Ron was still fast asleep, snoring more lightly than usual and looking so peaceful in his rest that Harry felt a stab of envy. He could hardly remember the last time he'd slept so well. Not wanting to begrudge his friend the rest they all desired, Harry quietly gathered a pair of old trousers and a tee shirt and moved along to the bathroom. It was unoccupied, so Harry quickly washed up and dressed, emerging to wonder if he was the only person awake in the entire house. There had been sun shining in through the edges of the window where the thick drapes just couldn't reach, but Harry supposed it could still be quite early. He moved lightly down the stairs, pausing for a moment in the entrance hall before continuing down another flight of steps to the kitchen. He entered and was surprised to find both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley already moving swiftly about.

"Harry, my boy, good morning," Mr. Weasley greeted when he noticed him standing in the doorway.

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, looking up and following her husband's gaze to the thin frame of her son's best friend. "I thought I heard someone moving about upstairs. How are you?"

Harry shrugged off the question. "I wasn't being too loud, was I?" he asked.

"Of course not. If it had been one of mine, I expect you'd all be awake right now."

Harry allowed a small smile for that comment before moving further into the kitchen. He observed Mrs. Weasley as she fried some eggs and sausage, presumably for her husband, who was dressed in a set of gray robes and looked as though he would be leaving for work soon. A tea kettle whistled on the other side of the stove, and Mrs. Weasley abandoned the food for a moment as she turned her attention to it.

"What can I get for you, Harry?" she asked as she brewed the tea and quickly flipped an egg before it burned. "Pumpkin juice? Tea? Some breakfast? Eggs? Toast?"

She sounded very eager to feed Harry, especially as he'd hardly eaten anything the day before, merely picking at dinner before pushing it away. But Harry was anything but hungry at the moment. "Um, just tea, I think," he responded, not having the heart to refuse everything she offered.

Mrs. Weasley frowned, but decided not to comment. Instead, she gathered Arthur's breakfast on a plate and brought it over with the tea pot, filling Harry's cup with just enough room for the two sugars he always took. Harry blew on it for a moment and then sipped the scalding liquid, heat running quickly down his throat to his stomach and warming him pleasantly. He hadn't before realized just how chilled he had felt.

"Did you sleep well, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked, trying to make conversation while he ate his breakfast.

Harry studied his best friend's father as he decided how he should answer that question. The truth was that he hadn't slept well at all, and while he guessed that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could see that just by looking at him, he wasn't sure he wanted to endure any conversations that might ensue, which seemed like they might end with Harry being forced to do things he didn't want to, like taking something to help him sleep, or, worse, continue his Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. It wasn't like he needed them anymore. Ever since the night Sirius had died, he hadn't had another vision. His dreams were filled with nightmares of Sirius dying, not of anything Voldemort was forcing in. Besides, he thought that if he was forced to deal with Snape in such a situation again, it would only hinder an already bad relationship. Harry preferred to hate his Potions professor from a distance.

"Yes," he finally answered, then, deciding more was needed after a prolonged silence added, "I slept fine."

Mr. Weasley forced a smile. "Wonderful," he replied, and Harry noticed for the first time how strained he looked. He knew he was being selfish, unable to dwell on anything but Sirius's death even though there was nothing he could do now for his godfather, especially with the Weasleys unable to return home for fear that one of their children was plotting against them. Yet no matter how much he tried to convince himself that life would go on without his godfather, he couldn't help but feel that a part of him was missing. How was it fair that he'd had so many people taken away from him, while others in his class lived their innocent lives, families whole and untouched by the war that was unfolding around them. Why was it that he, Harry, was expected to endure with nothing and no one to hold onto, while others broke apart at the mere suggestion that their loved ones may be threatened by Voldemort?

Harry wasn't sure what he would say to Mr. Weasley, and so he didn't respond. The room was silent but for the scraping of a fork on a plate, the banging of pots and pans where Mrs. Weasley worked in the kitchen, and the soft clatter of Harry's teacup every time he set it down. He was just thinking that perhaps he was making the situation more awkward and ought to leave when Ginny came bounding into the room, looking far more cheerful than Harry thought anyone should be allowed to be at this time in the morning. She accepted a cup of pumpkin juice and flopped next to Harry at the table.

"Good morning, Harry." She gave him a beaming smile and took a long swig of her juice. "Mum, what's for breakfast? I'm starving!"

Mrs. Weasley gave Ginny a chastising look. "Oughtn't you wait for your brother and Hermione before you begin?" she asked.

"Oh, Hermione'll be down in just a moment," Ginny informed her mother. "It was my turn to go first in the bathroom." She then turned back to Harry. "We didn't realize you were awake. Is Ron still asleep?"

"He was when I left him," Harry replied dryly. "I'm not sure anything would have woken him up short of getting Sirius's mum started ..." He broke off, wishing that he didn't have to be stuck at Grimmauld Place, where memories of Sirius ran rampant. Every time he somehow referred to the house, he would remember something about his godfather that he wished he could still cling to.

Ginny seemed to realize his dilemma. They all did, he supposed. "He's so lazy, I swear he'd sleep through until tomorrow morning if mum let him."

"Speaking of," Mrs. Weasley interrupted, "why don't you go wake him, Harry, so that we can all have some breakfast." She gave him an encouraging smile and for some reason Harry felt his stomach turn. He would, he decided, rather deal with Sirius's mum than have to eat breakfast, but obediently he began up to the room he shared with Ron. As he left the kitchen, he heard Mrs. Weasley chastising Mr. Weasley for running late to work, and then the loud pop that indicated Disapparation.

