sheafrotherdon: (art by monophobia)
sheafrotherdon ([personal profile] sheafrotherdon) wrote on December 21st, 2004 at 12:23 pm
Epilogue: One Werewolf, One Boy, and a Ghost
Fic: Epilogue: One Werewolf, One Boy, and a Ghost
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sheafrotherdon
Rating: G
Pairing: R/S
Disclaimer: JKR owns the pups, I just torture them
X Posted: [livejournal.com profile] remusxsirius and [livejournal.com profile] shacking_up
Summary: It's the Christmas after Sirius dies, and memories surface.
A/N: Oh see, THIS is why I write the happy! Because otherwise Remus breaks my heart. 291 words of remembering to follow Two Wizards, One Gift, and a Duck-Billed Platypus. Thanks again to [livejournal.com profile] thistlerose for looking it over!



They sat on the stairs, the only place that felt remotely comfortable in the confines of that malevolent house. Dust clung to their trousers, their hands, their hair. Voices echoed distantly from other rooms, the sparse notes of half-heard Christmas carols brushing past like the breath of ghosts.

“Did you . . . did he . . . “ Harry paused, awkwardly. “Were there good Christmases?”

Remus half-smiled. “There were. The year you were born . . .” His voice trailed off into memory. “Despite everything, that was a good year.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“You were too young.”

Harry shifted, clasping his hands between his knees. “But . . . “

Remus turned his head a little, the better to look at the young man beside him. “Hmm?”

Harry frowned, unsure. “I don’t remember faces, or voices, or actual things, but . . . “ He broke off, shook his head. “No, it’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

He shifted slightly, feeling self-conscious. “I remember . . . just this sense. This sense that I was loved.” He flinched as Remus made the tiniest choking sound, and hung his head. “Remus? I . . . “

Remus shook his head. “It’s OK.” He closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories – the vivid image of Sirius grinning madly with a stuffed toy in his hands, soothing a restless spirit with face paint and puzzles. He cleared his throat, stealing himself against the specter of kisses long past and fingers entwined. “You were, Harry. You were.” He opened his eyes and gave him the tired smile he wore so often these days. “You are.”

They leaned against one another then, marooned on that staircase, stranded between grieving and living again.
 
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