bookishwench (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookishwench) wrote2007-07-19 09:48 am
bookishwench) wrote2007-07-19 09:48 am
Fic: Codicil (HP, FRT, Remus/Sirius, angsty) 1/1
Absolutely NO spoilers for DH, but does spoil a small bit of Half Blood Prince if you haven't finished that yet.
Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT
Feedback: Yes, thank you.
Spoilers: Through bits of HBP
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: After the events at the Ministry in book 6, Remus is given a letter. Remus/Sirius
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful author whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Codicil
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was entirely too silent, Remus thought. A week had passed since the battle at the Ministry, and Sirius’s death still seemed entirely too painful to believe. No wake, no funeral, nothing to help give a sense of closure because there was simply too much going on all the time to grieve properly. The Order’s meeting had lasted until well past three in the morning this time, and though Molly and Arthur had decided to stay the night in one of the guest bedrooms, everyone else, exhausted from answering the constant owls from Fudge, the Daily Prophet, and a thousand officials of every office were home at last for a few brief hours of sleep before returning to the endless flow of activity.
Remus had not gone home because he had no home to go to. Sirius had been his home.
He couldn’t sleep. There hadn’t been a full moon since the battle, but the tired, sick look in his eyes was one that normally went along with his condition. He doubted he’d slept for longer than two hours at a stretch in the last week. Silent as a ghost, he wandered from room to room, floor to floor of the old house, so perfectly quiet that even the portrait of Sirius’s mother didn’t stir at his passing. He realized suddenly that he didn’t know whether the portrait knew her son was dead. He had no desire to inform her and hear her happy gloating.
Finally, he entered the kitchen, sat down at the table, and put his head in his hands. For a long time he stayed that way, not moving. The flames in the fireplace crackled quietly, sending dancing patterns of light across the dirty walls that wouldn’t come clean no matter how much Molly scrubbed them. Everything here felt contaminated with despair and filth.
Suddenly, there was the quiet sound of a throat clearing in the fireplace, and Remus raised his head to look inquiringly at the flames. Sitting in the hearth was Albus Dumbledore’s head, his eyes filled with concern.
“I was hoping to find you up,” Dumbledore said softly. “I do not wish to disturb anyone at so late an hour, but I do have an important delivery to make, and I was detained by the Minister.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” Remus said, smiling a little at Dumbledore’s tact in not simply Apparating to Grimmauld place regardless of the hour.
“Very well then,” Dumbledore said, and his face disappeared from the fire. A few seconds later there was a soft popping noise, and he appeared in the kitchen in the flesh.
“I can get some tea together, if you like,” said Remus.
“Thank you,” said Dumbledore, sitting opposite him at the table. “Only if you will join me, of course.”
“I could do with a cuppa at that,” Remus said, waving his wand and producing a simple teapot and cups of brown stoneware that landed on the table with a dull clink. “Sugar?”
“My vice,” Dumbledore admitted with a slight inclination of his head and a gentle smile. “Three lumps, please.”
Remus gave three short flicks of his wand, and three sugarcubes plopped into Dumbledore’s cup. They both took a sip or tea. The warmth of the drink was a little comforting, the familiar taste soothing his nerves from their rough jangle to a slightly less desperate pace.
“I’m worried about you, Remus,” Dumbledore said softly, putting his cup down. “You look ill.”
“I’m afraid I feel ill as well as look it,” he replied, taking another sip. “I’m not sleeping, not eating. I can’t seem to do much of anything but work and wander the house.”
Dumbledore looked at him compassionately and patted his hand once on the table before saying, “Sirius would not have wanted you to ravage your health with grief, Remus. He cared for you far too much for that.”
Remus regarded him critically for a moment.
“You knew?” he asked carefully.
“My dear friend,” Dumbledore said with a smile, “I may be old, but my eyesight is still remarkably accurate. I credit it to eating carrots from Professor Sprout’s greenhouse three times a week. One does not need to be able to read thoughts to realize your relationship with Sirius was… extraordinarily deep.”
“Yes,” Remus said, staring into the fire. “Yes, it was.”
“To be honest, that is why I am here,” Dumbledore said, producing an envelope from his sleeve. “Sirius asked me if I would deliver this to you in the event that anything should happen to him.”