When he reached the first bedroom on the second landing, he opened the door gently. Ron was still lying in the same position where Harry had left him, face almost completely obscured in the fluffy pillow he favored leaving mostly violently red hair showing. Stretched completely out, one arm and one leg hung partially off the edge of the bed, and Harry felt a little bad, knowing that if he weren't there, the two beds could be transfigured into one larger one. Ron gave a small snore and a grunt, and Harry thought he might be waking up, but he merely shifted slightly and returned to his deep sleep. Enviously, Harry approached the redhead and gave him a small shake by the shoulders. It did very little other than causing one of Ron's arms to fall over the edge of the bed again, which his friend didn't even seem to notice.

"Ron. Ron, wake up. It's time to get up." His words had no effect whatsoever. "Ron! Wake up!" he said a bit more violently. Still no reaction.

Standing in the silence of the bedroom, Harry almost jumped when he heard the door squeak. He found Hermione standing in the partially open doorway, pushing it farther open and finally stepping in. Harry watched as she made her way over to where he was standing, thinking that the circles under her eyes hadn't been there the day before. Apparently, she hadn't slept any better than he had.

"That'll never work, Harry," she told him matter-of-factly, looking down at their red-headed friend.

Harry looked distastefully down at Ron, wondering how on earth he could still be asleep. Harry himself probably would have woken up just from Ron opening the door. He looked back over at Hermione. "Well, what do you want me to do then?"

Hermione turned to face Harry and didn't answer him right away, looking as though she had more important matters to consider than waking Ron up. He wondered what she was waiting for until her eyes met his and he realized she had been searching. He felt oddly uncomfortable with her eyes boring into him, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Are we all right?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Harry responded.

"After yesterday, what happened. Are we all right?"

Harry understood the clarification. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" When Hermione didn't reply, Harry tried again. "Ginny said you'd be angry with me."

"Ginny said?" Hermione returned sharply.

Harry simply shrugged. "We're all right, if you want us to be all right," he conceded.

"I do. You're one of my ..." Hermione broke off. "I want us to be all right."

"And Ron? Are things all right with him?"

Hermione blinked as though she had completely forgotten that they were standing over their slumbering friend, trying to wake up the boy whom Harry supposed was the heaviest sleeper in the universe.

"I suppose they are. I don't think Ron would hold a grudge like that."

Harry chose not to remind her of fourth year, when Ron hadn't spoken to him for months because of the TriWizard Tournament. They had been younger then, the war had been much less desperate than it was now, and both of them knew that Voldemort would love nothing more than to cause rifts between his enemy's members.

"We should wake him up," Harry finally said, looking pointedly at Hermione. "Mrs. Weasley is making breakfast."

Hermione studied Harry for a moment longer, looking as though she wanted to say something else. But she didn't speak, she merely looked at him through tired eyes that mirrored his own, and then finally let out a long, deep sigh.

Turning back to Ron, she reached down and gave him a shake, as though testing to see whether this would be enough. When he didn't even respond with a snort, Hermione backed away from the bed, moving quickly towards the open doorway. She clicked the door shut quietly and then raced back over to Ron's side. Harry watched the display in interest, but he was not prepared for Hermione as she leaned over Ron so that her mouth was right next to his ear and yelled, at the top of her lungs, "RONALD WEASLEY! GET UP THIS INSTANT!"

Harry jumped back as Hermione let the words out, almost toppling over onto his own bed from surprise. He watched as Ron simultaneously shot up in bed and wrenched his eyes from the comfort of sleep. "What? What? Wuz goin' on?" he slurred.

Now that the shock was gone, Harry found a laugh reaching up in his throat, and unable to do otherwise, released it. Hermione simply rolled her eyes as Ron studied his surroundings and, realizing that it was time to get up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"You didn't have to scare the pants off of me like that, Hermione," he said testily when no one else spoke - Harry was simply trying to subdue laughter and Hermione was waiting impatiently for him to get out of bed.

"How else was I supposed to wake you, Ronald? I suppose I could have just pushed you out of bed, but I was afraid you might actually get hurt. These wooden floors are pretty hard. Perhaps I should have just taken my chances ..."

Ron merely grumbled in response, something about how he was going to go deaf in that ear, and climbed out of bed. Hermione, for her part, did a very good job of pretending that she couldn't understand anything Ron was saying under his breath and turned a bit shakily to Harry.

"Shall we go down to breakfast, then? With his stomach, I'm sure it won't be nearly as hard to get him to follow as it was to wake him."

Harry silently agreed and led Hermione out of the room. Ron didn't respond to this latest comment, most likely because he knew it was true. They arrived back down in the kitchen to find Ginny setting the table while Mrs. Weasley rushed around the kitchen. Harry was immediately accosted with the strong smell of eggs frying alongside of bacon, and his stomach gave a mighty jerk. He knew that Mrs. Weasley was going to try to make him eat a large breakfast, but the thought of actually trying to chew and swallow anything at the moment was enough to make him want to run the other way and hide.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a heaping plate of eggs, bacon, and toast was set in front of him. He almost gagged just looking at it.

"Mrs. Weasley? I'm really not ... I don't think I can eat all this. I'd rather just have some toast," he said as she set similar plates in front of Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

Mrs. Weasley turned his way, looking crestfallen. "But Harry dear, you're getting so thin. You need to put some meat on those bones."

Harry felt terrible rejecting her food. He knew that she put love into everything that she prepared for them, but he didn't think it would exactly seem complimentary if it were to make him sick. "I'm sorry, I just can't." He shook his head.

Mrs. Weasley still looked a bit upset, but Ron didn't seem at all disgruntled. "I'll take what you don't want, Harry," he offered with a grin, scooping off all the eggs and bacon before Harry could rescind the offer.

