Chapter Text
From the small shop located just below the window rose the delicious smell of freshly baked gingerbread. That bakery had been the main reason he had chosen this very house, instead of going to live in an old, affected building somewhere in the rich and snobbish London. Or so he had told him. And now it was hard to tell what was real from what was staged.
The old lady who lovingly prepared the cookies surely had left a bag aside for the two of them. She had a soft spot for Sirius since the first time he showed up at the bakery door, dressed like a homeless man, covered in paint everywhere, and with the satisfied smile of someone who has accomplished something important in his life. He had gotten food for all the friends who had come to help with the renovation and the move. And the old woman had given him cookies.
And now Sirius loves those cookies. He loved how his house smelled of cinnamon and ginger without efforts, that from early December the old lady would light the oven and the whole house would smell like Christmas.
Their house smelled like Christmas.
Remus couldn't breathe.
Hands ran over the windowsill, then closed the window. How is it possible to miss something even though it's still all around me?
Remus rested his head against the glass, for just an instant, closing his eyes, shielding himself from those known and known spaces. How can you be immersed in the essence of Christmas without being able to enjoy it? Remus opened his eyes and stared at his hands. He had washed them thousands times a day since that cursed Halloween night, he had remained under the increasingly cold jet of the shower for hours, he had drowned his tears in a sea of clean, icy water that was supposed to wash away the sense of helplessness, of inadequacy , of creepy, disgust, rancid horror betrayal betrayal Betrayal!
Sirius was passing information. Sirius was the cause of their deaths. Sirius had orphaned Harry. Sirius had killed Peter with his own hands.
Sirius.
Sirius who lived in this house, who reverberated within these walls. Sirius who had danced with Lilly at her wedding because "James has two left feet, Lils, and you deserve a proper waltz at your wedding." Sirius spicing the wine before going to sleep, bringing with him the smell of cloves and star anise. Sirius who until the end had curled up on him while he slept, looking for warmth and protection.
But maybe even this all was just a farce. Just a horrible farce.
How can you hate the skin you wear, because it still brings the memory of the last hug, wanting to tear out your own eyes, because they keep looking for him in every corner of the house, wanting to bite your legs off because they keep taking you where there is nothing no more.
Remus couldn't breathe.
He went around the house again to check that everything was closed. One last time. Just one last time. The boxes piled up at the entrance promised fresh, clean air not impregnated with betrayal. How he couldn’t notice it, how he hadn't felt the stench of death follow him right into those walls, the horrible residue of an unforgivable on his skin.
He knew he had to stop punishing himself. It hadn't been his fault if he hadn't seen, if he hadn't foreseen. Sirius had been distant, but there was a war going on. He had been stealthy, but not all information could get around. And now… now it was so obvious that it had been him, all the time.
Remus reached for his boxes. He had to reducte them to carry them better, but his hands were shaking too much to hold his wand. He closed his eyes and spun around, trying to calm down.
His whole life was at his feet. His, alone, no longer shared.
His clothes were still in the room. His vinyls and books in the two bookcases between the dining room and the home’s corridor, his Quidditch gear and Auror training gear in the closet near the corridor. The notebook with his annotations to Schutz's book on the desk next to the fireplace, the inkwell still open and the nib to be cleaned. The cup with tea in the sink, still dirty. The glass of firewhiskey next to the bottle at the foot of the sofa.
Remus couldn't breathe.
From tomorrow that house would no longer be his. In fact it never had been, except in these last few weeks. Sirius had bought it with his uncle's money, his name was on the deed.
Remus had nothing. Remus and Sirius, by magical law, were nothing.
He could still feel the bile rise in his mouth as he remembered his appointment with Dumbledore. The condescending pity in his gaze when he explained that yes, he had to see Sirius, that no, there was no way he could do otherwise. That the years he had given to the war didn't allow him to continue alone and that yes, the law against hiring Werewolves in public jobs also had repercussions on private individuals, thanks dad.
But Dumbledore had managed to get him to the judge very quickly: not fast enough to be able to completely dodge the Full Moon.
The first Full Moon without his pack. A Full Moon looking for a non-existent smell, chasing ghosts of a past life. Just past, torn away to show the exposed nerves of unhealable wounds. The judge probably wanted to see for himself how much Remus could handle the aftermath of his own lycanthropy. Or maybe he wanted him vulnerable. Anyway, he was finally allowed to see Sirius. Another Full Moon.
Remus couldn't breathe.
