He smiles as he remembers the way that they had laughed. He smiles as he remembers the sound of their laughter filling the bright, whiteness of the hospital wing. Sometimes the laughter is not lost to time. Sometimes when he thinks and tries hard to remember, he scares himself with the sound of their laughter, looking over his shoulder as though, when he turns, he will see the smiling faces of James and Sirius appear in the darkness of the hallway. Although he never sees the Sirius that had been to Azkaban; never once does he see the Sirius with dead eyes and a cold, automatic laugh. He never sees James as he knew him in the weeks leading to his death; a James without humour; a James consumed with fear and the unending, unfathomably strong desire to protect both Lily and Harry. When this laughter comes ringing in his ears, stealing the blackness from his heart, he always turns and sees the James and Sirius of his youth, their youth; carefree and mischievous, unaware of the fate that awaited them all.
The cold of Grimmauld Place is all-consuming. Remus rarely puts the ancient heating system on; the heat makes it worse. He often debates, though, whether it would be worth it to dry out the damp. As he walks now, down the creaking corridor, he could close his eyes and almost imagine that this is not the Grimmauld Place of here and now, but the Grimmauld Place of only a year ago, full to the brim with the people he cared about and loved. To his left is the room that Harry had once shared with Ron, complete with sleeping portrait of Phineas Nigellus. Further along the corridor are the rooms Hermione and Ginny had slept in, and the bedroom Molly and Arthur had shared. He remembers the Christmas they all spent here together and for a moment he believes he can once again hear the distinctive voice of Mundungus coming from the kitchen downstairs. He imagines Tonks sitting at the kitchen table, her bubblegum-pink hair framing her face, making Harry, Ron and Hermione laugh by changing her nose to resemble Snape’s. And very distantly, coming from the hallway below, Remus is sure he can hear a familiar voice singing a shrill tune: “God rest ye Merry Hippogriffs…”
Yet past all these rooms Remus continues to walk, past the doors that are now closed, some of them locked tight. He turns right and the blue light of his wand illuminates another staircase; a staircase lined with thick, fading tapestries rather than the portraits of below. It is now, as he begins to climb, that Remus thinks of another time at Grimmauld Place; a time that he himself never saw; a time he has never known. Yet as he alights on the landing Remus can once again hear Sirius’ voice floating back to him from the past: And then…I think I shall always remember this…I’m going to leave the drawing room and Bellatrix grabs my wrist…she stops me from leaving and looks me square in the eye and says “So you have decided?” I yank my arm free and tell her I have and leave.
Her face…her laughing, manic face, illuminated by the horrible red light of the curse…beautiful yet terrifying. She and Sirius were so alike…the same grey eyes, the same high brow and defined jaw…the same aristocratic pride etched into every line of their faces. Oh yes, there was no denying it; Bellatrix and Sirius were Blacks, alright. Yet Sirius had none of her pure-blood hysteria, her insane desire for power and her obsession with Voldemort. Sirius had hated her…despised her, even till the end. To him, she represented everything he hated; everything that was cruel and tyrannical and ran through his blood and made him part of a family he couldn’t stand. Is that why he did it? Remus suddenly thinks to himself, halting, as he always did, in front of Sirius’ door? Is that why he had taunted her, teased her, and provoked her into cursing him again and again? Sirius had been so strong and capable; he was certainly not afraid of anything…no…not after Azkaban. Then why did he let her catch him off guard? Why hadn’t he been more careful?
Remus presses his palm against the door and very slowly he begins to run his hand over the panels of wood. He feels every splinter, every crack in the paint, every sharp point, and yet on the other side he can feel a burning, breathing life. He has tried to avoid opening this door, but now…now there is something about the shimmering blue light and the memories that are pushing him forwards…guiding his hand towards the handle of the door.
He hesitates; the cold metal of the doorknob is like ice on his hand. It isn’t too late to leave…to continue walking along the hallway till he reaches his own room. There would be no harm in that. But something about what had happened at Hogwarts…something about the things he is remembering seems to be leading him here and, without another moment of thought, Remus turns the handle, enters the room, and closes the door behind him.
Without you, I'm nothing by Clare Mansfield
Chapter Notes: Back in the present and Remus' grief causes him to think of the past but never the future.
Chapter Endnotes: Hope you're enjoying reading this. As always, let me know what you think xxx