Harry didn't protest, but instead layered some jam on the remaining toast and took a bite of it as if to prove to Mrs. Weasley that he wasn't completely skipping the morning meal. After that, breakfast passed quickly, Ginny and Hermione having a discussion while Ron merrily ate away his and Harry's breakfasts and then some. Harry was relieved when they began to clear their plates away, and Mrs. Weasley announced that they would again be getting the house in order. Harry wondered what exactly they'd been doing since the beginning of the summer - did it really take that long to clean a house? - but didn't say anything about it.

He and Ginny were subsequently assigned to the drawing room. They had gone through it the year before, Harry remembered, painfully reminded of Sirius being there as they'd scoured it for anything magical or dangerous. It seemed, however, that they hadn't done a very good job in actually cleaning it, and that had been an entire year ago. The only occupants since then, Kreacher, who was more likely to make the house dirtier than cleaner, and Sirius, whom, Harry suspected, spent most of his time up in the master bedroom with Buckbeak, drinking more firewhisky than was healthy, didn't seem very likely to have done much either.

"You ok, Harry?" Ginny asked.

Harry forced his attention back to the drawing room and realized that he had stopped in the doorway. Ginny was looking at him expectantly, holding bottles of cleaning supplies that Mrs. Weasley had given them to work with.

"Yeah, fine," he assured her. Nodding his head as though to reassure himself as well, Harry took one of the bottles from her, and quickly got lost again in his own thoughts as he polished wood, swept floors, and helped beat out as much of the dirt and dust as possible from the ancient Persian rug that adorned the floor.

**********

By the time Mrs. Weasley stuck her head in and announced that it was time for lunch, the drawing room was almost spotless. Harry and Ginny had worked efficiently as a team, and now all that Harry could think of was that the sofa probably needed to be cleaned, and the fireplace surely did. Harry was glad that the one in the kitchen was the one connected to the floo network.

He followed Ginny back down to the kitchens, thinking that he felt slightly hungrier than he had that morning and could hopefully eat enough to appease Mrs. Weasley until dinnertime. He entered the kitchen to find Hermione and Ron already there. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley were standing off on the other side of the kitchen, away from the table, talking quietly as Hermione held up a chain with something dangling off of it, while Ron sat at the table, contentedly munching on a sandwich from a large platter that sat before him.

"Harry, Ginny!" Ron swallowed his food quickly when he spotted them, holding up the remaining half of his sandwich. "Lunch!"

Harry raised an eyebrow as Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "Not everyone finds food as fascinating a topic as you do," she told him, but continued toward the table to select a sandwich from the platter.

Harry followed her lead, keeping an eye on Hermione as he took a large bite of ham and cheese. She was speaking rather quietly and he had to concentrate hard to hear what she was saying.

"There really weren't very many things ... found ... no consequence." Harry took another bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly and trying to lean in more closely. "And we did find this ring on a chain ... we weren't sure if it was anything important, but it looked nice, like something he would have wanted to be kept."

Suddenly, Harry had a growing suspicion as to what exactly Hermione was talking about and why she was trying to keep her conversation with Mrs. Weasley covert. He watched the ring sway lightly on the chain, and it tugged at his heart. The food in his mouth grew heavy and he had to force himself to swallow it.

"Hermione," he said loudly. "Where did you find that ring?"

Hermione stopped in mid-sentence and looked over at Harry with an expression on her face that suggested deer in the headlights. "Oh. Harry ..."

"Hermione, where have you and Ron been cleaning this morning?" he asked more forcefully.

Hermione's eyes caught his, and she knew she couldn't lie to him. "It was in Sirius's room," she said quietly, hoping he would understand.

Harry's eyes clouded over, but he was determined not to show any weakness. "Why were you in there? Why were you cleaning Sirius's room?" He realized he was pinning this all on Hermione, and so he sent glares to Ron and even Mrs. Weasley as well.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said softly. "You must understand ... with Buckbeak in there as well ... it was, is, absolutely filthy."

Harry rounded on her. Hermione was now standing by her side, as though being closer to each other would somehow make it any easier to appease Harry. "Why do you have to clean it at all? Sirius is gone, and you just want to clear out his space, to just erase everything that was his like he never existed!"

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed in shock, finally finding his voice. "No, mate ..."

"That's not what we're trying to do, Harry," Hermione explained calmly, so calmly that it only made Harry even angrier. "We're not trying to act like he never existed. But the fact is, he's gone. He's gone, Harry. And he can't come back. I don't know if you realize that yet."

"Of course I realize that," Harry replied. "But you're trying to make it look like he was never even here!"

"No, Harry," Hermione insisted. "We just -"

"Just what?" he demanded, then paused. He couldn't keep doing this, feeling like this. "You know what? Just do whatever you want. I don't even care. I don't care, all right?"

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley said, more sharply than usual. "Now, dear, calm down and let's talk about this ..."

"No! I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to think about this, I just want it to all go away. Just do whatever the hell you want with Sirius's room, and just forget he ever existed." He could feel his face burning with the anger and hurt, and he took a few backwards steps away from them. "And while you're at it, maybe just forget that I exist as well!"

With that, he turned quickly on his heel and waltzed out of the room, the ham and cheese sandwich that had still been clutched in his hands falling to the floor before he even realized it was happening. And as Hermione and the three Weasleys froze in place in the kitchen, wondering just how they should react to the scene that had just played before them, Harry ran back up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Ron and collapsed onto the bed, hoping his friends would have more sense than to try and follow him.

He lay on the bed only for a few minutes before his frustration got the better of him. He stood up and began pacing the room, throwing around the dirty socks and pajamas that littered the floor in their bedroom. But the soft, silent collisions of balled up socks gave him no comfort, so he picked up the nearest hard object he could see, the one thing Ron had placed on the table between his and Harry's beds. With the strength of all his anger, Harry chucked the heavy picture frame at the opposite wall and stood steadily unaffected as it crashed into the wall, somehow offering him less comfort than when he'd destroyed Dumbledore's office.

