King Tide.

(A/N: This is the third part. Part One: Together Alone by Cravache. Part Two: Four Seasons In One Day by charlottesometimes.)

~ ~

And the hunger inside
Won\'t go away, it\'s starting to rise
And the longer you hide
The more you deny
And the sea rushes in...

~ ~

There was only silence, now. Silence was all that Remus could manage. Silence was the only thing that met him when Harry led him into the house, save for the click of the door closing behind them and the soft, hushed padding of their feet over the floor, the occasional creak from the aged floorboards under their weight. There had been chatter – albeit quiet and low – in the Palour room, but the moment Remus came into view of the Order gathered in huddle together, silence fell amongst them too.

His head was lagged forward, his brown hair – wet from the torrid storm – matted across his forehead, rivulets of raindrops dancing at the tips of his tresses before dropping off and landing silently on the floor or being caught in the fabric of Remus’ drenched clothing. His hazel eyes, which were bloodshot and puffy from his crying, were downcast. He didn’t want to meet the eyes of anyone there. He didn’t want to look into the orbs of others and see their pity, their sorrow, their own angst and pain. Remus could feel their eyes upon him as it was, could feel them giving mournful glances and knew that they were shifting uncomfortably on the spot upon which they stood. In Sirius’ house.

Sirius…

Remus licked his lips and drew a hand to his face, extended his thumb and slowly wiped his tears away from his cheeks, still feeling Harry’s arm around his waist. His other arm was clutching Harry’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the teen’s soaked shirt, digging in as if gripping on to Harry for dear life. A part of him wanted so badly to be angry at Harry, to hate him for what happened, to direct his pain and anguish to the boy with every morsel of strength that Remus had left. Perhaps the harshness of his fingers in the teen’s shoulder spoke these thoughts, feeling Harry tense up under the force of his gouging appendages. Or perhaps it spoke of his pain. Or perhaps it spoke of his thankfulness that Harry was there to catch him as he succumbed to such sorrow.

“Are you alright, Remus?” a soft, mellow voice spoke from the small gathering. Remus closed his eyes at Dumbledore’s words, gripping Harry’s shoulder tighter.

“Yes,” he replied in a barely audible whisper. He felt Harry’s arm tighten around his waist. Why did he have to lie? Why couldn’t he say no, that he wasn’t alright, that he was in pain beyond any agony he had suffered in his halfbreed life. Because he knew these people would not understand the depth to which his pain went.

Remus laxed his fingers, letting his hand slide from Harry’s shoulder and drop to his side with a clap. He stepped away from Harry, pressing his lips together, keeping his eyes cast down. “I’ll be upstairs in our…my room,” he spoke quietly, then turned on his heel and made his way towards the stairs, placing his hand on the banister and slowly trudged up, his feet dragging with each step, his heart weighing heavier and heavier with each ascending climb of the ancient staircase. His fingers slid over the aged, worn railing, taking note of every dent, every bump, wondering how many times had Sirius walked up these steps with his hand running over the handrail. He slid his other hand into his pocket and clenched his fist tightly, digging his nails into the palm of his hand until it hurt, until he could feel his arm shaking with the force of his clench. He didn’t want to cry again, he didn’t want to lose himself to tears that were to be shed for someone that was no more. Remus could feel his eyes beginning to burn again, could feel that familiar lump growing in his throat and pushing down on his tongue. No, he didn’t want to cry again. Not again. Not ever again.

Remus reached the landing and, for the first time since entering the house with Harry, glanced up to look at the door that led to his room. Our room… Perhaps if he just walked in, he would see Sirius sitting on the bed. Perhaps this was just a bad dream, and beyond that door was his salvation from this nightmare. A surge of hope welled in Remus, and he walked forth, drawing his hand out of his pocket and outstretching him arm towards the door handle. His heart thudded hard in his chest, and his fingers curled over the shape of the doorknob, turning it and hearing that familiar screech of the metal grinding in the handle. Remus pushed the door open, hoping - hoping - to look in and see Sirius, to see his closest friend in their bedroom, just like it was before the veil. He stepped over the threshold, his heel clicking on the wooden floor, and he looked expectantly towards the bed, wanting so much to see Sirius perched upon it, with that grin that Remus adored.

