Minerva finds him like this. She helps him inside, makes him tea. Makes him sit with her and drink it. He tells her. She is not generally the type of person you confide in easily. She is too stern. And yet, he tells her. Everything. She looks back at him.
“You will have to tell him,” she says, abruptly.
“I know,” his voice catches; he repeats it, slower. “I know.”
She nods, and he is sure there are tears in her eyes.
“Have a biscuit, Remus,” she whispers, like she used to do, whenever they were in trouble.
“Thank you, Minnie.”
They sit in silence for a while. She brushes her face with her hand, sniffs into her handkerchief.
Sirius will never forget this day. It’s a miserable, wet Wednesday, 10th March 1999. Remus’ thirty-ninth birthday. He doesn’t want Remus to be stuck here in St. Mungo’s, lying in the neat, starched, white hospital bed. The disinfectant smell makes him gag, perhaps it’s the dog in him, it’s overwhelming. The walls are white too, the dark shadows under Remus’ eyes a stark contrast. He paces up and down the small room, looking at Remus. There’s a gnawing feeling pulling at his chest. He needs to get them both out of here, quickly. Before it’s too late. Too late for what?
Remus is acting strangely, he thinks. For one, he isn’t complaining about his constant moving, telling him to sit down. He should be, it’s irritating. And the look in his eyes, it’s hard to describe, but if Sirius had to put a name to it, he would say that Remus is worried, about him – eyes following him, wordlessly, as he continues his pacing. Concerned.
“I think we should leave,” he says abruptly.
“The Healer wants to talk to you, to us,” Remus corrects himself. “Before we go.”
His voice is kind, compassionate. But firm. And a bit fragile. Sirius doesn’t like it, what it means.
“This is a waste of time. It’s your birthday, we don’t have time to- “ he digs his nails into the palm of his hands.
Sometimes he hates being an Animagus. A dog, specifically. That sixth sense. Pheromones, body language, whatever the hell it is, he’s always been right before. Death. Doom. It sounds melodramatic. Such a histrionic, contrived boy, an embarrassment, nobody believes your ranting – he can still hear his mother’s voice, venom, making him doubt himself. Maybe it’s bullshit. But he can smell it.
“Please, Moony,” he shivers, standing at the foot of Remus’ bed, gripping the iron railing.
Sirius will never forget this day. It’s a miserable, wet Wednesday, 10th March 1999. Remus’ thirty-ninth birthday. He doesn’t want Remus to be stuck here in St. Mungo’s, lying in the neat, starched, white hospital bed. The disinfectant smell makes him gag, perhaps it’s the dog in him, it’s overwhelming. The walls are white too, the dark shadows under Remus’ eyes a stark contrast. He paces up and down the small room, looking at Remus. There’s a gnawing feeling pulling at his chest. He needs to get them both out of here, quickly. Before it’s too late. Too late for what?
Remus is acting strangely, he thinks. For one, he isn’t complaining about his constant moving, telling him to sit down. He should be, it’s irritating. And the look in his eyes, it’s hard to describe, but if Sirius had to put a name to it, he would say that Remus is worried, about him – eyes following him, wordlessly, as he continues his pacing. Concerned.
“I think we should leave,” he says abruptly.
“The Healer wants to talk to you, to us,” Remus corrects himself. “Before we go.”
His voice is kind, compassionate. But firm. And a bit fragile. Sirius doesn’t like it, what it means.
“This is a waste of time. It’s your birthday, we don’t have time to- “ he digs his nails into the palm of his hands.
Sometimes he hates being an Animagus. A dog, specifically. That sixth sense. Pheromones, body language, whatever the hell it is, he’s always been right before. Death. Doom. It sounds melodramatic. Such a histrionic, contrived boy, an embarrassment, nobody believes your ranting – he can still hear his mother’s voice, venom, making him doubt himself. Maybe it’s bullshit. But he can smell it.
“Please, Moony,” he shivers, standing at the foot of Remus’ bed, gripping the iron railing.