It wasn't until after the glass had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces that he bothered to actually look at the photograph behind it, only to see staring back at him a rendition of Ron, Hermione, and himself, laughing as they wrapped their arms around each other to pose for the camera. And when a piece of broken glass cut into his hand and wedged there, he simply climbed back to the bed and allowed his blood to drip onto the crisp white sheets, realizing that he didn't even know how he should feel, or if he was supposed to feel anything at all.

**********

Harry hadn't even realized that he was asleep until he was woken by a soft knock at the door. Before he had a chance to react, the door cracked open and Remus barged into the room, pausing only when he saw Harry curled up on the bed, presumably asleep. He was still studying the prone figure when Harry rolled onto his back and looked up at the soft, blurry features through his drowsy eyes. Reaching up to adjust his glasses on his face reminded him painfully of the glass that was still embedded in his palm. He ignored the ache and, suppressing a wince, sat up in bed to silently study his friend and former teacher.

"Harry," Remus said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Harry merely shook his head in response. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Remus nodded. "So ... how are you?" he asked, knowing his words were wrong.

Harry shrugged and looked away. "All right, I guess."

Remus watched the boy before him, wanting so badly to help him that his own pain seemed to diminish in response. He tried to catch Harry's eyes, but the green orbs were resolutely facing another direction. Hoping he wouldn't mind, Remus reached out to take one of Harry's hands in his own, wondering if the touch would help comfort. Both men froze, however, when Remus's hand ran over something hard and Harry let out a small gasp of pain. Grasping Harry's wrist forcefully, Remus pulled the hand toward him and turned it so the palm was facing up. He winced in pain himself, seeing the large, sharp piece of glass stuck in the skin, blood still oozing slowly from around it.

"Harry, you're hurt! Why didn't you tell me?" Remus asked, both sternly and with concern.

"It's nothing," Harry mumbled, looking down at his hand as well. He tried pulling it away, but the older man held on firmly. "It's fine."

Remus looked at Harry firmly. "It's not fine. Stay right here. I'll be back in moment." He gave Harry another long look before turning and bounding out of the room.

Harry took Remus at his word and hardly moved, maintaining his perch on the edge of the bed as he studied his hand carefully. The assault of Remus's grasp had started the bleeding again, and the piece of glass was slowly becoming covered in the sticky red substance. The pain of it tore through him much more than Harry would have expected, having endured the pain of the Cruciatus curse, but he didn't care.

A rush of emotions flooded his mind as the memories of Sirius broke through the barriers he normally kept them behind. He couldn't help but wonder if it had hurt when Sirius had died. What spell had Bellatrix hit him with? He only hoped that it wasn't anything painful, and that Sirius had been blissfully unaware as he fell behind the veil. He knew that Sirius had experienced far more than his share of pain in life, at least as much as Harry himself had. It angered him, the unfairness of it all, yet at the moment, he was too dejected to do anything about it.

Remus arrived a few short minutes later. He sat down on the bed next to Harry, setting down the items he had brought back with him. "Give me your hand," he ordered gently.

Harry did so without a word, studying Remus's reaction to the torn, glass-embedded flesh. However, this time, the older man had very little of a reaction besides a thoughtful, concerned expression as he looked it over. Then, raising his wand, he pointed it at the cut and spoke a few words in Latin. The glass disappeared in a moment, leaving the gash open to bleed even more heavily. Another quick spell later, the bleeding had stopped to almost nothing.

Reaching over to the items he had set aside, Remus unstoppered a glass flask and poured a small amount of it onto a piece of cotton. Holding Harry's hand even more gently, he said softly, "This is going to sting a bit."

Even with the warning, Harry hissed in pain and tried to pull his hand away when it came into contact with the cut.

"I'm sorry," Remus offered. "But I have to make sure it's clean before I can close it up." After a few more hurried swipes, he set the bloodied cotton aside, and spoke one last spell, which sealed the gash on Harry's palm.

As Remus turned to clean up the mess, Harry studied the palm that only a moment before had been cut and bloodied. Somewhat gingerly, he reached up and touched it with the opposite hand, surprised to find the skin smooth, as though it had never been marred in the first place. He looked up at Remus with grateful eyes. "Thank you," he said honestly.

Remus gave Harry an odd look. "You've never had anyone heal your wounds before?" he asked.

Harry considered the question. "Well, probably Madam Pomfrey has, but not like that."

"Well, it wasn't a serious cut," Remus told him. "I don't know much about healing, just the basics."

"Exactly," Harry said, thinking that if it wasn't serious, most people wouldn't have bothered to heal it for him. Then, realizing that Remus might not have understood, he added, "Well, thanks, in any case."

There was silence between them for a long moment. Remus shifted awkwardly on the bed and Harry continued to stare at his hand, which was now resting in his lap. He prodded it again, just to make sure, but even the pain was entirely gone. Remus had healed him in a way that no one ever had before. The Dursleys had never so much as even put a Band-Aid on his cuts when he'd fallen. In fact, Harry could distinctly remember a time when Dudley had tripped him on the sidewalk, and Aunt Petunia had yelled at him for getting blood on the carpet. He'd been only six years old, but he spent that day locked in the closet, sitting through another life lesson that had clearly told him he would have to take care of himself if he wanted to survive in this world.

Then there was Madame Pomfrey of course. She had healed him on numerous occasions. But that was different, in Harry's mind. It was her job to heal him, and her manner was always so gruff that he was sure she found it something of an inconvenience that he'd been hurt in the first place. Remus, on the other hand, had healed Harry's wound because he wanted to, because he didn't like seeing Harry in pain. He was the only one who cared.

