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Remus tipped the last of the rats onto the floor and watched quietly as Buckbeak ate. He didn't derive any particular pleasure from seeing the unappealing display, but movement required too much energy. Going downstairs with all the others required too much energy. Pretending he didn't notice their wary glances at him, as if they expected him to burst into sobs at any moment. It unnerved them that they hadn't seen him weep. They should be grateful they hadn't been in his bedroom that night; they didn't really want to see. Any mention of Sirius was spoken quickly and in hushed tones. Molly often placed him near Hestia and Tonks.
"Sleeping in my bed? Remus, what would Molly say?" A pause, a sharp intake of breath. "And I don't even want to know what she'd say about that."
But there was only Sirius for him, and Sirius in whatever form he took - the boy, the young man, the traitor, the dead man. Certainly it was irrational, loving a thoughtless boy whose carelessness might have gotten a werewolf put to death by the Ministry, when pretty, sensible girls wanted nothing more than to date him. Certainly it seemed stupid not to marry someone when he was lonely, and the traitor was rightfully rotting in Azkaban. Maybe there was a very good reason that the Ministry kept Love under lock and key.
And now, when Sirius was really gone--? No, dead, he told himself. Dead. It hadn't escaped his notice how no one would say it - at least not when he was around. Sirius was "gone," he had "fallen," the other night when Sirius "fell." Remus was the only one who said it, and they looked at him strangely, as if they couldn't believe he gave up hope so easily, allowed himself to despair. It wasn't hope, he wanted to tell them. It was forcing himself to accept the truth. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was that hope - denial - could be more cruel than the truth. Anyone who didn't understand that had never enjoyed a lover's return after twelve years, only to lose him again two years later. Nor did they seem to understand that "gone" was something Sirius could never be.
He waited until every rat was gone - every rat but the one who should die - then forced himself to go downstairs. Dumbledore was expected at any minute, and the others had probably already gathered in the kitchen. Before he reached it, however, Arthur spotted him and stopped him in the hall, looking uncomfortable.
"Remus, there's a matter I want to discuss with you." He cleared his throat. "The motorbike, that ingenious contraption Sirius put together... it's been held at my department in the Ministry for years, ever since... Well. I never gave it back to him, partly because he had no use for it here, and partly because we all know that he'd fly it all over Britain." Arthur cleared his throat again.
"Just sit on it, for Merlin's sake!"
"I'm not going within ten feet of it. How did you get away with enchanting it? You haven't actually flown it, have you?"
"All over Britain. C'mon, you know you want to try it out."
"Absolutely not."
"Yes?" Remus prompted quietly.
"I was wondering if you'd like to have it," said Arthur awkwardly. "I know you wouldn't fly it anywhere, and I thought it might be nice to have, what with... him being gone."
"No, but thank you just the same, Arthur," he said. That bike stood for everything he didn't want to think about. Youth, weekends, Sirius' recklessness. The evening of November 1, 1981, when Hagrid returned it to the flat and learned from Remus what Sirius had done. Hagrid's loud howls of grief and fury, which perfectly expressed everything Remus felt but didn't voice. November 2, 1981, when Remus had thrown a blanket over it and called someone from the Ministry to take it away.
"Oh," said Arthur, his voice betraying his surprise as he fell beside Remus to walk to the kitchen. "Oh. Well, I suppose I'd better return it then."
Remus stopped again. "Return it?" He cursed his throat for being so tight. "It's here?"
"Yes, I asked Kingsley to bring it here after-- the incident. Just assumed you'd want it, I guess. But I'll return it today."
Remus swallowed. "Where is it?" he managed.
"In the drawing room."
"Excuse me." Remus slipped past Arthur. He climbed the stairs again slowly, hardly noticing that he passed a person or two. He allowed his hand to rest briefly on the door, then pushed it open. And there it was, surrounded with Sirius' silent laughter at the idea of his motorbike in front of the ancient tapestry, getting the expensive rug dirty. Remus approached it, crouched down beside it, and laid his fingertips on it, leaving four streaks of gleaming metal through the layers of dust.
"Watch out - I think a piece of dirt just fell onto it from that rafter."
Sirius narrowed his eyes and swiped the back of his arm over his forehead, a once-clean rag dangling from his hand. "Shut up."
"If you had cleaned around our dorm this much, none of us would have had to lift a finger."
"Shut up, or I'll make you."
"Make me, hmmm? What does that entail?"
"Hair dye, a drill, and a heavily-armed gnome."
Remus laughed and walked slowly around the bike with an admiration he'd never admit. "Why don't you just use a spell on it?"
"Because I like cleaning it myself."
"Maybe I'll just leave you two alone then..."
"Not so fast, Mr. Moony."
Remus stared at his distorted reflection in the narrow streaks of metal. Hardly thinking, he shrugged his robe from his shoulders, folded a small section of it, and swiped it across the side of the motorbike. Thick, gray dust now caked that bit of his robe, so he refolded it and wiped another part of the bike. His eyes fell on the small symbol engraved on the side - the curved "Y" intersected by two lines. And then, in small letters, "The Marauder."
"You named it?"
"Shut up."
"Do you find, Mr. Padfoot, that your vocabulary becomes increasingly limited when you're in the presence of this motorbike?"
"I have good ways of limiting your vocabulary if you don't shut up."
"Let me guess - hair dye, drill, gnome?"
"Actually, I had something else in mind."
Remus moved gradually around the bike, cleaning it as he went, humming softly. At last, he stood up in front of it, dropping the filthy robe carelessly to the floor. Sirius would have been outraged, but for the purposes of anyone else, it looked clean enough for now. He stepped closer, laying a hand on the front, resting the other on the seat. Then his blurry eyes fell on the key.
"--So I was upside-down, right over the Channel--"
"You're going to get yourself killed, you know."
"Not to worry, I'll write a will and leave the bike to you."
Remus muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa," and the bike rose a few inches in the air, light as a feather. Grateful that the others were undoubtedly in the meeting with Dumbledore -- where he himself should be, he reminded himself unconcernedly -- he went downstairs, charming the bike along behind him. It seemed too bright outside, as if the sun could sense the heavy darkness eclipsing 12 Grimmauld Place and shone more than usual to combat it. He swung a leg over the bike and leaned over slightly to grip the handles.
"I told you, I am never going to ride that bike."
He stared ahead, wondering if he'd be able to do this. It couldn't be that difficult, could it? And that was assuming that the bike could still run.
"Never? Not even if I promise to clean the kitchen for a month?
"Not even then. You never clean the dishes well anyway."
"Not even if I begged you with my dying breath?"
He reached down and turned the key, eyes and smile widening as the engine roared to life. Of course it could still run. There was no reason why time and circumstance should kill everything.
"Not even then."
No Muggle would look twice at a mussy-haired man in patched trousers and an old shirt, riding a motorbike around town. No member of the Order would wonder where he'd gone. Gone, he thought with another smile. No need to return any time soon, even if he ran out of petrol. No, not even then, because then he could fly.