It was a common ritual in the Order. Almost everyone had asked another member to hold an envelope containing their will and personal letters to be given to their next of kin in case of their demise. It was almost always never given to their family directly. That meant having to discuss the possibility of not coming home again, and there was more than enough sadness and anxiety among them without bringing up that depressing thought, so a third party was used. Remus had done the same, only his envelope was in Minerva’s custody.
“Thank you,” Remus said, taking the envelope and feeling a sharp stab in his chest at the sight of his name written in Sirius’s hand on it.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Dumbledore said, and somehow he looked very old for a moment, as though he were remembering a long line of friends he had said a final goodbye to over the years. “Please, do realize if you should ever need to talk to me, whatever free time I have is at your disposal. I’ll leave you to read your letter unless you would rather have company as you do.”
“That’s very kind, Albus,” Remus said, “but it won’t be necessary.”
“Very well then. Again, I do urge you to take good care of yourself, and if you require anything, please let me know,” he said, rising. “Goodnight.”
With another pop, he Disapparated, and Remus was left alone. The envelope seemed unnaturally white against the dark, worn wooden table, and he avoided opening it for a minute by whisking away the teapot and cups. After, he continued to stare at Sirius’s handwriting, knowing he had to open the envelope eventually but not quite finding the strength to do it just yet. Finally, he took a deep breath and picked it up, the smooth feel of the paper in his hands somehow surreal as he tore open the seal, not bothering with a wand.
Inside the envelope was another envelope labeled “Last Will and Testament” and a letter. He put the second envelope to the side and unfolded the letter. Once again, he took a deep, shuddering breath and began to read.
Dear Remus,
You’re reading this, so I’m obviously dead. Unless, of course, we’re reading this together after Voldemort has been finished and we’re extremely tired and very, very drunk. And also very naked. Are there actually degrees of naked? I suppose not. Well, if that is the case, you’re laughing quite a lot, and I’m probably reading your undoubtedly very sappy and highly literate letter that you slipped to Minerva over Christmas and giving you no end of grief over it. But let’s say it’s not that, just for argument’s sake.
I want you to know I’m leaving everything to Harry. There’s really just the house, the furnishings, and Kreacher. I hate to saddle him with that odious little demon, but he comes with the house, and I can’t see any way around it. I have no monetary assets left after Azkaban, of course, and Fudge still hasn’t declared I’m not guilty, so technically I’m not even sure if I can bequeath anything to anyone, but I feel I have to give Grimmauld Place to Harry. The boy has the money his parents left him, of course, but that won’t hold out forever. I wanted to give him a home, a real one, but if it turns out all I can give him is a house, well, at least he can have that. He’s a good kid.
But I want to give you something, Moony. Moony—reckon anyone else knows that name isn’t even a reference to your being a werewolf? The problem is, I don’t have anything else left of any monetary worth. But I do want to tell you something, something I could never quite work up the nerve to tell you directly before.
I love you.
I’ve loved you from the moment you covered for me in class when McGonagall realized someone had turned Snape’s bookbag into a very large barracuda. I assure you, that was entirely an accident, by the way. I was trying to transform it into a boa constrictor. How I wound up with a fish I’ll never know. But you cleaned every toilet bowl in the entire school without magic, all because you knew the Head Master was near expelling me, all because I was a bit… rambunctious, shall we say?
When you finally let me kiss you in sixth year, you remember, that night on top of the Astronomy tower, I thought I was the luckiest bloke on earth. No, I didn’t think, I knew. Then you went and made me wait another year before you’d let me shag you, and you nearly drove me crazy. Do you have any idea how delectable you looked, the shy way your eyes would meet mine across the common room? And then you’d blush that deep pink, and I knew you were thinking of exactly what I was, but when we’d slip off together, it was always, “Not yet, Padfoot. Not just yet.”
Then, the night exams were done, when you gave me the password to that lovely private room you had as Head Boy and I opened the door to find you lying naked across the bed, grinning at me…you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As I’m either dead or very, very drunk right now, I’ll let you in on a secret, Moony. After you fell asleep that night, I cried. I was so damn in love with you that it scared me, and the thought that I might lose you in the way people sometimes lose one another after school is over was so painful to me I thought I might die.