Or, not the only one, Harry remembered then. Hermione had eased his pain once as well. She didn't know how to heal, and Harry wasn't sure that the wounds from Umbridge's quill could be healed in the normal manner anyway, but she had given him something to put his hand in, to take the pain away. Remembering it, Harry felt guilty that he had forgotten his friends cared about him as well. He felt guilty for treating them the way he had down in the kitchen at lunch. He had been feeling guilty a lot lately, and yet it didn't seem to stop him from making the same mistakes over and over again.

"Harry?" Remus's voice broke the silence. "How are you, otherwise? Did you not sleep well last night?"

How do you think I slept? Harry wanted to shoot back; but he held his tongue. Remus was only trying to be kind to him, and it wouldn't do to be rude. The truth was, Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd slept well. While at the Dursleys, he had often resorted to taking naps during the day, and even then his sleep was plagued with visions of Sirius, falling through the veil, visions of his friends, injured and in danger. Now, at Grimmauld, it was even worse, for he knew he wouldn't just be able to collapse into sleep during the day without raising questions. Unlike with his relatives, people here actually seemed to pay attention to him.

"I'm fine. I slept fine," he answered instead, his automatic answer to anything anyone asked him anymore. That was all anyone ever asked him anymore, whether he was all right.

He heard Remus suck in a quick breath, and could feel the man's eyes on him. He looked up and locked his gaze with his professor's, and was dismayed when he not only saw the pity that emanated from everyone around him, but anger as well. In that moment, he wanted to break down and tell Remus everything, tell him that he hadn't been sleeping at night, not for as long as he could remember. Tell him that he hated trying to live here without Sirius, that it was his fault Sirius was dead anyway, no matter what anyone tried to tell him. He wanted to admit that he didn't feel like a brave Gryffindor, or the Boy-Who-Lived, or the extraordinary son of James and Lily Potter. He only felt like Harry, alone and lost and with no one to turn to.

But instead of speaking, he looked away again. He looked over at the pile of broken glass that had once been a picture frame, and he felt the tension, thick in the air.

"Harry, don't lie to me!" He had recognized the anger in Remus's eyes, yet the ferocity of his voice startled him. "You're not fine. I'm starting to get the idea that you haven't really been fine your whole life!" Harry looked up at him with such pain in his eyes that the older man softened his tone, if only slightly. "You need to talk to someone about this, and I'm here to talk. I'm not alien to what you've gone through, Harry. But if you don't want to talk to me, then at least talk to someone. Please."

His words were breaking Harry's will to remain silent, and Harry knew it. "What do you want me to say?" he finally asked in anguish. "What is there for me to even say? That I'm upset that Sirius is gone? Of course I am! That I hate myself for not being able to save him?" He paused and shook his head. "You say you understand, but you don't, Remus. It's not your fault he's dead!"

"It's not your fault, either, Harry," Remus said softly.

"Not my fault entirely, maybe," Harry said quietly. "But that doesn't make it any better. It's Dumbledore's fault because he never told me what was happening, or else I would have known what to expect. But that only makes it worse because I trusted him; I trusted that he was looking out for me. It's Snape's fault too because he just let Umbridge try and stop us, without even caring what was happening! And you think it makes me feel good, to know that he hates me so much that losing both of my parents as a baby wasn't enough for him, that he wanted me to lose my godfather, too?"

"Harry ..." Remus began, but Harry wouldn't let him interrupt.

"But worst of all, it is my fault! I'm the one who went running off to the Ministry, trying to save him. I should have listened to Hermione. I should have known that even if he was there, I couldn't have saved him. Damn it, I should have remembered about the mirror, and then Kreacher wouldn't have been able to lie to me and I wouldn't have left Hogwarts and Sirius wouldn't have left here and everyone would still be alive!"

"Harry!" Remus interrupted, firmly.

Harry stopped speaking and a dead silence fell about the room, so that all he could hear was Remus's soft breath and the creaking of the floorboards somewhere in the house and his own raging heartbeat. His face was burning with grief and anger, and he felt closer to bursting than he ever had in his life.

"Harry, you can't do this to yourself. Yes, Sirius is dead, and yes, it hurts, but he's gone, and he cannot come back. I wish it weren't so, but it is. And it isn't Dumbledore's fault, or Snape's fault, or your fault, or anyone's fault but Voldemort's, for bringing you there, and Bellatrix's fault, for throwing that curse at him. Do you hear me?"

Harry nodded his head slowly. Remus could see a flutter of emotion in the boy's expressive green eyes but he didn't know how else to deal with it. There was no way to comfort Harry when he still believed that he was the reason for Sirius's death. His eyes were glazing over and Remus could see that he wanted to cry, to break down and sob. But he would never do so, not with anyone there, and trying to make him would only push him further away.

"Harry, please, say something," Remus begged, realizing he didn't know what else to do. He had thought that with his own grief, he had something he could share, something that Harry could relate to and find comfort in, but now he was frightened that it wasn't working.

"I don't ... I can't," Harry replied.

"What can I say to help you? What can I do for you? I'm trying to help you get through this; I'm trying to help you in any way I can, but I don't know what to do. I need you to let me know something here."

"Maybe I can't be helped," Harry finally told him, remembering his discussion with Ginny.

Remus was silent for a long time. Harry wasn't sure what it was that the older man was thinking about. Possibly he was realizing that Harry was right, that there was nothing anyone could do or say to help Harry, short of finding a way to bring Sirius back. Short of finding a way to bring back all the people who had died because of Harry, and a way to make the prophecy go away, and give Harry the normal childhood he'd never had.

