Small Comforts

Small Comforts

Coming up close,

Everything sounds like welcome home...

It's been raining steadily since the parchment arrived on your doorstep, the looping emerald letters of Dumbledore's script spelling out only He is coming. Prepare. There is not much to prepare in a four-room dilapidated valley-bound cottage, but that is not what the letter means; and though your written reply, I am ready, is sure and steady, you can't keep from trembling as the owl takes off through the wet curtain and back, knowing that all you can do now is wait for him, and whatever else he brings.

A few days later, the faint sound at the door is not knocking but scratching, still heard, still felt, even over the pounding rain outside. Looking up, heart sinking and leaping at the same time (if such a thing is indeed possible), a part of you thinks you should have expected that. Relief settles as you set the book on the end table and rise from the comfortable chair by the fire--relief that comes from always being ready to care for Padfoot, even if still unsure about being ready to care for the man.

The biting wind whips the rain into the cottage when you open the door.

It is far too cold for June.

Looking down, expecting to see the black mangy dog huddled on the stone step, instead you see bare, sore and filthy human feet--calloused, toenails split and swollen with something distasteful crusted over the painfully cracked heels. Startled, wondering why he would choose this, your gaze flies upwards to find the man. Though trying not to look terrified at the haunted stillness in that sunken face, he mirrors the shocked expression on yours. The years have changed both of you and not for the better--you should have expected that too--but it still hurts to see it written so plainly on his face.

"Come out of the rain, Sirius, it's freezing." It is a wonder your voice sounds so steady, perhaps even gracious, to your ears, though you impulsively clutch at the door and pray he won't see.

Nodding gratefully, he swallows and hesitantly steps over the threshold, dripping all over the worn braided mat. He is ragged and rain-drenched, stinking of rancid sweat and garbage and wet dog; there is enough dirt to plant a garden but you have never been gladder to see him. Your lips twitch, then settle into a smile--a warm smile, if a little nervous, hoping it conveys the intended message, Welcome home my friend. He returns a shadow of a grin, and something like life flickers in those faded grey eyes, so perhaps it has.

But when you reach out to touch his arm, Sirius flinches and steps back warily, and it stings you too with heart wrenching clarity, that he's forgotten how to be touched. Aside from that too-brief embrace before everything went right back to hell a year ago, the last time you touched him was a lifetime past. You wonder what has happened in this last year but now is not the time to ask, for the more essential needs come first: shelter, warmth, and food. Checking the sudden tumble of words that want to escape, reluctantly respecting this new and unnatural distance, you withdraw your hand to address the material things.

"Bathroom's this way. Warm up in the shower while I make something to eat." Pointing towards the small room just to the right of the kitchen, your hand hovers over Sirius' arm again before you realize it, and you pull it back. He simply nods again wearily, not noticing, or maybe choosing not to. In older days he would have cracked a joke about his smells driving even the saints insane and that eager young voice hangs just over the air, waiting, stilled.

The patter of the shower supplements the rain as you rummage in the kitchen for something edible. There is day-old brown bread, white cheese, a tin of tomato soup, a few bruised apples, simple but nourishing. Tea. Of course. You set out the modest meal on the table and wait, icy shaking hands wrapped around the steaming mug, hoping for calm, peace maybe, something soothing to settle the frayed thoughts of past friendship and uneasy forgiveness and what the hell do we do now?

Presently he returns, warm and clean and dressed in a borrowed jumper and trousers that hang off his gaunt frame. He never used to be able to wear your clothes, and you have to stare at the table to control the wave of sadness threatening to break past your throat.

"Feeling better?" you finally manage past the tight fist clenching your heart.

"Yeah, all right. Thanks for the clothes." Stilted and clipped, his voice is little more than a ghostly rasp. The water beading off the matted ends of his tangled hair dampens the shoulders of the jumper.

"Tea's ready. It's not much..."

"It's enough." There's that semblance of a smile again, now offered in thanks. "More than I've seen in a long time." You do not doubt it.

Silence reigns at the table, underscored by the droning rain. He doesn't even like tomato soup, the memory comes as a wry shock, but he drinks every drop and licks the bowl clean. The bread and the cheese and the apples disappear in impressively short order, and though he may be silent, he is appreciative, casting another small smile at you, and he even extends his hand briefly.

