A Walk in the Park

You walk through the park with him. It's another glorious autumn day; leaves swirl red and brown at your feet and the wind scuds the clouds across an endless sky. You've walked like this before, so many times that you lost count long ago.

He gambols and bounds beside you, a great black dog. His eyes are alight with happiness and his tongue hangs out as he pants. His energy and joy are infectious. You wish the walk would never end.

'Good dog,' you say, 'good dog.' People look at you, startled, and some turn to hide a half-smile.

You carry a lead, but it's just for show. You tap it against your hand now, and he comes charging up to you, rushing around you in enthusiastic circles.

'Time to go home now, Padfoot.'

You know he doesn't want to go home.

You walk briskly along the tarmac path. He darts to and fro ahead of you, hiding behind trees and peering out of bushes at you. His eyes shine with mischief. You shake your head firmly and walk on.

At the park gate, you turn round. There's no sign of him. For an instant the panic wells up inside you again and then you see him, bursting out of a bush and scattering a flock of pigeons. He chases them half-heartedly as they rise into the sky, then dashes up to you, tongue hanging out, waiting for approval.

You can't help but smile. He's a good dog.

The best.

---

He trots obediently at your heel as you walk down the road. You're both getting tired now, and the light is fading from the afternoon sky. The clouds are dark and heavy above you and the wind bites as it tangles through your hair.

He wanders off while you wait at the crossing, burying his nose deep in a clump of grass and dead leaves, investigating smells that are lost to you until the next full moon. When the lights change, he is already back by your side.

---

It's been a perfect day. The rain slaps against the window as you stretch out on the sofa, fatigued but not exhausted. Your leg muscles tingle pleasantly after the exercise and you think how much worse it must be for him, trapped inside the house for days on end.

You prop a fat cushion under your head and glance across at him. He's curled up comfortably in the big old armchair you brought with you when you moved in, running his fingers idly through his hair, straightening out the tangles. His eyes meet yours and there's nothing either of you needs to say.

There's no light in the room except for the fire and you sit in companionable silence, until the flames turn green and Dumbledore's head appears in the fireplace.

'Remus,' he says. 'How are you today?'

'Fine,' you say, cheerfully. 'We're both fine.'

Dumbledore looks slowly around the room. His long beard waves gently in the flames as he moves his head from side to side. Eventually he looks back at you. He's looking sad again.

'Ah,' he says, very softly, and then, 'goodbye, Remus. Until tomorrow.'

Before you can reply, the fireplace is empty once more.

You stretch out again, really stretch, feeling it from the ends of your fingers to the tips of your toes. There's a tiny, nagging worry at the back of your mind, but when you reach for it, it's gone.

'You know, Sirius,' you say to the empty chair, 'I think I'd have gone mad if it wasn't for you.'

Ahead of you, the evening extends like a benediction. And tomorrow, maybe, another walk in the park.