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When Sirius is gone, it falls to Remus to complete the unhappy task of sending out bereavement notices. Of course he realizes the futility of this action, which is solidified when week after week he receives envelopes full of ashes.
Sometimes glimpses of his handwriting are still visible, as though Aunt Lucretia or Great Uncle Charlus could simply not be bothered to finish the job. Other times, he receives his envelopes back completely intact with “RETURN TO SENDER” stamped on the front and viciously delighted messages on the back. Grandmother Melania had written the words “If only his poor parents were alive to see this day,” in beautiful, flowing script and blood-red ink. Grandfather Pollux’s envelope bore only the words, “Merlin be praised!” in scratchy block letters which somehow give Remus the impression of cruelly pointed teeth.
Somehow, though, Remus does not mind. He remains in the childhood home of his—best friend? Lover? Partner? Remus eventually decides that now is certainly not the time for labels.
He sleeps in the room at the top of the stairs, just below the attic, where he knows Walburga and Orion had attempted to hide their eldest son away and forget about him whenever they could. He sifts through Sirius’s boyhood closet and toy chest, taking the abandoned memories and making them his own. One day, after tending to Buckbeak, Remus unearths an old portrait of young Sirius, buried away in the back of the closet as if someone had wanted to be rid of it but couldn’t make the effort to truly destroy it. He gazes down at the young boy, who sulks and stares moodily off into the corner until Remus touches his cheek, at which point he turns his gaze upward at him.
“Who are you then?” the portrait asks, trying to sound tough and angry but failing to hide his curiosity.
Remus tells him, leaving out some of the finer details.
The portrait boy folds his arms against his chest and sets his face into an arrogantly smug grin that seems all too familiar to Remus. Something deep in his chest tightens painfully as the boy announces, “Well, I guess you’re all right then.”
Remus knows it is pathetic and sad even as he continues to arrange the portrait at the head of the kitchen table. He knows it is pathetic and sad, but he is just too tired to continue having all his meals and teas with only his returned bereavement notices and the creaks of the old house for company. He tells Portrait Sirius as much as he can about his life, again leaving out some of the finer details. The portrait whoops and cheers when Remus tells him of his running away from home and receiving the money from his Uncle Alphard.
“Always a good hat, that one was!” the portrait declares, and his painted smile, however unreal it may actually be, is so lifelike that Remus has to excuse himself and hurry away from the table to keep from crying out.
Then there comes a morning when Remus and the portrait are having breakfast—rather, Remus is having breakfast and the portrait is moaning enviously about bangers and mash, his favorite. Remus is about to inform him that the Sirius he knows—knew, rather—always preferred pumpkin muffins and cold coffee, when he is interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Well, go see who it is!” the portrait commands imperiously, and Remus does.
He opens the door to find Andromeda Tonks, dressed in mourning black, and clinging desperately to the handrail of the steps.
“I came as soon as I could,” she whispers, and proceeds to throw herself on Remus, weeping into the raggedy shoulder of his robes. Remus has to lean against the doorframe to support her grief.
“He’ll be so glad that you’ve come,” he murmurs to her without thinking, and when she lifts her confused, tear-stained face, he has to show her into the kitchen.
“It can’t be good old cousin Andie!” the portrait claps his hand together twice, as though entirely too delighted.
Andromeda looks to the portrait, to Remus, and back again. Remus does not attempt to explain, knows he cannot explain, and so merely lifts a shoulder in response to her questioning gaze. After a moment, her face softens and it is clear that while she may not fully understand, she does not feel the need to question him.
Remus leaves her alone with the portrait to catch up and retreats to the drawing room. He cannot stifle his chuckle when he hears the portrait yelp “Nymphadora?!” with undisguised alarm.
He is examining the family tapestry with some interest when he hears soft footsteps and an even softer voice calling his name. He answers, trying to ignore the hoarseness of his own voice, and Andromeda joins him in the room, her eyes wet.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Remus falls back on his trusted standby of apologizing. “Listen, I’m sorry, Andi—Andromeda. I’m sure that must seem very strange, or disrespectful, but I—”
She cuts him off with a shake of her head and a small smile; then turns her attention to the tapestry. She stares at for awhile, her tear-red eyes scanning over the names and dates and scorch marks. Suddenly, without warning, she raises her wand and wordlessly removes the burn marks that pepper the ancient wall hanging. She touches her fingertips to her lips then to Sirius’s name; lightly, lovingly. She then takes a step back, aims her wand for a second time, and in an instant the names of Sirius’s parents are scorched off the tapestry.
Remus watches on; silently agrees as she whispers to the new burn marks:
“You did not deserve him.”
She pockets her wand and turns to Remus, moving quickly to embrace him before he can protest. He walks her back downstairs, helps her with her cloak, and shows her to the door. She stands for a moment on the top step, smiling sadly up at him.
Finally she says, in a voice so kind that it warms Remus against the late fall air, “You have to remember him. Who is anyone to tell you how to do it?”
Remus smiles at her retreating back and in his mind he hears Sirius’s voice—not the young voice of the portrait, nor the voice that had been slightly hardened by Azkaban, but the voice of the Sirius he knew from school—
“Always a good hat, that one.”
His smile does not fade as he closes the old door against the chill and retreats back into the house.