Harry tried to imagine these things in his head, not daring to speak when Remus seemed so lost. He wondered what his life would be like if he'd never been the Boy Who Lived, perhaps if it had been Neville instead. His parents never would have died and he never would have been shipped off to live with relatives who didn't want him, just because they shared his mother's blood. He would be with his parents. They would have been there when his Hogwarts letter arrived and instead of trying to stop him from having it, they would have watched as he opened it. They would have taken him to Diagon Alley to buy his school things and every year they would stand on the platform and wave as the Hogwarts Express carried him off towards another year at school. But as much as he wished it, the James and Lily Potter he saw watching him leave were young and happy and didn't even know they would someday have a son named Harry. They were the only James and Lily that Harry knew, the ones from the pictures, the ones that stood with a handsome Sirius Black and a less weary Remus Lupin and a Peter Pettigrew who smiled so traitorously that Harry never would have spotted it if he hadn't already been looking. Harry squeezed his eyes shut tightly, hoping to expel images he did not want to see.

"I felt the same way once."

Harry opened his eyes slowly to find that Remus was now staring at him again. He stared back but didn't say a word.

"Like no one could help me," Remus continued. "Did you know?"

Of course Harry didn't know. He knew surprisingly little about the man who was Remus Lupin, at least compared to how much Remus knew about him. Remus knew that Harry hated the Dursleys but was always forced to go back to them. He knew that Harry missed Sirius more than he would ever miss his parents, simply because Sirius had been there when James and Lily couldn't be. He knew that Harry was mostly an average student, except in defense, and it puzzled him. He knew that every time Harry saw a Dementor, he heard his mother dying for him. Harry had no idea what memories a Dementor brought back to Remus.

"Maybe everyone has felt that way at some time. But not like you have, I'm sure. And not like I have." Remus didn't seem to be bothered that Harry wasn't responding. "I lost them all in one fell swoop." Harry didn't have to ask who Remus meant. "At the time, I thought I'd lost James and Lily and Peter to death, and Sirius to a darkness that had somehow wormed its way into his soul."

Harry shivered at his words, thinking that the way Remus described Sirius was exactly the way Harry felt at times. But he would never turn his back on his friends, would he? He would never stop fighting Voldemort. Remus seemed to notice the boy's hesitance and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I know now that wasn't true, but I lost them just the same, Harry. My family was already dead. There was no one left, no one except you, and Dumbledore was sending you off to live with Lily's sister. Not that I could have taken you, anyway. As a werewolf, I never would have been allowed. I had nothing left to live for. I'm still not sure why I did. Werewolves weren't accepted into any part of society. Dumbledore found me a few odd jobs, but my condition was just too ... obvious. I wandered for years, Harry, not really living. I thought that was how I would die someday; alone, apathetic, in a forest somewhere, trying, if nothing else, to make sure that I didn't pass my curse along. I didn't think anything would ever change, that anything could ever help me."

Harry was now watching him with interest, though consciously, as though he didn't want to be reminded that he wasn't the only one who had suffered. "But something did?" he asked quietly. "Something helped?"

"Yes," Remus answered slowly, wondering if Harry understood. But he could see in those green eyes that he didn't. "It was you, Harry. When Dumbledore asked me to come to Hogwarts, he said it was because Sirius Black had escaped, and he needed me to protect the students because I probably knew Sirius better than anyone live. But that wasn't the real reason, Harry, and I didn't see it until I'd already let you into my life. You were the reason Dumbledore brought me to Hogwarts to teach. He realized that I needed you much more than you would ever need me to protect you from Sirius Black."

"Some good I did," Harry replied softly. "I brought Sirius back into your life only to take him away again. Why don't you hate me?"

"Harry, I could never hate you! You helped me long before I realized that Sirius hadn't betrayed James and Lily and wasn't a murderer. Having Sirius back in my life was ..." Remus squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and Harry wondered what memories he was trying to suppress. "Good. It was good. But it's not your fault that he's gone now. And even if it were, I wouldn't hate you for that."

Harry looked down at his hands, and Remus sighed. He was afraid that he wasn't going to get any farther with Harry, at least not today. He simply refused to believe that Sirius's death had not been his fault, and every time Remus tried to tell him it wasn't, it only made matters worse. Perhaps there really was nothing he could do, at least for that. But he wasn't going to give up. Harry, in some ways, was all he had left now, and he wouldn't ever give up on the boy.

"It doesn't matter if you don't believe me now," Remus said, so quietly Harry almost didn't hear him. "Someone will help you. Someone will eventually find a way."

Harry looked up into the werewolf's eyes and saw an infinite sadness lurking there. And then he did something completely unexpected: he smiled. It was a wistful smile, sad almost, but a smile nonetheless. As though he, too, wanted to believe that he would be all right again, someday. "I hope so," he agreed in an uncertain voice.

"Harry," Remus said then, in a slightly more authoritative voice. "There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Mrs. Weasley told me what happened at lunch ... about Sirius."

Harry nodded, looking slightly ashamed. It was a comforting feeling, considering that he still didn't really regret anything he'd said to his friends the day before. "I shouldn't have yelled at them," he offered.

"No," Remus agreed, and then added, "though I can see where you were coming from. You need to understand, though, Harry. The Weasleys cannot go home again. This is essentially their home for the time being. And as big as Grimmauld Place is, the Weasleys feel bad for taking up space that was once free for Order members to use whenever they needed. The master bedroom that Sirius stayed in was large and the space really is needed. No one is trying to forget Sirius, least of all your friends. They're just trying to keep living."

