#hprrf

Sirius wakes with a jolt, which is weird because he barely sleeps these days. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but that’s not unusual. It isn’t so much sleeping these days, as his body simply giving up, passing out when he couldn’t hold out any longer. Usually it happens when he’s curled up as Padfoot, the dog’s mind quieter than his own. He has spent so much time as Padfoot over the last few years that he feels more comfortable in the dog’s fur than his own skin.  

He had transformed back into his human form in his sleep, something that had happened increasingly more often in the past week. Sirius doesn’t know why, just yet another thing he can no longer control. He’s getting used to that feeling. Usually the nightmares wake him up, but not this time. He doesn’t know what did, the cottage seems to be quiet around him.

He had shown up on Remus’ doorstep a few days earlier, after he had followed Dumbledore’s orders to contact the old crowd to tell them about what Harry had seen. Remus had been surprised to see him, and Sirius still doesn’t know if it was for old friendship’s sake or just pity that made the other man open up his home.

Sirius looks around the sparse bedroom, the flimsy curtain that does little to keep out the sunlight. He keeps it closed at all times, but the room is still too bright, the sun is giving him a headache after the cold darkness of Azkaban. He mumbles a spell under his breath and he feels the magic coil inside of him, but the curtain barely moves.

There is a flare of something in his chest, anger or shame or frustration, he doesn’t know for sure. He used to be able to do wandless magic at the drop of a hat. Magic used to flow through him, pour out of him with no effort. Generations of powerful pureblood magic that responded to his every whim but now… now doing wandless magic is like pulling teeth. He needs his wand for the simplest spells, like a meek Muggle-born first-year who had never experienced true magic until they set foot inside Hogwarts.

He reaches for the wand on the bedside table, twirling it between his fingers before pointing it towards the window. He mumbles the incantation again and this time he feels it, the little tug of magic in his gut, the warmth at his fingertips as it flows through the wand. This time the curtain transforms into a heavier fabric, thicker, enough to block out some of the offending sunlight and he breathes a sigh of relief.

He had offered to stay on the sofa in the small living room downstairs since he didn’t sleep very well anyway, but Remus wouldn’t have it. Instead, he’d given up the cottage’s only bedroom for Sirius and taken the sofa for himself. It makes Sirius feel uncomfortable, knowing that he’s hogging the bed and the bedroom, especially as they are closing in on the full moon.

He will have to talk to Remus about it, he knows he can’t put it off for much longer. He drags himself out of bed, stretching before he starts to rummage around for something to wear. Not that he has a lot, only what Remus had loaned him when he had first shown up. 

Sirius had first insisted that he wouldn’t be able to wear it, he had always been broader and taller than Remus, but the other man had looked at him quietly and left the clothes on the bed for when Sirius was done with his shower.

Remus had been right, of course, that annoying habit of his hadn’t changed over the twelve years that Sirius had been away. Where Remus’ jumpers have always stretched tight over Sirius’ broad chest, they now hang loosely over his shoulders. He pulls the strings in Remus’ sweats tight so that they won’t fall down over his hips when he shuffles around the house.

He is grateful now that Remus doesn’t keep a lot of mirrors around. He would have covered them up if there were any in the bedroom, but luckily there aren’t. Sirius isn’t strong enough to face his own reflection more than absolutely necessary, it’s nothing but a painful reminder of the shadow of his former self that twelve years in Azkaban has reduced him into.

He can hear Remus move around downstairs and he knows he can’t hide away in the bedroom forever. He takes a deep breath as he stuffs his wand into his pocket, pushing the door open into the small hallway. He smells it almost immediately, Remus is cooking, and Sirius’ belly does a little rumble at the thought of food.

He slowly makes his way down the creaking stairs, stopping in the doorway leading into the kitchen. Remus is standing by the counter, his back against Sirius. He is slightly hunched over, the kitchen counter too low for him but for some reason, he hasn’t used magic to adjust it. It’s typical Remus, sometimes Sirius thinks he forgets he’s a wizard altogether.

There’s low music playing in the background, no doubt from their old record player that Remus had somehow managed to hold on to over the years. Most of the records were long gone, but Remus had told him that he had started to re-build his library. Sirius recognises the song that’s playing, but he can’t recall the name of the song or the band.

He's forgotten a lot of things, and the longer he spends outside in the real world, the more he realises it. It’s in the small things, an off-hand comment from Remus about something that happened when they were at school, a conversation they once had, something that Sirius had once claimed that he enjoyed doing or eating or drinking.

Sirius has forgotten most of it. He knows Remus can tell, even though the other man doesn’t comment on it. Sirius doesn’t want to talk about it either, there’s nothing to say about it anyway. Azkaban took a lot from him, the memories are only a small part of it all.

“Fucking hell– shit!”

The loud clatter and Remus’ voice are enough to yank Sirius out of his head, and he flinches at the sudden loud noise. The muscles in his back lock up, his heart makes a somersault in his chest, his pulse spiking as his first instinct is to transform into Padfoot. He can practically feel the ripple of the dog through him, but he manages to stop himself last second. He stares at Remus, eyes wide as he clings to his self-control.

“Shit,” Remus says again, and he looks a little frazzled as he bends down to pick up the pan he had dropped, setting it carefully on the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, I just didn’t see you standing there and then I turned around and– fuck. Are you alright?”

It takes a moment before Sirius can get his body to unlock, and he can see Remus’ worried gaze sweep over him. Some of the tension melts away at Sirius’ jerky half-nod though, and he manages a smile so weak that it barely reaches his eyes. Sirius feels his muscles relax though, and it’s not until then he realises he’s holding on to the doorframe tightly.

“Did you sleep okay?” Remus asks, which is ridiculous because they both know the answer to that already so Sirius doesn’t bother replying. It doesn’t seem as if Remus expects him to either, as he barely waits for Sirius to speak before he continues. “Want a cuppa?”

This doesn’t seem to require any sort of reply either, as Remus is already waving his wand towards the kettle which starts boiling immediately. Remus gestures towards the table by the window, and Sirius slowly lets go of the doorframe to straighten himself up.

He walks over to the table before sinking down on one of the rickety chairs, catching the cup of steaming hot tea that Remus sends floating in his direction with another flick of his wand. It’s strong and sweet, the way Sirius has always loved it. Remus always made the best tea; Sirius remembers that much.

“Thank you,” Sirius rasps, and then he clears his throat as Remus turns around to look at him. “For the tea, I mean.”

“You’re welcome,” Remus says, a slow smile spreading over his face and it lights up something behind his eyes.

Sirius feels his belly do a little swoop, like a faint pull of something long forgotten deep inside of him, but then Remus turns away again to return to what he’s doing. He’s working with his hands, Sirius can see, and he has realised over the past couple of days that Remus does that a lot.

Sirius doesn’t know if it’s because he learned to cook from his Muggle mother, or if Remus’ reluctance to use magic is something he picked up during the war. Sirius doesn’t remember, and that realisation settles heavily in his chest. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know the answer.

He watches as Remus puts a cabbage head into a pot of boiling water before checking on the other pot and humming to himself. He turns the oven on with a tap of his wand before summing an empty bowl, getting to work mixing something that looks like minced meat with spices.

Sirius doesn’t know a lot about cooking, he had never mastered it himself and during his childhood all cooking had been done by their wretched house-elf. Right now, he almost wishes he did know how to cook though; it looks relaxing, working with your hands like that. Sirius takes another sip from his tea. When Remus adds milk, cream, and boiled rice straight from the pot to the minced meat, however, he feels like he needs to ask.

“What… are you making?”