It was empty. All that lay there was the sheets, the blankets, the pillows. Remus’ stomach dropped, his heart wrenching, and he gripped the door handle so tightly his knuckles paled out. Why? Why did this have to happen? Why?

Gritting his teeth, forcing back his tears, Remus let go of the doorknob and moved into the room, pushing the door closed behind him with a thud. Everything in this room, everything, reminded him of Sirius. Everything. Every crevice was marked with his late friend. Why did it have to be like this? Why?

Approaching the bed slowly, Remus could feel anger welling in his gut with each step. Why did this have to happen? He could feel his pulse increasing and his blood surging in veins as his anger mounted, his frustration, his sorrow, his pain, his grief, his confusion. Everything mounting in him, welling in him and consuming his inner most being. Now at the bed, he let his hazel eyes scan over the surface, looking at every fissure and rumple of the sheets, and he bent down, outstretching his hand, and brushed his fingers over the material, remembering every moment that he spent with Sirius in this room, within these sheets, upon this mattress, in Sirius’ arms.

Why did this have to happen? Why?!

Remus clenched his teeth, balled his fists and raised his arms, held them in mid-air, then pummelled them down on to the bed hard, letting out a choked cry of anguish as his fists met the soft surface. The bed springs creaked and shifted under the weight, and Remus raised his fists again, and slammed them on the mattress again, tears beginning to leak from his eyes and slip down his cheeks, his teeth clenched so tight that tendons stood out in his throat.

“Why?!” he shrieked, lifting his fists again and bringing them back down on the bed again, following through with his movement and slumping forward on the mattress. “Why? God, why?” he muttered through his tears, crawling on to the bed towards the pillow, over to Sirius’ side, and burying his face into it. He could smell him, he could smell Sirius in the pillow, so vividly, and he brought his hands to the soft pillow and gripped it hard, laying down on his stomach and began to weep into it.

His sobs wracked the room, resounded hollowly. “Why?’ he cried into the pillow between sobs, his tears soaking it, his breath hitched and hiccupping. His heart felt torn in two, felt completely ripped apart. This was pain beyond any transfiguration, beyond any penetrable agony that the full moon laid upon him each month. This was torture; suffering beyond recompense, beyond his own pain threshold. Each and every part of his body ached; his innards felt like they were twisting and coiling around each other, knotting up and strangling him inside. His head felt heavy, laden with lead and throbbed in time with his cascading tears. His muscles ached, and he felt so exhausted, so drained and so completely lost, lost without his Sirius.

In the midst of his tears, of his sobs, a tap was heard on the door. Remus did not turn to look or answer the knock, hearing the door handle creak and the door groan quietly as it was opened. “Remus?” he heard Harry’s voice ask in a near-whisper. He gripped the pillow tighter and furrowed his face in deeper, trying to suppress his tears and his grief. “Remus?” the boy asked again.

He could hear footsteps approaching the bed, then felt the bed sag under the weight of Harry sitting upon it. “Remus…”

It took all of his might to turn his head towards Harry and look at him, his eyes red and sore and puffy, his cheeks wet from the tears, his lips quivering in sorrow. “Why did this happen?” Remus asked in a hoarse whisper. He moved his hand out towards Harry’s and gripped it tightly, as if wanting Harry to answer him, to provide him with a reason, an explanation. He watched Harry lag his head forward sullenly, the teen blinking back his own tears furiously, and a soft, “I don’t know, Remus.”

He gripped Harry’s hand tighter, watching the teen fight with his own tears, his own inner turmoil, and Remus – in spite of himself – felt somewhat comforted by this, comforted in seeing that he was not the only one that grieved, that he was not the only one that didn’t know why this happened. “Sit with me, Harry,” Remus spoke in a choked voice. “Please.” The teen nodded, gripping Remus’ hand in return, and quietly they stayed like this until Remus gave into his exhaustion and fell into a deep, sorrowful sleep.

~ ~

The wind is howling at your back
The past is always overturned
It\'s a dead man who would refuse
And twice the man to fill his shoes...

~ ~

Song lyrics - King Tide by Neil Finn.