Harry buried his face in his hands, but refused to cry. "I know. I know." He looked up at Remus. "I know they're not trying to hurt me, and they're not trying to get rid of Sirius. But I'm not ready to go in there, Remus. I'm not ready to see. And I'm afraid that by the time I am, there won't be anything left to see. I'm afraid there won't be anything left to remember."

Remus reached out to touch Harry on the arm, but Harry jerked away. His eyes were burning and Harry had the distinct feeling that there were tears there, trying to escape. He buried his face in his hands again, his fingertips pressing into his eyes as though the pressure would stop the tears from coming. How could he explain any of this to Remus? How was he supposed to make Remus realize that Harry couldn't stand the thought of losing the mere memory of his godfather when he still couldn't even stand the loss of the man himself?

"Harry, even if you had nothing left of Sirius you would still have your memories of him. Those will never die. He'll never leave your heart, just as I know he'll never leave mine," Remus said softly.

He was trying to soothe Harry, but when his voice cracked on the last words, Harry was forced to again look up at Remus. He was surprised to find tears beginning to overflow from the man's eyes. When Remus noticed Harry watching him, he quickly wiped the tears away, forced himself to be neutral. Harry wondered if Remus was like him and didn't like to cry, or if Remus just didn't want to cry in front of Harry. Harry hoped that wasn't the case. If Remus was going to cry, Harry rather wished he would do it front of him, so that he wouldn't have to be alone when he was hurting. But the older man had now effectively shut off his emotions, and was back to business.

"I know you're not ready to look at his things yet. I understand that. Would it be acceptable if his things were stored away, so that you can look at them later, when you feel ready? I promise, no one will get rid of anything, they'll just store it away."

Harry considered this for a long moment. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to keep that room just as it had been. "I suppose if they really need the room," he relented. Then, realizing that he sounded like a sullen child, added, "I - I'm sorry this is ... hard. I know I should be getting over it. But it's so hard, you know?"

"Harry! Don't feel that way. No one thinks you shouldn't be mourning for Sirius, and each person does it in their own way. It's unfortunate that these times we live in are difficult, and we must ask you to say good-bye to a piece of Sirius before you're ready. But thank you for agreeing."

"I don't want to be difficult," Harry said aloud, nodding his head and adding, to himself, sometimes I just can't help it.

"I ... I don't suppose you would want to talk anymore, would you?" Remus asked, hoping in spite of himself. When Harry didn't even deign his question with a response, Remus added, "Ah, well, if you ever do ..."

"I know. I can talk to you," Harry supplied, sounded distasteful at the thought, hopefully of speaking to anyone at all, and not just Remus.

"Yes, Harry, you can," Remus told him softly. "Really, you can stop me anytime I'm around the house, which will probably be fairly frequently. And you can floo me any time, just check with Molly first, as she'll know if I'm ... indisposed."

Harry knew what that meant. Harry could keep track of the full moons well enough on his own and had, in fact, been doing so ever since he'd found out about Remus back in the Shrieking Shack. He'd only lost track of it a couple times last year, when he was too busy worrying about Voldemort and Umbridge and everything else to remember. No, what Mrs. Weasley would be able to offhandedly tell him was that Remus was out doing something for the Order, or perhaps even in doing something for the Order, Harry wouldn't know, as he still knew next to nothing about the Order's actions. In any case, Remus had basically just offered Harry any amount of his time as long as it wouldn't put either of them in danger. It was a generous offer, though Harry wasn't planning on taking advantage of it.

"Oh, and one other thing ..."

Harry glanced up to see Remus rummaging around in one of his robe pockets. He looked on curiously, paling only when he recognized the shape of the package in Remus's hand when it emerged from the folds of fabric.

"I know ... I know that Sirius gave you James's half of the mirror ... I had it before, but we both decided it would serve you much better, stuck in school with that horrid Umbridge. This is Sirius's half; I saved it right away, but I don't think I could use these again. I don't know if you can either, but you should still have it. I have other things. You can keep both, for memories' sake, but I hope eventually you'll give one to someone else. Perhaps Ron, or whoever you like. James and Sirius would have wanted them to still be used. They would have wanted them to be helpful."

Harry took the package from Remus's insistent hands, but simply stared at it. Did Remus know that he thought about this mirror every day, that he dreamt about it every night? Did he know that Harry would as soon smash it into tiny pieces as keep it so he would forever remember his fatal mistake? He wanted to throw it against the wall and watch it land in a shattered heap next to Ron's broken picture frame, yet he knew he wouldn't. If Sirius were alive, he would only hate that more.

Instead, Harry looked up at the older man and spoke, his words seemingly foreign in his mouth and unexpected. "I can't give it away," he said. Remus furrowed his brows, and Harry continued, "I broke the other one. They don't work anymore. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break it."

"It's all right, Harry."

"No, it's not. It's not all right!" Harry replied, unsure as to why he was getting so upset over this. Turning away from Remus, he ran over to his trunk and wrenched it open, rummaging through the various belonging before coming to a fragile, broken parcel wrapped in brown paper. He picked it up carefully and unfolded it as he turned back to Remus, showing him the shattered remains within. "Seven years bad luck if you break a mirror. That's what the muggles say. Is it true, Remus? I don't need anymore bad luck, but I deserve it, don't I?"

"Of course you don't, Harry. You don't. It doesn't matter anyway, it's just a superstition. It's not real."

Harry didn't think he believed Remus. He would have seven years bad luck, and he deserved it. That was his punishment for killing Sirius. It was a lot less than he deserved, actually.

"I can fix it, you know, if you like," Remus suggested softly.