Yes, I’m a melodramatic prat underneath the badboy image. But then, you already knew that.
Those few years between school and Azkaban, though, were so happy. They were horrible, too, because death was always lurking around the corner, but the times we had… they were one of the few things I had in that bleak, dark cell that brought me a tiny bit of happiness sometimes. Granted, the Dementors always made me think of how you must have hated me then, and I don’t blame you for it, of course, but it was still a good thing to remember I was loved once. I never expected to know that again.
And then I got you back. That was one thing I’d never even dreamed could happen. Figuring out ways to rendezvous with you almost made running from the Ministry fun. Alright, I admit I would have found dodging Fudge’s idiot squad fun anyway, but still. And after all, it did lead to some very creative solutions to problems. For example, allow me to rub your nose one last time into the fact I was entirely right about certain activities being possible on Buckbeak’s back even at altitudes of over 1000 feet.
It’s been a bloody amazing ride, in that last case, quite literally, but you know what I mean. If I’m dead (as opposed to just dead drunk), I want you to know I don’t have any regrets. I’ve had you, and I couldn’t ask for more than that.
Now, a word with you about the future, Moony. I am completely aware that you find my distant cousin Tonks more than a tad attractive. If I’m dead, I want you to know I approve and you should move on with your life. If, on the other hand, I am merely drunk and you attempt anything with her, I’ll use that very interesting curse we found in that article called “How to Jinx Off Body Parts and Juggle Them.” Not that you would, I know.
Keep an eye on Harry for me.
Padfoot
Remus looked up from the paper. For a long time he gazed into the fire, a parade of memories crossing his vision, some sad, some wonderful, but none that he would be willing to part with. Gradually he became aware that there were sounds coming from the next floor. Molly was up early, probably dressing before she came down to start breakfast. He picked up the envelope with the will in it, deciding to ask Arthur to have a Ministry lawyer glance at it to be sure it was in order, then pocketed it.
The letter still lay on the table. Gently, he folded it, then placed it carefully in his breast pocket.
“I love you too, Sirius,” he said quietly.
Remus climbed the stairs, passing Molly on her way down. He climbed into bed and finally slept soundly through the day.
Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT
Feedback: Yes, thank you.
Spoilers: Through bits of HBP
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: After the events at the Ministry in book 6, Remus is given a letter. Remus/Sirius
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful author whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was entirely too silent, Remus thought. A week had passed since the battle at the Ministry, and Sirius’s death still seemed entirely too painful to believe. No wake, no funeral, nothing to help give a sense of closure because there was simply too much going on all the time to grieve properly. The Order’s meeting had lasted until well past three in the morning this time, and though Molly and Arthur had decided to stay the night in one of the guest bedrooms, everyone else, exhausted from answering the constant owls from Fudge, the Daily Prophet, and a thousand officials of every office were home at last for a few brief hours of sleep before returning to the endless flow of activity.
Remus had not gone home because he had no home to go to. Sirius had been his home.
He couldn’t sleep. There hadn’t been a full moon since the battle, but the tired, sick look in his eyes was one that normally went along with his condition. He doubted he’d slept for longer than two hours at a stretch in the last week. Silent as a ghost, he wandered from room to room, floor to floor of the old house, so perfectly quiet that even the portrait of Sirius’s mother didn’t stir at his passing. He realized suddenly that he didn’t know whether the portrait knew her son was dead. He had no desire to inform her and hear her happy gloating.
Finally, he entered the kitchen, sat down at the table, and put his head in his hands. For a long time he stayed that way, not moving. The flames in the fireplace crackled quietly, sending dancing patterns of light across the dirty walls that wouldn’t come clean no matter how much Molly scrubbed them. Everything here felt contaminated with despair and filth.
Suddenly, there was the quiet sound of a throat clearing in the fireplace, and Remus raised his head to look inquiringly at the flames. Sitting in the hearth was Albus Dumbledore’s head, his eyes filled with concern.