Walburga Black was there, behind Sirius chained to the table. Her hand on his shoulder.
Moody had warned him that he wouldn't like what he found in the interview room. But Remus never expected this.
The mask of regal indifference had settled over Sirius' face. He'd seen Sirius wear it a few times, but it was as perfect as the first time, as if he hadn't spent two months in the hands of the Dementors, as if living in Grimmauld Palce, their home, or Atzkaban made no difference.
Even his hair was neat.
Walburga had eyes as cold as those of her son were dull. The matriarch and her heir.
Another cruel lie: Sirius had never been dishonoured. Hiding from the Potters at sixteen, never returning, a relationship with a Dark Creature had not erased his name from the line of inheritance, only from a family tapestry. But as long as he was in prison, Walburga was keen to clarify, she had the last word on his finances.
Remus sank his teeth into his lips to keep from screaming, not talking, not begging, not crying.
And finally Sirius' eyes moved from somewhere over his head and rested on Remus’ eyes.
"You think it was me"
A question? A statement? The first and only words Sirius uttered during that entire conversation.
Remus' brain froze.
What did he mean? What sense did that sentence have after what had happened, after the witnesses, after the blood.
At his silence, Sirius' gaze faded again against the wall, with his fingers he made a distracted sign to his mother to pass him a sheet.
He consented to the sale, he left him everything in the house, he would leave him all the money from the sale.
He signed, she signed.
Remus couldn't breathe.
Walburga bought back Sirius' house a week later. Double the price Remus had choose to put it back on the market. With the request to leave before the end of the year.
Remus couldn't breathe.
And two days after Christmas Remus was standing in the hall, surrounded by boxes, unable to stop shaking. He no longer had anyone, he knew it. Everyone he thought of as his friends was dead. The others held him responsible, the monster didn't realize he was living with another monster. And now he needed one of these so he could spend a few days waiting to fix up the Muggle house he'd bought. He wanted to go to the Leaky Cauldron, or anywhere else, but he couldn't afford to spend that much money when he didn't have a steady job yet.
So when Arthur rang the doorbell, ready to take him home, Remus felt utterly defeated. Arthur was a good man, one of those you know you can count on, one of those who don't judge you for the mistakes you've made but for how you get out of them.
For this reason, the idea of using Walburga's money, the money of a traitor, to get back on his feet and try to make a life there, in the midst of the remains of an ocean of lies, left a bad taste in his mouth. But the idea of having to bear Molly's look of piteous reproach for more than a few hours was unbearable even if necessary.
Remus couldn't breathe.
"I don't understand how it's possible they didn't condemn him to the Kiss." Remus' room was just above the kitchen. The rickety floor did nothing to isolate the conversation that was taking place downstairs. "He's a traitor, so many good people have died because of him! And he killed twelve muggles, laughing as if it were a successful joke." Remus clutched the pillow around his head but even that couldn't isolate the words spoken underneath. "He's obviously unstable. How is it possible he's still alive?"
Remus bit into the pillow to drown out his sobs. He knew that Molly was a good person too, but he also knew that she had lost both of her brothers. Of course he knew that her words were dictated by pain. Of course he knew that those should have been his words too. But the only kiss he could associate with Sirius was the nicotine-flavored one they'd shared last time. He was the shy and hungry one from the first time. It was the one that hid a laugh, the one that chased away a bad thought, the one that closed a wound left by an evil Moon.
No, he couldn't think of a Dementor's on those lips too beautiful to grow cold.
"Atzkaban for life is a terrible sentence Molly."
Arthur had always been too kind to be true. And there he was, trying to find a reasonable answer, trying to heal too deep wounds without hurting.
But Molly had a different opinion altogether. "He betrayed James and Lilly! He killed Peter! How is it possible that they didn't condemn him to the Kiss!"
A muffled moan escaped from lips pressed against the lining. A ringing had made its way into Remus' ears, a ringing that didn't muffle the sounds but rather amplified them. A hum that had the modulation of a distant, desperate howl.
"I know Molly. I was there when they took him away." Arthur's voice was a barely audible whisper. The voice of someone who has seen an unthinkable horror and still can't get over it.
"It's that awful woman. She raised two snakes and released them into the world. And she's the one who saved him! I'm sure of it! At least this war has freed us from the Black plague."
The pillow was now soaked in tears and screams. In his eyes the image of Sirius and Walburga Black, as he had seen them in Atzkaban just a couple of weeks before.
Remus couldn't breathe.