Chapter 17
He would never get over how creepy Grimmuald Place looked, even in the daylight.
Brick darker then its neighbors for no explainable reason, cast iron spikes lining the roof, its smoky windows and its singular balcony looking down on the street.
Like it was rotting not just physically, but spiritually.
He climbed the short flight of steps before hesitantly knocking.
A small crash sounded from deep inside the house that made him wince. He could clearly hear a set of rapid steps, not the strangely heavy steps Remus had, but the lighter, almost dragging ones of Sirius.
The front door was shoved outward, Harry only just managing to not get hit in the face by it.
“James!”
He felt a small smile come to his face.
“It’s Harry.”
“Yes, yes, come in! I’ll make some tea.”
Harry carefully maneuvered around the various dangers on the way to the kitchen, unintentionally mimicking Sirius’ awkward steps.
“Sirius?”
“Yes, Harry?”
“Where’s Remus?”
A moment of thinking, then “He had a date with the man in the moon.”
“It’s’ a full moon?”
“Is it?”
As Sirius went about grabbing what was needed, though there seemed to be even less then there had been when he had visited, Harry thought about what he needed to ask.
“Can you buy an international portkey if you are not of age?”
The look Sirius gave said he read him like a book.
“Thinking of takin’ a vacation? Gettin’ to know the locals, are we?” The quirk of his eyebrows and lopsided smirk distinctly reminded him of Dean.
“No! I just-”
“No, no don’t lie. I know what it was like bein’ your age I won’t tell.” He threw him a smirk.
His face turned red.
“It’s really not like-”
“I’ll get you one, don’t worry.”
“I- okay.”
-----
Sirius was owl ordering one. This time tomorrow he’d be in Chicago, and then- well, he’d figure it out.
He was laying on his bed, the one he had last winter. ‘Reggie’s’ old room. No matter how comfortable the bedding and how well the cooling charms kept out the summer heat, it didn’t stop the thoughts he had been pushing away the whole day.
He’s a muggle.
Or more accurately a squib, seeing as the muggle repelling wards didn’t seem to work on him at the Leaky. If that trip told him anything, it was that he wasn’t welcome in this world anymore. He couldn’t even get in the alley for Merlin’s sake, let alone access his Gringotts’ account.
He felt almost like he had never come back. Not like he was still in Hell, but like he was just a spectator.
Was this how Filch felt? Like so insignificant, so unimportant, that he wasn’t thought of when people made the world. He couldn’t even call the Knight Bus for God’s sake!
It took four hours to walk from Diagon Alley to Grimmuald.
Sirius.
He had thought, stupidly, that he would remember. That, somehow, his- their bond- his godfather would remember. That somehow Sirius would overcome his condition and give him a hug. Comfort him, let him pour himself out to him. Tell him everything, his brothers, the Shtriga, his dad, the dragon, Hell.
He couldn’t do that to him. Couldn’t put it all on Sirius and expect him to help carry it. He was struggling enough.
The scars.
He didn’t know if Sirius simply didn’t recognize that he had them, or he had been pretending that he remembered them. That he hadn’t forgotten.
He felt himself curl up, and finally let the tears pour out of him.
He was marked. He would never forget the tearing of his throat, those desperate gurgles as he tried to claw for safety. Forgetting that he had chosen it. Regretting giving his life for Dean’s.
He pulled the jacket tighter around himself, like if he did, like if he tried hard enough, he would feel his brother holding him instead. Protecting him. Taking away some of the pain.
He fell asleep crying.
-----
Muffled voices woke him.
Far, far down below he could hear two people talking.
Pushing himself out of the bed, he winced when he realized he slept in the clothes he got there in, shoes included.
He threw the dirty bedding into the laundry basket. Watched as it disappeared off to the laundry room. Watched the magic he wouldn’t be able to experience himself.
He forced himself to look away.
Walking quietly, the instinct to embedded into after Alastair thought it would be funny hook dozens of bells into his skin, demons laughing as he stumbled by, the role of a jester forced onto him, it- he shook away the memories and continued following the voices into the living room, the voices filtering from the kitchen.
He recognized the second voice. It was Remus. He could feel himself finally relax, Remus- he could tell him. He could help him carry the weight, at least a bit.
He put his hand on the handle, moments from entering the kitchen.
“He’s dead! Sirius he’s dead!”
He stopped.
“He’s dead and he’s not coming back. Please. Please just- remember that. I’m begging you. I can’t- I can’t keep doing this.”
Remus’s heavy breathing loud through the wall separating them.
“I need to move on. I- I can’t-”
He heard a quiet sob.
“I can’t keep thinking that I'll turn a corner and see him. Please- I need-”
Heavy breathing.
“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You- you won't even remember it in a few minutes, will you? I- I’m mad at you for that. I’m such a bad person that I’m angry at you for being sick.”
“I want you back. I miss you. So, so goddam much. Sirius, I want- please. I- I love you- and- and I know that you love me too and- that- that should be enough. But it isn’t, it really fucking isn’t.”
“Just- just come back, okay? I- I really need someone right now.”
Harry left Grimmuald, portkey in hand.