Harry considered it for a moment. This had been his father's mirror once. Years and years ago, James had held this very mirror in his hands, had used it to talk to the young, whole Sirius Harry only knew from pictures. Not even a year ago, this had been a gift from Sirius, given so that Harry would always have a way to contact the godfather who would go anywhere and do anything for him, his own safety be damned. And Harry had ignored the thin package and now Sirius was dead. In some ways, even though it hurt to see, Harry wanted it to stay broken. He wanted to look at those pieces and be reminded of the dreadful mistake he had made so that he would never make it again. Yet another part of him knew, as Remus had said, that Sirius would want it to be fixed and used again. He would rather see Harry use it as a tool for mischief, or as a tool in the war that was ever crashing down upon them, or as anything other than a way to torture himself and his conscience.

"Harry?"

Harry sighed. "Yes, you can fix it. Please."

Remus studied Harry, but the boy's face was impassive, so he instead looked down at the pieces of the broken looking glass, and pointed his wand at them. "Reparo."

At his softly spoken word, the fragments shifted and melded back together into one. Looking down at it, Harry never would have guessed it had been broken if he had seen it. But despite the flawless façade, he knew he wouldn't forget what he had done to the mirror, or to the man who gave it to him.

"Does it still work?" he asked.

"There's only one way to find out," Remus replied, untying the string around the package that contained the other mirror. Taking it out, he looked decisively into the glass and stated, "Harry."

Harry was somewhat unsurprised when Remus's face appeared on his own mirror. "I suppose that answers it."

"The charms were never broken. Just the glass," Remus supplied.

Harry nodded. A sudden sadness, more poignant than before, washed over him, and he had the sudden desire to turn the other way and run. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Thank you, Remus," he choked out, forcing himself to say the words. "I ... I think I'd like to be alone for awhile."

Remus nodded resignedly, though he wasn't about to give up. He would just give Harry some time, and hopefully that was all he needed. "All right. I'll let the others know not to bother you until dinner. Try to get some rest, Harry, you look tired."

Harry didn't respond. The two studied each other for a very long moment before Remus reached up and touched a hand softly to Harry's cheek before it landed heavily on the boy's shoulder. "Take care, Harry. You know you can reach me if you need to."

With that, Remus turned and stalked out of the room, trying his best not to let his emotions show until he was safely outside the door. But just down the hall from Harry's room, he slumped against the wall, knowing that he needed to regain his composure before he faced anyone else. Watching Harry like that, so dejected, so sad and angry and depressed, had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. He'd never seen Harry quite like that before. He knew the boy had never had a good childhood. He knew that Harry had been through much even in the short time since he'd left for his first year at Hogwarts. But never had he before seemed so lost and broken.

In that moment, Remus hated himself. He hated that he had never gone to find Harry. He hated that even when the two had been reunited, now almost three full years ago, he hadn't made more of an effort to support the young man. He hated that he had always thought it Sirius's job, because now Sirius was not here, and Remus didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make things better, and he was afraid they wouldn't ever be.

**********

After Remus had left, the door shut securely behind him, Harry found himself frozen in place for a very long moment, unable to react to everything that had happened until he had finished processing it. Then, as if in a dream, he slowly carried the mirrors to the bed, packaging them back up and even retying the string that had been around the one Remus just gave him. He tucked them both into the bottom of his trunk, wrapped safely within an old Weasley sweater he'd outgrown.

With that task accomplished, Harry didn't know what to do. He wanted to be alone, and yet he wanted people there to hold him and to receive the harsh words he would yell at them. He wanted to yell and scream and break things, but at the same time he wanted to break down and cry. How could anyone feel so many things simultaneously? He was feeling so much that he was sure he would soon rip in half from the effort of containing it all. He waited, but nothing happened; he was still Harry, still alive and still in anguish. And, because he could do nothing else, he collapsed onto his bed, alternately shaking and stiffening from all the anger and pain and unfairness. He thought about Sirius, and all he had done for Harry, and how little Harry had done in return.

Sirius's face was already beginning to fade from his mind, as quickly and innocently as a rainbow fades from the sky: so quietly and unnoticeably that one moment it's there, and the next moment you look up and wonder if you had only imagined it. Oh, he could look at the pictures. Sirius was in more than one of the photographs in the album Hagrid had given him, but that was the face of a Sirius Harry had never known, just as he had never really known his parents. It was young and happy and unaware of the horrors the man's future held, and this fact alone offered Harry little comfort. That man wasn't Harry's godfather.

Harry's godfather was a man who had once been full of life and vitality, a handsome man whose life had stolen all the good and left him scarred, broken. Just as Harry often felt. His godfather had known true hardships and personally knew the pain that Harry himself endured. He hadn't asked for what life had given him. He'd only wanted a life filled with his friends, and jokes, and love. But when the task had confronted him, he had been unable to turn it down, unable to refuse a cause that needed him. Oh, how Harry empathized with him. All he wanted was to be a normal student, to be able to laugh with Ron and Hermione on Hogsmeade weekends and complain about schoolwork as though it were the only difficult thing he must endure. He wanted to go home for Christmas and have his mother fuss over him the way Ron's did and to have his father bring home a gigantic fir tree. But none of that was to be, and even if he could have chosen to ignore his fate, Harry knew he wouldn't have. He could not turn his back on a cause that needed him. He made that cause his own.

How ironic then, that the one person he could truly identify with, the one person who had truly understood him, now existed only in his dreams, and in the dark recesses of his mind where the same few minutes played over and over again like a broken record. That voice he could no longer hear, he heard there, a cocky swagger in it as he challenged his cousin for more. That face he could no longer picture was clear as crystal when he saw it there, horror-struck as a beam of red flew towards him, as he fell through the veil. Harry feared, possibly more than anything at the moment, that this was the picture of Sirius he would always remember, a surprised man bathed in a sickly pallor of unnatural red light as he fell to his death because of Harry's immutable mistake.