“I was hoping to find you up,” Dumbledore said softly. “I do not wish to disturb anyone at so late an hour, but I do have an important delivery to make, and I was detained by the Minister.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” Remus said, smiling a little at Dumbledore’s tact in not simply Apparating to Grimmauld place regardless of the hour.
“Very well then,” Dumbledore said, and his face disappeared from the fire. A few seconds later there was a soft popping noise, and he appeared in the kitchen in the flesh.
“I can get some tea together, if you like,” said Remus.
“Thank you,” said Dumbledore, sitting opposite him at the table. “Only if you will join me, of course.”
“I could do with a cuppa at that,” Remus said, waving his wand and producing a simple teapot and cups of brown stoneware that landed on the table with a dull clink. “Sugar?”
“My vice,” Dumbledore admitted with a slight inclination of his head and a gentle smile. “Three lumps, please.”
Remus gave three short flicks of his wand, and three sugarcubes plopped into Dumbledore’s cup. They both took a sip or tea. The warmth of the drink was a little comforting, the familiar taste soothing his nerves from their rough jangle to a slightly less desperate pace.
“I’m worried about you, Remus,” Dumbledore said softly, putting his cup down. “You look ill.”
“I’m afraid I feel ill as well as look it,” he replied, taking another sip. “I’m not sleeping, not eating. I can’t seem to do much of anything but work and wander the house.”
Dumbledore looked at him compassionately and patted his hand once on the table before saying, “Sirius would not have wanted you to ravage your health with grief, Remus. He cared for you far too much for that.”
Remus regarded him critically for a moment.
“You knew?” he asked carefully.
“My dear friend,” Dumbledore said with a smile, “I may be old, but my eyesight is still remarkably accurate. I credit it to eating carrots from Professor Sprout’s greenhouse three times a week. One does not need to be able to read thoughts to realize your relationship with Sirius was… extraordinarily deep.”
“Yes,” Remus said, staring into the fire. “Yes, it was.”
“To be honest, that is why I am here,” Dumbledore said, producing an envelope from his sleeve. “Sirius asked me if I would deliver this to you in the event that anything should happen to him.”
It was a common ritual in the Order. Almost everyone had asked another member to hold an envelope containing their will and personal letters to be given to their next of kin in case of their demise. It was almost always never given to their family directly. That meant having to discuss the possibility of not coming home again, and there was more than enough sadness and anxiety among them without bringing up that depressing thought, so a third party was used. Remus had done the same, only his envelope was in Minerva’s custody.
“Thank you,” Remus said, taking the envelope and feeling a sharp stab in his chest at the sight of his name written in Sirius’s hand on it.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Dumbledore said, and somehow he looked very old for a moment, as though he were remembering a long line of friends he had said a final goodbye to over the years. “Please, do realize if you should ever need to talk to me, whatever free time I have is at your disposal. I’ll leave you to read your letter unless you would rather have company as you do.”
“That’s very kind, Albus,” Remus said, “but it won’t be necessary.”
“Very well then. Again, I do urge you to take good care of yourself, and if you require anything, please let me know,” he said, rising. “Goodnight.”
With another pop, he Disapparated, and Remus was left alone. The envelope seemed unnaturally white against the dark, worn wooden table, and he avoided opening it for a minute by whisking away the teapot and cups. After, he continued to stare at Sirius’s handwriting, knowing he had to open the envelope eventually but not quite finding the strength to do it just yet. Finally, he took a deep breath and picked it up, the smooth feel of the paper in his hands somehow surreal as he tore open the seal, not bothering with a wand.
Inside the envelope was another envelope labeled “Last Will and Testament” and a letter. He put the second envelope to the side and unfolded the letter. Once again, he took a deep, shuddering breath and began to read.
Dear Remus,
You’re reading this, so I’m obviously dead. Unless, of course, we’re reading this together after Voldemort has been finished and we’re extremely tired and very, very drunk. And also very naked. Are there actually degrees of naked? I suppose not. Well, if that is the case, you’re laughing quite a lot, and I’m probably reading your undoubtedly very sappy and highly literate letter that you slipped to Minerva over Christmas and giving you no end of grief over it. But let’s say it’s not that, just for argument’s sake.
