Cenotaph

1. The attic.

Wide, rough scars on the wooden floor, still matching the shape of Buckbeak's talons. Soft velvet, worn and folded in blue layers on top of the cupboard - old curtains, the ones Remus sees in Black family portraits. No scent of Sirius here - not even on the stiff shirts in that chest of drawers, too formal for Sirius' tastes, no doubt only donned at his mother's command. (Remus imagines it: Sirius stifled by a tight collar at dinner, imitating guests obscenely for Regulus' benefit while Mrs. Black was looking elsewhere.)

Sirius' school broom leans by the cupboard - the original Starburst now dusty with age, as smooth and warm as skin under the slope of Remus' palm. Remus remembers it, clenched tight between his legs - his arms wound around Sirius' waist, Sirius' hair wild and wind-whipped, his back hot against Remus' chest. I've got you, Remus would laugh into Sirius' red, tingling ear - because Sirius felt like the Snitch, heart frantic and fierce, fluttering quick as a bird under Remus' hand.

2. The kitchen.

Sirius used to sip his whiskey there, by the mantel, standing still as though keeping watch over the fire. His stubble was rough under Remus' fingers, the back of his neck surprisingly soft - he'd put aside the glass then, sighing, drinking instead of Remus' mouth.

But that was later. Remus remembers the fights, too: the flung crockery and words spat like hexes, Sirius circling him with his teeth bared in a snarl. He remembers standing there and shaking and saying everything he'd thought - saying that twelve years was a long time, that he'd got used to living without Sirius, to living with others, fucking others, that it'd become a habit to hate Sirius, almost comfortable, and his life would have been easier had Sirius not returned.

He remembers the wrath in Sirius' eyes then, the hurt - not because Remus had said what he'd said, but because it was true . He remembers Sirius not touching him afterwards, not looking at him for hours - as though a single word might cause an explosion too big for them both - but Sirius had come to him later that night, eyes glittering, and he'd fucked Remus with a vicious, quiet sort of determination, hands wound so tight in Remus' hair that they hurt.

3. The study.

Remus unfurls the old maps. Maps drawn in Sirius' hand, woven with spells familiar to every one of the Marauders - maps made for the Order, to navigate Death Eater territory, identifying each individual in casting range. Azkaban hadn't taken this from him, it appears, because each of the spells are perfect - Remus tests them out with his own wand, reconfigures them, sees only his own name on the house's map. ( Strange , Remus thinks. Sirius is gone, but I'm the ghost .)

Remus runs a hand along the desk's dull edge, remembers pressing Sirius against it: the taste of ink on Sirius' fingers, of sweat and dust along his collar-bone, of sour whiskey in his mouth.

"You've ruined another one," Sirius would say later, sounding almost chagrined - and Remus would turn to see ink spattered from the fallen quill, blots spoiling another set of carefully drawn lines.

4. The bedroom.

Remus isn't alone in the house now, since Shacklebolt left Harry and young Ron Weasley behind - but Remus doesn't talk much to them, essentially because they keep to themselves. He sees them whispering with their heads bent together sometimes, much like James and Sirius used to do. It isn't until he finally gathers the courage to visit the bedroom, Sirius' bedroom, that Remus finds out - they've undone the wards around it, basic though they were, because the door opens too easily and Remus enters to find Harry curled on Sirius' bed.

Harry's face is no longer damp with tears, but Remus can still smell the salt of them; Harry's asleep, strangely out of place, too young on the old sheets of this bed.

Part of Remus feels angry, in a dim, tired sort of way, to have the solitude of this memory taken from him - to not be able to curl up there himself, smell Sirius' scent, think of waking up with Sirius' body warm against his. But it's an old wound that Remus knows better than to open, and perhaps it's better that Harry's here; perhaps it's better that Remus leaves, quietly, before Harry opens his eyes and starts asking questions. Before Remus realises that, with his (Lily's) eyes closed, Harry looks more like Sirius than James.

5. The foyer.

It's quiet, and only a little past sunset, when Remus leaves. He has his tattered robe on, the one that's served him so well for so many years - years without Sirius, without himself. The candelabra jangles slightly, as if a Nargle or two might be nesting in its webbed holders; the shadows shift silently, curling around the wall where Mrs. Black's portrait used to be.

Remus decides not to look back up the staircase - decides not to remember Sirius there, laughing, eyes no longer hollow as he led Harry up the stairs. He decides not to linger a moment more - decides not to remember Albus' words, asking him to stay, asking him to keep himself safe, because Harry needs him now.

The splintered door swings open. Remus steps out into the cooling air. Time for him to disappear again, for a few years, until time calls him forth again; Albus hadn't understood, and Remus hadn't been able to tell him, but Harry doesn't need Remus now. Not yet, not while Sirius is still so alive here, his voice still echoing in the kitchen, in the attic, on the stairs. No. Remus has to leave, because he has to understand that Sirius is dead - he has to leave because he's of no use to anyone, not here, not like this, not haunting this house in which Sirius had lived.

fin.