Letters to a Dead Man

Sirius,

This is foolish, I know it is. I don't even know why I'm trying. Molly suggested it a while ago, I think. You would have said it's a stupid idea, and it probably is, but I'll try anything.

Yes, Padfoot, things have gotten that bad. I know if you were here you'd laugh at me and tell me to go get sozzed in a cheap pub and shag my troubles away. But you're not here. Which is the problem, actually. You not being here.

Well, I'm a right little ray of sunshine, as Ron would say. He's here now, with Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys. Things are very loud and red haired around here. Your mum's having fits. Still can't get her down. Tonks tried to hex her last week. Never try to Bat-bogey a portrait, that's all I can say.

And there I go, babbling about nothing, as if you're going to read this tomorrow and owl me back an answer.

What do I write in a letter to a . . . a letter like this?

*****

Remus looked at the drying ink of his letter for a moment, and then crumpled the parchment in a fist and threw it under his bed. Stupid. Brooding won't help.

He capped his ink bottle and left the tiny guest bedroom that had become his own in number 12 Grimmauld Place. He could hear pots and pans clinking in the kitchen. He'd go help Molly cook dinner.

He made it three steps towards the stairs before encountering an interruption of the red-haired variety.

"Prof--I mean, Remus!" Ron Weasley poked his head out of the room across the hall.

"Hello, Ron."

Ron bit his lip. "You busy?"

"Not particularly." Remus walked back down the hall towards Ron.

"Do you . . ." Ron looked quickly around. "Do you think you could help me with my Defense essay? But don't tell Hermione."

"Sure." Remus smiled at the boy's expression, glad for something useful to do. "What's it on?"

"Great! It's Patronus theory, and it doesn't make any bloody--sorry--any sense!"

"Well, let me look at it." Remus sat down on the bed that Harry had slept in last summer, and, ignoring the muttering coming from Phineas Nigellus's "blank" portrait, proceeded to explain to Ron the finer points of Patronus theory. He got quite involved with it, actually, branching out from the core material to elaborate on some of his own theories about the Patronus. Ron listened attentively, scribbling on his essay less and less frequently as he was drawn into the subject.

Hermione burst into the room around half an hour later, waving a parchment. "Ron! I found it! It--oh! I'm sorry! I don't mean to interrupt."

"Um . . . Hermione!" Ron stuttered, elegantly throwing his quill and essay behind him. "We . . . I . . . that is, er . . ."

Remus marveled that the twins were lucky to get away with anything, if they had the same subtlety genes as Ron.

A devious grin spread over Hermione's face as her eyes flicked from her friend to her Ex-Professor and the open Defense book. "Ron," she began, half-teasing, half-exasperated, "Didn't you tell me that you, and I quote, 'understood that chapter so well you should be explaining it to me?'"

Ron looked like he had just been caught holding a lit Dungbomb.

"Actually, Hermione, I was just curious to see what the new teacher has you two doing," Remus lied. "And then I got rather Professor-ey, I'm afraid, lecturing poor Ron about possible adaptations of the Patronus charm"

"Adaptations?" asked Hermione, looking intrigued.

"I'm sure Ron wouldn't mind telling you about it," Remus said, closing the textbook and sliding it back over to Ron. The redheaded boy looked dumbfounded, and then grinned at him. "I'm off to help Molly with the cooking."

Remus left the room, chuckling softy as he saw Hermione sit on the bed next to Ron, looking intently at him as he repeated Remus' words of the past fifteen minutes. He could see the two teenagers blushing slightly as their knees touched, but neither moved away.

Sirius owes me five galleons, he thought, and then froze in the middle of the hallway. It was happening again, that gray, misty feeling, the one that made him want to lie down where he was and just give up completely, give up on everything.

He changed tactics abruptly, and walked briskly back to his room. He locked the door and then got down on his hands and knees, sliding his torso under the bed and reaching out with his arm. He cracked his head on the side of the bed frame and cursed. Where is it? He pulled out a sock and threw it across the room in disgust. He lay down on the floor entirely, angling his body so that only his legs were out in open air.

There! There it was. A small, crumpled ball of parchment. He grabbed it and rolled out from under the bed, coughing from the dust. His worn robes were smeared with filth; his fingers left a gray smudge when he wiped his face. Remus didn't care. He unfolded the parchment, meticulously smoothing it out, as if by removing each wrinkle in the letter he could make everything ok.

Sirius, I don't know why I'm doing this . . . he quickly skimmed the words written in his own delicate handwriting. Reaching up to his desk for a quill, Remus continued the letter.

God, Sirius, you have to come back. Come back, or . . . or something, I don't know! Come back or make it real. Make me believe it. With James and Lily and Peter I saw, or knew, I could tell that it was true. I knew they were gone, I knew he had betrayed us. I was at their funeral; saw Peter in the Shack, alive. With you . . . with you all I have is that look on your face as you fell, the way your eyes widened as you realized what was about to happen. Damnit Sirius! Come back and fix this! I will not be left behind, left alone again. 13 years, Sirius. 13. I've already said goodbye to you once. I can't do it again.

Remus was not finished, but he signed his name anyway, because it was the only word he had left. He folded the parchment carefully, slipped in into a drawer of his desk, and then leaned back against his bed. He sat there until he fell asleep, much, much later, to drown in dreams of a boy with an easy grin and long, dark hair.