Watching you putter around the kitchen cleaning up after the meal with those somber grey eyes, he follows your every movement as if he'd never seen you scourgify the plates before, as if he was trying to remember something just on the edge of memory--a word, or maybe a touch. Briefly your gazes meet once or twice and he immediately glances away again as if burned. His breath catches, the word almost remembered, then lost again, or maybe simply held back, unwilling to cross a chasm that might be too deep to pass. The guarded pain in his face tears at you. He was always open, before. If you were a Legilimens you would know how to heal him but you wonder now if he is beyond your help. Perhaps only the small comforts are all that are left to offer him.

Finally you sink down into your armchair by the fire with another mug of steaming tea, hands curled round it. He remains in the kitchen; the soft footfalls echoing off the walls, he paces restlessly, each step treading a little deeper into your heart. But presently he comes, shuffling, almost shy, settling on the floor, sitting up stiff and cross-legged at your feet on the hearth and staring intently into the embers. The light of the flames flickers on the sharp planes of cheek and jaw, casting a half-shadow that recalls other fires, other times, studying in the overstuffed easy chair in the Gryffindor common-room when he'd lean so casually against your leg and outline the plans for the latest prank, looking eagerly up at James sitting across, and his barely suppressed laughter would reverberate through his body and yours. Now the tension in his shoulders is so tight he might snap. You might too. Outside the wind and the rain have stopped; eerily calm, the world is waiting, holding its breath. You set your tea down, untouched, on the small end-table beside the chair, and the china thumps against the damp-swollen wood.

You are not accustomed to reaching out to anyone; long used to being shunned for what you are, denied (you learned to deny too), a habit you've kept for fourteen years. This man was perhaps the only exception, because he reached out to you first so long ago. It is so hard now, because you do not know what Sirius has become and you do not know what to expect. But you still need to try, even if only to honor the memory of what he once was and what you had before--because he deserves the small comfort of touch, even if he's forgotten. Though you have not; it had been those small touches that had defined your friendship so long ago and if he cannot reach out now, at least you can, still, if only to remind him.

So you steel yourself, knowing if you learned to deny, he would have as well, and he would have learned that far more thoroughly--but you're a teacher and you have taught many subjects, so you can teach this too, the basic feeling of skin on warm skin. "Ssh", you whisper, hoping to reassure, not knowing for whom, "it's all right." Lightly you lay your hands on his head, just brushing across, teasing the tangled strands of his hair through your fingers. His hair is no longer truly black and sleek and shining, but rough and dull and laced with silver.

He submits without open argument, head bowed, but he trembles as your hand moves lower to stroke gently against his cheek, down along the jaw, up to his ear. You are also relearning, student as much as teacher. There's that forgotten faint scar to the left of his chin--you gave him that, on one of those full moon nights. You now remember how his stubble prickles your sensitive fingertips. He leans into your hand and closes his eyes with an inaudible sigh, and you release the breath you did not know you were holding.

He slowly summons the courage to turn round and reach up and touch your jaw with a tentative thumb. He still cannot look at you directly but there is yearning in that caress, for another time, another place, another chance. You wish those wasted years would just fall away, back to when you loved him, your best friend, with unabashed joy, perhaps even abandon. Back to before he abandoned you. But you correct yourself, banishing that treacherous thought from your mind. He remained loyal, all those cold and lonely years.

Finally you kneel beside him on the floor and dare to embrace him, loosely wrapping your slim strong arms around his shaking body. He freezes, unused to such contact. Closer, you pull him closer until there is almost no space left between you, the driving need not boyish hope but comfort and memory. That hope is for the young and carefree, not for two worn souls, and in remembering the way your friendship once was, you draw comfort even from this tentative holding.

You are close enough now, to feel him blinking rapidly, lashes fluttering against your hair, his heart racing, muscles rigid under your palms, breath exhaling in light huffs. Only the crackle of the dying flames can be heard above the space between, the warmth of the fire slowly supplanted by that of careful touch. Slowly, his wasted arms hesitantly encircle your body in response. He buries his head in your shoulder and something breaks, the fine tension between his shoulders sags, and he clasps you to him as tightly as he can. You feel him relax at last against you; you do too, more than willing to support him, and allow yourself to hope again. When he draws back, his eyes are still hurt and haunted, but no longer hesitant, and that is a small comfort too.