The air was cold, heavy with the weight of expectation and something darker. Remus sat in the corner of the small bedroom he shared with Tonks, the lamplight flickering softly. She was asleep, curled on her side, her bright pink hair dulled in the faint glow. He looked at her, at the way her face relaxed in sleep, and felt nothing but the echo of someone else.
Sirius.
It was Sirius’ laugh he heard in her voice sometimes, that bark of defiance in the face of the world’s cruel expectations. The way Tonks slammed doors when she was frustrated, her refusal to stay quiet when others demanded it. He had loved those qualities once—they had been Sirius through and through. And though Sirius was gone, Remus couldn’t help but see him everywhere in her.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to him. But fairness hadn’t been a part of his life for a long time.
He sank into the chair, elbows on his knees, fingers running through the greying strands of his hair. The memories played out like a reel, old and grainy, but no less vibrant.
It had been Sirius who had drawn him out of his shell all those years ago. Sirius, with his reckless grins and fierce loyalty, who had whispered promises into the quiet of the Gryffindor dormitories. “You’re not just a monster, Moony. You’re mine.”
He remembered the nights spent tangled together in Sirius’ four-poster bed, the curtains drawn, the world forgotten. The stolen kisses between classes, the heated arguments that always ended in a flurry of emotions—because Sirius couldn’t do anything halfway. He loved fiercely, he fought fiercely, and he had given all of that to Remus.
And then, there was that moment.
Sirius, staring at him with wide, grey eyes, his face frozen in a mixture of disbelief and fear. “You’re what?”
Remus had said it quietly, barely above a whisper. “Pregnant. With your child.”
The look on Sirius’ face had been unforgettable, etched into Remus’ mind like a tattoo on his soul. It had taken time—weeks, maybe months—for the shock to fade into something else. Something like joy. Sirius, of course, had handled it the only way he knew how: loudly and with the kind of enthusiasm that made Remus want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.
The memory of Sirius pacing the Gryffindor common room, ranting about names and how they would raise a child in the middle of a war, made Remus’ chest ache. He had loved Sirius then, more than he thought it was possible to love anyone.
But it hadn’t lasted. The war hadn’t allowed it to. The pregnancy had ended too soon, lost in the chaos of those years. And Sirius… Sirius had been taken from him, first by Azkaban and then by death itself.
And now there was Tonks.
She deserved better, he thought bitterly. She deserved someone who loved her for who she was, not for who she reminded him of. But Merlin help him, he didn’t know how to let go of Sirius’ ghost.
When she laughed, it was Sirius. When she argued with him about his self-sacrificing nature, it was Sirius. Even the way she held him some nights, her hands strong and grounding, was Sirius.
And yet, Sirius wasn’t here. He was never coming back.
Remus pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to block out the onslaught of memories. He thought of the way Sirius had kissed him for the last time, before everything fell apart. The way Sirius had held his face, his thumbs brushing over the stubble on Remus’ cheeks.
“I love you, Moony. Always. You know that, right?”
Remus hadn’t been able to answer then, and he still couldn’t now. The words were too big, too heavy, and too impossible to carry.
He stood, the creak of the chair breaking the silence. Crossing the room, he climbed into bed beside Tonks, careful not to wake her. She shifted slightly, murmuring something incoherent, and pressed her back against him. He wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand resting lightly on the curve of her stomach.
It wasn’t fair.
But it was what he had.
And if he closed his eyes and let himself drift, he could almost believe that it was Sirius lying beside him.
Almost.