((2/2)) I also found a post about the piano in the shrieking shack, that Sirius would play piano for Remus and all the jazz. Then I thought that what if, Remus keeps a piano in his house in memory of the fluffy moments he shared with Pads. Though, every year on the day his best friend died, Remus canât bare even glancing at it. And it just happens to be one of those days when Teddy decides to ask his father if he could teach him something on the instrument. :â)
Okay, modifying it just a smidge. Sirius is in Azkaban, and he used to play to distract Remus from his agonizing transformations. And now Remus is sad.
The apartment was disgusting.
Sticky carpet, the fabric pulling at his soles as Remus walks into the tiny room. Paint flutters down from the flaking ceiling, the bare lightbulbs flickering as he drops his suitcase on the old chair. Dimly, he can hear scuttling, something moving underneath the floorboards, around the old pile of junk in the corner.
He scoffs. Once, he was the cleanest out of all of them. Once, he had refused to sleep without his own sheets, refused to borrow clothing from anyone other then Sirius. Once, he had had standards.
Remus shakes his head. If only they could see me now.
He sighs, heading over to the tiny bed shoved in the corner. The mattesss is yellowed, thin and covered in holes, but Remus doesnât care anymore as he sits down on it.
3 years. 3 years, since James and Peter and Lily died. 3 years, since Voldemort had fallen, lost because of a motherâs love. 3 years alone, struggling to find work, reduced to begging on the streets and other, more unsavory jobs.
Remus lets his head fall against the thin wall, his hand unconsciously reaching over his shoulder to brush against the 4 tattoos on his back.
They were simple, small. A bit of curling antler, a single white lilly, the whiskers of a mouse and a paw print. He lets his fingers wisp over them, digging into the flesh beside the one of the paw, eyes closed shut against the tears that threatens to fall. It hurt, every day, the agony threatening to overwhelm him at times. 3 years, and the pain still hadnât gone away.
He stands, the ground swaying slightly underneath him, gritting his teeth against the memories. Heâs been having them more and more, flashbacks of a different time. He spent hours in them, ghosts of an old life, trying to realize when the boy he loved became a monster, why Sirius changed.
He shakes his head quickly, the familiar darkness coloring his vision, and walks to the tiny kitchen. Itâs not much - a fridge and a hot plate and a rusty sink, but he fills the battered kettle up with water anyways. Heâs long since ran out of money for tea, but he makes do with a few dried mint leaves, plucked from the communal gardens near the park. He carries the mug over to the bed, his head swimming, the heat from the tea burning his fingers. It hurts, the thin metal scorching his skin, but Remus clutches tighter, because at least he can feel something other then the numbness and the anger and the sorrow.
Remus drains the cup in a gulp, the liquid burning his tongue and throat and stomach, and stands. Heâs walking, to toss the cup into the sink, when a pale object catches his eye, half buried in the junk pile lying there. He places the cup down, the impact denying the thin metal, and bends down to examine it.
At first he thinks it is a piece of wood - itâs long and pale, shaped in a long cube. He picks it up, turning it over in his scarred hand, the object smooth and cool resting on his palm. Heâs about to toss it back into the trash when he realizes. Itâs a single piano key, slightly chipped, and Remus can feel his heart start to pound. He knows what it feels like, knows the tell-tale symptoms, but all Remus can do is stare at the piano key as the memories sweep in.
5 hours before the full moon.
He sits on the bed, trying not to tremble.
It was always the worst part, those hours before moonrise. Time lost, spent imagining the pain, the agony of what was to come, darkness and silver and crimson.
No matter how many times he transformed, how many moons and days and hours, he still is scared.
Remus bites his lip, staring up at the slowly darkening sky. It was going to be worse, this year. Full-Autumn moon, one of the biggest ever, a night of festivals and food and laughter.
He wishes he could be there to see it.
