Return to Grimmauld Place

Remus returns to Grimmauld Place in the very early hours of the morning, exhaustion sweeping through him, barely able to raise his feet. Weariness makes his bones heavy, makes it nearly impossible to think about doing any of the things that he knows he must. He should have returned to his own flat instead of coming here. But he had turned, concentrated on one name, one word, and when he’d found himself back on solid ground again this was where he was.

He steps through the old and heavy door, unsure of where he found the strength to open it, his footfalls echoing through the foyer. It is so unlike his first visit to this place, nearly a year ago now, when every step and every breath sent up clouds of dust; the hallway is spotless, immaculate. There are no boggarts hiding in hallway dressers, no doxies in the curtains. The house is cleaner now than it possibly ever was while the Blacks occupied it. Even the portrait of Sirius’s mother is silent.

He shivers as a draft whistles through the corridor, and he wraps his arms around himself to ward off the chill and retain some heat.

He steps into the kitchen. Two chairs are pushed back from the table; a plate with some half-eaten toast sits at one place, a cup of cold coffee in front of the other. The Daily Prophet is on the table, open to yet another story disproving the return of Voldemort. He picks it up, folds it closed, and quietly puts it in the rubbish bin. The contents of the plate follow before he pours the remains of the coffee down the sink, watching it spiral away. Through the window hangings he can see the sun rising on another grey May day. He pushes the chairs back under the table with a sigh, and the scrape they make against the floor echoes through the house, a solitary noise amidst silence.

He releases the spells lighting the room, closing the door behind himself and trudges up the stairs, and though his steps don’t send up clouds of dust, each wooden step creaks with old age and complaints. They protest against holding his weight, carrying it, and his bones join in the chorus, begging for rest.

Soon.

He steps off onto the landing, passing on his right the room Harry and Ron stayed in over Christmas. Hermione and Ginny. The Weasley twins. On his left, Arthur and Molly’s room, Bill’s. Tonks’, when they finish their meetings too late for it to be safe for her to return to her own flat. And there, at the end of the hall....

His hand rests on the silver doorknob for a moment before he turns it, and he half expects it to burn. When it doesn’t–and rightfully, he knew it wouldn’t–he turns in slowly, pushing the door inwards and it swings open without a
sound.

The scent of Sirius fills his nostrils, tickling the sensitive hairs as if to proclaim: He was here and here and here. The bed is still unmade, sheets rumpled and pillows in complete disarray. Dirty socks litter the floor, dirty socks and worn shirts and a pair of shoes, laces haphazard. The sink in the adjoining bathroom drips steadily, one and two and three and four. A brush sits on the dresser, dark black hairs poking out from the nest of bristles.

Remus closes the door behind himself gently and stoops to pick up the socks so they can be placed in the hamper and washed.

It is as he leans over, bent halfway to the floor that he stops. His fingers twitch to close the final few inches, to lift the socks from the floor and wash every hint of smell out of them, the smell of Sirius and Padfoot and dirty feet. His mind races through the cleanup of this room, removing robes and trousers and socks–Gods, Sirius has so many socks.

It hits him.

Had.

Sirius had so many socks. He has none now.

Remus straightens, taking a deep breath to steady himself, though it only allows the scent of Sirius in deeper, further, allows this invasion of his senses.

He moves gingerly through the room, careful now not to disturb a thing. He will not touch even his own things, his own belongings that can be replaced. Everything he has in this room-his books, his notes, his clothing–all of it can be replaced but for the one thing that is not here.

Sirius.

He is trembling, his hands shaking, but he does not sit down on the bed that could not possibly be any more bothered by his resting on it.

There are Charms– not common ones, but they do exist–that he can use. Charms and spells that will preserve this room exactly as it is now. Nothing in this room would age, no dust would fall, no moths would find their way into the wardrobe. The very air in the room could be preserved, saved, kept exactly as it is now.


Sirius’s scent would never be aired away.

His shaking fingers slip into his pocket, touch his wand–traitorous wand that did not save when it could have, that did not kill the killer–and he draws it out. It is slim between his fingers, the wood cool and he plays with it for a moment before he raises it as his side. He knows the spell, knows the incantation and the motion necessary. He opens his mouth, wets his lips.

If he says it now, he will remain in the room as well. A living statue and testament to what was in this room. Who. He swallows, wets his lips once more, but the words don’t come.

A moment passes, then another, an endless and eternal beat before he lowers his wand and towards the door. He steps over the shoes, the socks, pocketing his wand once more before reaching out to open the door.

He hesitates, pauses, turns to look over his shoulder to survey the room. Nothing has been disturbed by his presence here. It is exactly the same as when he stepped into it, stepped out of it yesterday morning. Nothing has been moved....

His fingers twitch once more, and he allows them the movement as they brush against the dressing robe hanging behind the door. They grasp the material convulsively and before he knows it, he’s yanked it off the hook, has it pressed against his face as he inhales deeply, quickly, nearly in a panic that the scent will be gone.

His grip only tightens when he realizes it hasn’t.