I want you to know I’m leaving everything to Harry. There’s really just the house, the furnishings, and Kreacher. I hate to saddle him with that odious little demon, but he comes with the house, and I can’t see any way around it. I have no monetary assets left after Azkaban, of course, and Fudge still hasn’t declared I’m not guilty, so technically I’m not even sure if I can bequeath anything to anyone, but I feel I have to give Grimmauld Place to Harry. The boy has the money his parents left him, of course, but that won’t hold out forever. I wanted to give him a home, a real one, but if it turns out all I can give him is a house, well, at least he can have that. He’s a good kid.
But I want to give you something, Moony. Moony—reckon anyone else knows that name isn’t even a reference to your being a werewolf? The problem is, I don’t have anything else left of any monetary worth. But I do want to tell you something, something I could never quite work up the nerve to tell you directly before.
I love you.
I’ve loved you from the moment you covered for me in class when McGonagall realized someone had turned Snape’s bookbag into a very large barracuda. I assure you, that was entirely an accident, by the way. I was trying to transform it into a boa constrictor. How I wound up with a fish I’ll never know. But you cleaned every toilet bowl in the entire school without magic, all because you knew the Head Master was near expelling me, all because I was a bit… rambunctious, shall we say?
When you finally let me kiss you in sixth year, you remember, that night on top of the Astronomy tower, I thought I was the luckiest bloke on earth. No, I didn’t think, I knew. Then you went and made me wait another year before you’d let me shag you, and you nearly drove me crazy. Do you have any idea how delectable you looked, the shy way your eyes would meet mine across the common room? And then you’d blush that deep pink, and I knew you were thinking of exactly what I was, but when we’d slip off together, it was always, “Not yet, Padfoot. Not just yet.”
Then, the night exams were done, when you gave me the password to that lovely private room you had as Head Boy and I opened the door to find you lying naked across the bed, grinning at me…you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As I’m either dead or very, very drunk right now, I’ll let you in on a secret, Moony. After you fell asleep that night, I cried. I was so damn in love with you that it scared me, and the thought that I might lose you in the way people sometimes lose one another after school is over was so painful to me I thought I might die.
Yes, I’m a melodramatic prat underneath the badboy image. But then, you already knew that.
Those few years between school and Azkaban, though, were so happy. They were horrible, too, because death was always lurking around the corner, but the times we had… they were one of the few things I had in that bleak, dark cell that brought me a tiny bit of happiness sometimes. Granted, the Dementors always made me think of how you must have hated me then, and I don’t blame you for it, of course, but it was still a good thing to remember I was loved once. I never expected to know that again.
And then I got you back. That was one thing I’d never even dreamed could happen. Figuring out ways to rendezvous with you almost made running from the Ministry fun. Alright, I admit I would have found dodging Fudge’s idiot squad fun anyway, but still. And after all, it did lead to some very creative solutions to problems. For example, allow me to rub your nose one last time into the fact I was entirely right about certain activities being possible on Buckbeak’s back even at altitudes of over 1000 feet.
It’s been a bloody amazing ride, in that last case, quite literally, but you know what I mean. If I’m dead (as opposed to just dead drunk), I want you to know I don’t have any regrets. I’ve had you, and I couldn’t ask for more than that.
Now, a word with you about the future, Moony. I am completely aware that you find my distant cousin Tonks more than a tad attractive. If I’m dead, I want you to know I approve and you should move on with your life. If, on the other hand, I am merely drunk and you attempt anything with her, I’ll use that very interesting curse we found in that article called “How to Jinx Off Body Parts and Juggle Them.” Not that you would, I know.
Keep an eye on Harry for me.
Padfoot
Remus looked up from the paper. For a long time he gazed into the fire, a parade of memories crossing his vision, some sad, some wonderful, but none that he would be willing to part with. Gradually he became aware that there were sounds coming from the next floor. Molly was up early, probably dressing before she came down to start breakfast. He picked up the envelope with the will in it, deciding to ask Arthur to have a Ministry lawyer glance at it to be sure it was in order, then pocketed it.
The letter still lay on the table. Gently, he folded it, then placed it carefully in his breast pocket.
“I love you too, Sirius,” he said quietly.
Remus climbed the stairs, passing Molly on her way down. He climbed into bed and finally slept soundly through the day.