Almost Dark Again

When I wake up on the comfortable couch I'm sweating under the quilt I found in his closet. Perhaps I should have taken off some of my clothes, but at least the fever stopped rising while I was sleeping, and I slept better than ever since... I can't remember since when. It's got almost dark again.

He'd left the lights on in the tree, and I decided not to touch them or anything else I wouldn't need to. Of course, he's been impatient enough to decorate early and done it with perfect, expensive taste. In the gloom the twinkle of the stars on the branches is clear but subtle, nothing like the blinking of the garish multicoloured garlands adorning the cheap shops, those I hoped could hire me. Oh, a star on the top would be too conventional for him. Perhaps he's charmed the moon to show the real one's phases, and I'm not sure how funny or charming that is. At least it's a waning crescent now. This should be the best part of the month.

I must have closed my eyes again for more than a moment, as now all I can see in the window besides black is the reflection of his stars. An unerring owl's frantic tapping on the screen has drawn my attention to this picture straight from a dream I'm determined to forget immediately. If this is the beginning of another nightmare, my caricature of a life is getting a bit too repetitive.

After seeing that the letter is in his handwriting - and dated today, not something he'd prepared to be sent in case... I lean my forehead against the glass in relief. Still, I can't savour the cheerful wishes, the playful questions, the vivid descriptions of any non-confidential details he's been able to think of. Reassurances that he's safe and sound. Promises to ask me for a visit as soon as he's finally back from this prolonged mission. There's the face of a ghost in front of me, surrounded by darkness. The letter was written to someone who could still feed himself and pay the rent of a room, with a little help from parents, who had not yet been...

He'll be disappointed with my lack of spirit when he finally returns. At least he won't have to ever invite me again. Perhaps I'm defeated enough to open his kitchen cupboards without permission, too. It can actually be clever to start preparing a bath first.

If only the water doesn't end up left running and leaking over onto this luxurious rug. These days I keep forgetting what I'm doing.

Having found the tea, I'm going through his selection of tinned food, wondering if I should start with something gentle, like soup, when I hear the keys. It can't be him now, but only his best friends also know his personal charms for sealing and unsealing the door. I rush out of the kitchen, not fumbling for my wand, so as to defend myself, any more urgently than I hurry to hide the signs that I've come to seek shelter and slept here.

Too slow, with the quilt still pressed against my chest, I watch how my Sirius almost falls through the doorway, then stays with his back against the wall beside it. He's wearing only thin Muggle garments, no cloak. After the rest it has just enjoyed, my body's soon quicker than his - or my mind. Without hesitation I've taken the few steps and wrapped my arms - and the quilt - around him before he's properly registered my presence.

He leans on me, presses his cold face to my neck and inhales deeply through his nose. "Oh, God," he says in a breath out, then draws another shuddering breath in, and continues, "Don't wake me."

Perhaps he thinks I'm holding him in a dream. At the end of his nightmare.

I won't have the strength to hold him standing, or to carry him, if he collapses. Besides, smelling that he's dirtier than me makes me remember that the hot water will soon flood the floor, so I guide him towards the bathroom.

Here the light switches on magically, as always when anyone enters, and now its yellow warmth brings him closer to his senses. He stares at me through the mirror, until I sit him on the toilet lid and reach to turn off the tap.

"You are here," he says, first knitting his brows. "What are you doing here?" Now there's joy in his eyes, while he's still trembling and pulling the quilt tighter around himself.

I turn away again, looking for the soap. "Giving you a bath." Then I remember that he's freezing and I kneel to take off his drenched shoes.

"How did you know?" he asks in awe.

"I didn't. I prepared it for myself. I mean... I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? In the letter you said you wouldn't..."

"You got it? Great! I told James to keep kicking me awake so I could finish it on the train. You know, we weren't in the condition to Apparate, and then I walked..."

This time I manage not to say anything about myself. "But why did you write that...?"

"To gain some time to shape up a bit. To surprise you."

While peeling the damp clothes off, then my clothes - dryer but not much cleaner - I leave the talking for him. He'll say that now I can shape him up. I don't know about that, but I support him and step into the bath with him.

I've looked forward to submerging into the water. Without him I'd perhaps forget to keep my head up.

Until I got him back now, I hadn't touched anyone after being summoned to see... something for the very last time. To see the ancient house, the bare apple trees. Not to take anything with me. Hardly a final memory of caressing their cold cheeks.

But now the bliss of this warmth turns into a womb, and here his body needs mine. I'll agree to still live, and as fully as possible.

I rub the dirt off his arms; he traces my scars, even the one on my shoulder, and I hardly wince. He can see how much thinner I've become, but he's lost weight as well.

Perhaps later, after making the soup, in the benevolent glow of his moon, I'll let him know that since a week ago, if I remember correctly, there's no other home.

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