Harry Potter Away

**Title**: Away  
**Author**: Daria  
**Category**: General  
**Rating**: K  
**Spoilers**: PoA, OotP  
**Summary**: He is not dead, Remus thinks.  
**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringements were intendedAlso, the poem belongs to James Whitcomb Riley.

* * *

_I cannot say, and I will not say  
That he is dead. He is just away.  
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,  
He has wandered into an unknown land.  
And left us dreaming how very fair  
It needs must be since he lingers there.  
And you - O you, who the wildest yearn  
For the old-time step and the glad return -  
Think of him faring on, as dear  
In the love of there as the love of here;  
Think of him still as the same, I say;  
He is not dead - he is just away!_

**Away**

Was it cold outside? As it was winter, one could only assume that would be about right. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was always cold. Even so close to the massive fireplace one's breath was visible. At least, Remus Lupin presumed it was. He was numb, and had been for some time. Only internally though. There was no need for outward despair or devastation in the particular invisible house - it loomed about without his lamentation added to it. Even before the fierce battle at the Ministry of Magic, the former Black residence was dreary. The former Black house - how absurd that sounded. Former Black. Former friend. Former convict. Former god-father. It was all fucking ridiculous. And yet, he himself had assured everyone what he least wanted to believe: Sirius Black was dead. Not in Azkaban. Not in hiding. Beyond the veil; gone forever. Remus had spent specific periods of his life convincing himself of certain truths, all of which had to do with the former master of Number Twelve. In childhood, he had convinced himself that his school mates were, indeed, trustworthy. In his adolescence, the trust shattered, he convinced himself that his friends were not his friends. And after graduation..

Sirius was so charming - the 'was' added to the pressure being applied by some unseen force to the man's chest - that he had managed to smooth things over with his lycanthropic friend more than once, which was a feat in itself. First, he made it clear that Remus being a werewolf changed nothing in their friendship. Second, that sending Severus Snape into the Whomping Willow's passage was a mistake. Third, Sirius was not the betrayer and murderer of James and Lily Potter and Peter Pettigrew - And somehow it seemed fitting. Somehow it made sense that Sirius' own talent with being manipulative, sincere, and impulsive at the same time would be the death of him, though Remus certinaly wasn't deeming it fair. Sirius had always found a way around anything. Murder. Betrayal. A Dementor's Kiss. Only how had he fumbled? There was no glory in his death - no use. It was arbitrary, anti-climactic. Sirius would have at least wanted to get a laugh out of it, the sorry bastard.

Remus had no tears in him, but dry sorrow was worse than crying himself sick anyway. Instead he would smile, stare into the fire with his vacant amber eyes and simply remember not the drained, wasted skeleton of a man that emerged from an unjust imprisonment, but the charming, athletic, smooth-talking teenager from Hogwarts. The handsome, dark-haired nutter who never missed an opportunity to turn heads. Padfoot always made sure when he did make them laugh, they did so until their sides were splitting and their lungs devoid of oxygen. How many actually realized what had been lost? Too few, Remus thought.

Maybe, wherever the arch lead, his old schoolmate and confidante was entertaining someone. Or maybe insulting someone, which was just as good. A fresh pang of sickness moved across the wizard's chilled body as he sat in the musty armchair affront the ornate living room fireplace. Pleasant memories could only last so long. The mint leaf resting on the surface of his tea, which was on a side table, could only balance there for a few moments before it was submerged and forced downward. Such were Lupin's thoughts.

Was he a silly old sod for not believing it? Like every other relevant point he had tried to assure himself of, Remus could never be sure. There was a glimmer of something, probably denial in this case, that kept him from fully buying whatever thought he or anyone else had tried to sell in the ways of truth. No, he decidedly would not believe it. Slowly, he was sinking into the depths of misery again. Like anything else, he would flail and grasp and attempt to steady himself.

And the recollections greatly helped that. Sometimes familiar faces helped. Maybe a kind letter, even if not addressed to him personally, would, too. The twinkle in Albus Dumbledore's periwinkle blue eyes helped. The ancient wizard had long since been bereft of that magical glint that was so characteristic of him, but sometimes, when a story was told, or a small victory was won, it would return. Such made fighting for yhe Order worth it. Small victories would ensure those lost would be avenged. And they would. Sooner or later it would all be over with. Voldemort would be defeated and young Harry's children would be safe. They would hear of the horrors which took place so long ago - of the heroic witch and wizard who fought to save their son, the Boy Who Lived to defeat the Dark Lord countless times and eventually end the terrible reign for good. The names of anyone involved would become normal in everyday conversations. No longer would unknowing Muggles be at risk. Triumph wasn't so far away, but it wasn't here yet.

Many had died, and more were lying in St. Mungo's or Muggle hospitals even now. The students of Hogwarts were not safe, nor were their parents. Enormous precautions had been taken to ward against future attacks, but the Death Eaters were rekindling their strong alliance that once left such a quake. Remus lifted his glass from the table and sipped, examining the little green leaf that was resting at the bottom. His thoughts selfishly wandered back to just one of innumerable losses to the wizarding world.

Selfish or not, it was all for Sirius. The wizard closed his tired eyes as this thought finally made itself clear. Removing a rumpled piece of parchment from the pocket of his worn robe, stiff as he had been seated there for far too long, Remus held it in both scarred hands that rested in his lap, a small, satisfied smile cascading across his aged features. As the mix of exhaustion and desire slowly ebbed away, the disheveled living room slowly regained its old splendor. As if someone had thrown a bucket of water on the place, color seeped back into the walls, turning them a livid green. The tapestries renewed. It was if the universal watch had been rewound.

The withered adult in the armchair had been replaced by his youthful likeness, now seated on the floor, who still retained some of the exhaustion but none of the misery. The boy's mop of light-brown hair was not speckled with grey, and a new wizard sat in the high-backed throne facing the fire: a sturdy, good-looking young lad with a shock of dark, shiny hair and vibrant eyes beneath arched brows. The child's angular features reflected an expression of pure joy, evidently derived from trouble-making. The dark-haired boy had both overgrown legs planted on the floor, but was leaning over, an arm on the bony shoulder of his friend, to inspect a fancy piece of lightly-glowing parchment in the other's lap. Laughter rang through the cavernous room as, quite obviously, mischief had been managed.


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Tragedy