In Love But Not At Peace

Three weeks pass, after their trip to Brick Lane. They don't speak much during that time, only a friendly hello at a meeting, or a call late at night, when she feels tired but unable to sleep, and she knows he is around to be awake for her. For her. For himself, she knows, or for the demons inside of him, reminding him just how many people he has lost in his life. She thinks, as she walks the familiar route to his flat, that they never talked about it. About Sirius. He had told her personally, while she stayed at St. Mungo's, that he was dead. That was at the beginning of the summer. Months went by, and she hadn't cried yet, not even while she was alone. She sometimes tells herself that that makes her a bad person, but yet, she is still unable to shed any tears.

It's true, she's never seen him cry over his death. But, he did lose Sirius years ago, and she knows that they never had the time or the ability to find the same friendship they once had. She wonders if he thinks about that. He probably pushes it out of his mind, numbing the pain instead of healing the wound.

Earls Court Road is the same with each journey she makes on it. The cracks in the pavement are the same, as are the store fronts. Sometimes, even the people are the same, some familiar enough for her to smile at, walking their small dogs around the block. Others are just familiar faces, like the man with a blue afro handing out pamphlets at the entrance to the underground. He's the perfect example of her and Kingsley's lovechild, if they had one. For the first time, she actually accepts one of the papers he hands out, reading it as she walks. An advertisement for a new organic pizza restaurant on Gloucester. She looks back at the man quickly, and he waves. She smiles back. Tomorrow at work, she's going to suggest to Kingsley that, just for kicks, he should grow out his hair. She doesn't need to wait until then to know how that conversation would play out.

She is unexpected, like always. Hell, maybe now since her arrival is so frequent she is expected. When he opens the door, there is no shock on his face. He invited her in with his warm smile, the smile she's loved ever since she first saw it. It's the type of look that, at a glance, is merely friendly, but she knows it holds more. He grins like a man who knows himself, and knows the person he is speaking to. Molly once commented on how it's the type of smile that has old women like herself blushing and laughing nervously. At that, she just laughed it off.

"Good to see you," he says hoarsely, beckoning her into his small flat. She wonders at times what his rooms would smell like it he didn't smoke so much. She tries, when she is able, to get close enough to him to tell, but she still doesn't know.

Her attempts at most things are failures. Like, right now, she is unable to make it through the door without loosing her balance and stumbling. That's typical, since she can't make it more than four steps without doing something clumsy. Like most of her problems, she laughs it off. She cracks jokes in the office to remind people they're still living, even in times of war. She makes fun of herself whenever she knocks something over.

She never laughs about him though, even when she thinks too much of him. He is her biggest failure, how she is unable to get him to see her, to see her intentions. Maybe she goes about it all wrong. Maybe it is the age difference that makes it so hard. The stubbornness in her slaps her face slightly, to knock the sense in, or to just knock her back on track.

Or maybe he knows, creating want by holding back, his way of telling her something. Maybe he isn't like all the daft men out there. She really isn't that bad.

"Got anything to eat here?" she asks, taking off her jacket and making herself at home. She loves doing that. He shrugs, motioning to the kitchen and sitting down on the worn couch. She opens the door of the refrigerator, finding nothing but takeout and different vegetables, and an unmarked bottle of clear liquid that she doubts is water.

"This vodka?" He turns around as she closes the door, placing the bottle on the counter and looking for glasses in his cabinet. She can hear the smile in his voice when he answers yes. Walking steadily so not to trip, she hands him a glass, and sitting down near him with one leg under her, she holds up her glass and he does the same.

"To him," she says, hoping that her words don't cause him to shut down completely.

"To him," he responds, toasting his glass against hers and holding eye contact as they drink. Still all there. He smiles.

They do little that evening, something that she enjoys, much more than she did when they were both at Grimmauld Place. She hates to admit that at times, but it's true. They leave his flat when the sun begins to set, walking all the way to Redcliffe Gardens, even though there isn't much to see. Like most nights, when she finds herself with him, she lets her mind wander in a way she knows isn't because of the alcohol. She'll do the little things she pretends aren't down consciously, like bumping her arm against his, grabbing his hand when she stumbles on the concrete. She'll laugh too loud for the residential area, and just expect people to look out their open windows at her. She will always feel like everything about her is unwanted, too loud, or clumsy. That's what makes her different from the quiet man walking beside her, his soft shoes making no noise when he walks in stride with her loud heels.

That's the reason she wants to be with him, this night, and all the other nights, and in ways she doesn't think he knows, or wants to know -wants himself to know- so she tells herself.

Like the people with their soft music and warm lights, pulling their curtains over open windows, he lures her in.