The bed is thin, scratchy blankets twisting underneath his legs, as Remus scans the room. Itâs almost empty - rough wooden floors, old rugs hanging on stone walls. An old armchair lies in one corner, a battered piano across from it. He never used it, anyways. The only one who could play was Sirius, and he hated piano music. It was one of the things Remus never asked about, the emotional baggage that Sirius still carried from his time with his family.
Remus sighs, staring down at his fingers. He wonders what they would feel like when they started snapping, changing into that beast of fur and claws and fangs.
He hears the door open, soft footsteps filling the room. He looks up, to see Sirius stalk into it, his hair messy and knotted into a lopsided bun. Sirius rushes over instantly, placing his hand on Remusâ thigh. âHey. Hey, Moons. You good?â
Remus nods. âYeah. Fine.â
Sirius shakes his head. âJesus. Nothingâs hurting? Still feeling fine?â
Remus shrugs. âYes. No. I donât know.â
And maybe itâs the stress, the fear of pain, or maybe itâs just the sound of Remusâ name on Siriusâ lips, but suddenly heâs crying as Sirius wraps his arms around him.
Siriusâ chest is warm, his hands tight around Remusâ shaking body as Remus weeps Into Siriusâ shoulder. Sirius strokes Remusâ back, gentle, even strokes, as Remus gasps for air.
Siriusâ voice is calm. âHey. Whatâs wrong?â
Remus takes a shuddering breath. âItâsâŚitâs autumn moon. Largest in 5 years.â He looks up at Sirius, eyes filling with tears. âI canâtâŚI canât do this, Pads. I fucking canât. Iâm going to die, Sirius, I canât survive this!â
âShhh.â Sirius kisses the top of Remusâ Head. âYes, you can. You can survive this, Re.â He bites his lip, the skin around it going white as he breathes, âTell me.â
Tell me what to do. Tell me what to say. Tell me how to help you. Tell me how to make the agony go away.
Remus swallows. Get it together. âUmâŚâ He glances at the piano, in the corner of the room. âCan youâŚcan you play for me?â
Siriusâ face closes off, a wall between then, and Remus backtracks. âOr not. Iâm sorry, I didnât mean to - â
Sirius cuts him off. âNo. Itâs fine. I justâŚ.â He grins, an empty, hollow expression. âI havenât played for awhile.â
Remus cocks his head. âDidnât you learn how to?â
âYes, butâŚâ Sirius smirks. âYou know my mother. Always had to be the best. She had a nasty habit of recording my failures, and using them as an excuse to hurt me.â He shrugs. âEvery mistake was a line carved into my back.â
âYou learn.â Sirius laughs. âI learnt pretty damn fast how to be a good piano player.â
Remus swallows, his heart aching for Sirius, even as he winces at the soreness now setting into his own bones. âDonât play if you donât want to.â
Sirius winks. âItâs fine, Re. Iâll always play for you.â
He touches the keys, a simple melody, then takes a shaking breath. Remus watches, as Sirius places his hands on the piano and starts to play.
His fingers are flawless, dancing over the keys, blurs, coaxing sounds out the instrument. Each note over another, a waterfall of sound, higher and lower and so, so beautiful. Siriusâ hands are careful, deliberate, each press of the keys calculating and precise as he sways, slightly, the notes coming faster and faster.
Itâs beautiful, the way Sirius played, each moment lasting forever, Remus almost forgetting the pain in his body. He crying, tears sliding down his face as Sirius reaches the end of the song, note after note and then -
Sirius turns, slightly, but Remus is already there. They fold into each otherâs arms, Sirius wrapped around Remus, pressing each other so tight together, the sun setting behind them.
Remus stares at the piano key.
He knows he should feel something, knows he should be crying.
But all he does is reach for his wand, spinning it in his hands.
He ignores the memory, the agony it brings, buries it so deep inside of him.
Rents stares down at the piano key in his hand.
And with a flick of his wand, he turns it to ash.
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