Getting There

They go back to the old house after the ceremony and stand around, pretending to eat the sandwiches that Molly's made. As soon as they can, the others fade away, mumbling excuses, until it's just Harry and Remus, Harry and Remus rattling around the empty house.

Harry pushes past Remus and goes to his room. He pulls off his funeral blacks and opens the wardrobe door to stuff them out of sight. He takes the photograph of Sirius off the bedside table and shoves it under the robes. When he slams the door shut, there's still a scrap of black sticking out. He spends the evening on his bed, listening as Remus moves around downstairs like a noisy ghost. When he sleeps it's fitful and his dreams are of falling and a dark cloth that shivers in the wind.

He wanders into the kitchen next morning, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his Muggle jeans, and sees the hope flare in Remus' eyes. Harry won't meet his gaze. Don't push me, he thinks. He keeps his eyes fixed on the table as he forces down toast, then leaves without looking back. Remus doesn't stop him.

Don't push me, Harry thinks again, as he sits in the library, breathing in the silence and the dusty air. He's starting to hate being manipulated, wondering if he's been manipulated his whole life and if Dumbledore's hand isn't behind this also. He picks up book after book and turns them over in his hands, opening none. He wishes he didn't like Remus so much. Don't push me.

But Remus doesn't push. Remus leaves Harry alone all day, only knocking gently on the closed oak door when the sun is low in the sky and all its warmth has fled the ancient room, putting his head round the door to let Harry know that food is on the table.

At dinner, Harry asks Remus to pass him the salt. His voice is dry and scratchy, and he has to cough to clear his throat. He is surprised to realise that he hasn't spoken for two days. When the meal is over, Remus is the first to leave. Harry watches him go, wishing suddenly that he could call him back.

Give me a little more time, Harry thinks, as he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. But this is all the time they have. Harry is going back to Hogwarts and Remus is leaving too, leaving the empty house to its memories and its dreams. Harry wonders if wizard houses have feelings. If they did, he thinks, this one would be screaming.

At breakfast Remus asks Harry for the marmalade. They make polite conversation about their plans for the day, although neither of them have any. They end up walking around the garden together, as Remus points out this and that - the place where the swing used to be, before the apple tree came down, the blackened remains of the garden shed where Sirius used to hide his bike. It isn't so bad.

Harry knows he would hate it if Remus tried to be Sirius. He tries to stay angry with Remus - for letting Sirius go to the Department of Mysteries, for not loving Sirius enough, for not loving Harry enough, to try to stop him - but it's impossible. At times he wants to hurl himself into Remus' arms and break like a wave on a shore, but he knows he never will, just as he'll never ask Remus the one thing he really wants to know - Where were you when I was growing up? - because he doesn't want to read the half-truths and evasions in Remus' eyes. He could have asked Sirius anything, told Sirius anything, but Remus isn't Sirius and some truths will never be told between them.

'You'll write,' Remus says on their last morning, and presses something into Harry's hand. Harry nods. 'Yes.' They don't hug, because the emotions between them are too new and too raw for that, but maybe next time Harry thinks as he turns towards the open door.

A little more time. All the time in the world won't bring Sirius back. But Harry is still here, and Remus is still here, and even if the only thing they have in common is a void, a Sirius-shaped hole where love and laughter used to be, it's a start. We'll get there, Harry tells himself, and he picks up his bag and follows Remus out into the sunshine.