nekare

Author: Nekare
Title: Flirting With Madness
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Words: 1005
A mix of the prompts for october 13, 21 and 22 for Scarvesnhats, which I've writing for two days and couldn't finish 'cause everyone seemed to need the computer... Hope you like it, and feedback will be loved.

The music fills the room, dancing in ups and lows of sound twirling in the almost empty room; and Remus wants to dive into it, swim in the cadence of the song and forget the gray tinted world outside Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. It’s been raining for two hours, and the glass holds the drips painted with water; shining with the light that has abandoned the wizarding world figuratively, soft – a lace embroidery to adorn the routine of ancient London.

The window is cool, and Remus rests his forehead on the glass, eyes dropping to half mast and gazing dreamily at the rain, wishing his life was as simple as the people walking down the street, muggles, living happily and worrying over the afternoon’s sitcom on the television and pondering about that new wonder, the new born child of the Internet Network; a poor copy of the millenary Owling, Remus finds it.

Meanwhile, the Order members are painfully aware of the terror waiting just outside their doors, threatening and looming ahead as a patch of darkness; gnarling, growing even bigger. And there it came the darkness of the Blacks, covered with luxury and long lost wealth, regal appearing; looking coy and flirting with madness.

Just the way Sirius looks as he enters the room, still covered in blood from the dead rats he’s been feeding Buckbeack (and now that they have actual food to give the creature, it has become much more symbolic), long hair falling into his eyes and bloody streaks in his forehead for having tried to move it aside without remembering the thick substance that coated his fingers.

He joins Remus in the couch by the window, green velvet covered in a layer of dust and with the color washed away in parts by decades of continuous sunlight. He sits against Remus’ knees, who’s sitting on the back of the seat; head still resting upon the window.

“The music is lovely,” Sirius says quietly, as he has been prone to do since he has been cooped up in the house he detests so, screaming silently how much he hates this place. Some of the blood on his clothes stains Remus’ pants, and he cleanses it with a quick cleaning spell.

“It is, isn’t it?” Says Remus as he moves his fingers on top of the tiny droplets and follows their path down into oblivion and the city sewers. “I brought my old record player with me a week ago and hadn’t remembered it until now. This place needs some cheering, that’s for sure.” And so does Sirius, he adds to himself. He starts to pass his left hand through Sirius’ hair (the other one is still following mysterious paths that lead to imaginary places in his head, a journey, a quest, maybe a princess to save and a dragon to slay as the drop goes down), and he’s rewarded with a long sigh.

“I’m glad you remembered our song,” Sirius says while nuzzling Remus’ knees, sounding muffled and with just a hint of the old Black charm, squashed and reborn lacking a bit of innocence and playfulness.

Remus lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, No, Padfoot, I’m glad you remembered it. He adds instead, “How could I not? Although I have to admit I haven’t heard it in quite a long time.” Surprise in Sirius’ eyes, a mischievous smile and a frown in his face; probably not in the right order, but Remus doesn’t care much about it when Sirius suddenly stands up and grins at him; catching Remus’ hand in his (and now they’re both bloody, but it isn’t as if Remus will complain at the contact).

“Then we’ll have to do something about it, right? Sirius pulls him to his feet, distracting him from the rain at last. “Make happier memories, you know, for that song.” And as he speaks Remus thinks he can see a glimpse of the seventeen year old boy he had once been, full of life and pent-up energy; hidden within the shell of a man Sirius has become after Azkaban, chills running up his spine at the mere mention of Dementors and rumpled sheets after a night plagued with nightmares.

Sirius puts his left hand on Remus’ shoulder and holds his hand with his own, starting to dance a waltz; clumsily, because he isn’t used to not be the one leading, but with a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes; a thing Remus hasn’t seen since they left his cottage in the north to imprison Sirius once again under the guise of a hideout.

Soon they’re dancing all over the empty house, music floating in his ears and old lyrics spurting from their lips; laughing like the boys they had forgotten they had been and breaking old vases and ancient (not to mention expensive) Black heirlooms as they spin wildly in the reduced spaces, neither caring and neither wanting to stop.

And as they lay with their shoulders touching on a rug in the moldy living room and charm the ceiling with intertwined letters of a really corny poem in bright pinks and oranges and reds (as that would be the more insulting color to the house that seems to reject them as if it had a life of its own) that Kreacher will no doubt try to erase the next morning while murmuring hate threats and complaints under his breath, Remus realizes that maybe he shouldn’t envy the muggles and their peaceful life; but try and accept his own and look to the future with his chin up.

(And he tries very hard to convince himself of that, but he’s still not sure he believes it completely).

It’s October, and the music is still filling the stale air of the decaying house, accompanied by the drums of the rain pounding on the windows, large tears traveling south in the glass to an expected end; the same way as the tears on Remus’ face fourteen Octobers ago.