Marauder crack

The shades of absence

Remus holds his quill in his hand and rereads what he has written, but before reaching the end of the first paragraph, he mutters "Holy crap", and casts a draft spell with his wand. Later, just to be sure, he exclaims "Incendio!" and the parchment crackles and crumbles into a handful ofashes. If he keeps up the same rate of arson destruction, Hogwarts will run out of paper seven weeks before the course begins.

Well, six weeks and five days. Remus keeps track of what he prefers to call "accuracy", but any impartial observer would call "obsession".

He tries again. So as they say, the third's time's the charm. It is not easy to find what to say in the heading, or rather, the absence of anything to put on the heading. It has cost him the first eight attempts because, for some reason "Dear Sirius" or "Hello, Sirius" give him the desire to commit suicide. Apparently, no one has ever found a way of talking to someone who has been your best friend for six years and kissed just before the holidays and he doesn't answer your letters.

"Maybe he's been busy".

The voice of his conscience is heavy and insists on sounding sensible. Sirius isn't exactly a Shakespeare when it comes to getting to write. Conscience is sharp and very hard on Remus, "Don't be hysterical, for the love of God. With this, the voice of his conscience considers the discussion. He tries to silence the voices of his fears, "He hasn't written to you! He must be flirting around! You have nothing to say to him!" Remus sticks his pen in the inkwell, waits for it to soak well, and then gently shakes it until it drops a dark and heavy spot, like blood.

He begins without a heading. At least that's what he has decided for now.

"In summer the school seems much bigger. It's like being locked in the belly of a whale. Of course, it is much more silent than during the course. Unfortunately, I have found that, for reading, deep silence is almost worse than excess noise. I deconcentrate and at this rate, I will not be able to finish those sixty books that James was talking about. Maybe I have to try those picture books that have been left under James' bed such as "Why don't girls understand the Quidditch and the boys don't know how to combine the robes ". But I prefer to think they are from Peter.Sometimes I go down to the dining room at noon and the elves are there cleaning the tables. They get scared when they see me and apologize for making trouble. "Sorry sir" and "Excuse me sir", you know how they are.No wonder why they are surprised to see me because, in this silence, there are days in which even I forget about myself. Last night I dreamed that I didn't exist and that you guys arrived in September and couldn't even distinguish me from the walls. I've been repeating all day that it was just a dream. I read on "The Daily Prophet" and I can see that everyone's talking about at the Black party. Suppose that your house is kinda upside down at the moment.

Remus".

He spends a good time evaluating what he has written. He could have said more. He might say, "I wouldn't be afraid to disappear if you wrote to me", but instead he leaves the letter as it is, without adding anything. And he writes other letters that don't send. Imaginary scrolls with words that he would not say, with things that he would not confess. Only he will let them be real in his imagination.

"I lie in your bed some nights. The elves have washed the sheets. It may be the wolf's nose but I can still feel you. Beneath all the other smells, it is yours"."You asked James what the "Smell of Sirius" was. I could answer if you want. If you wanted, Sirius, I could tell you how I lay in that bed, with that smell, alone and at night. In this very room. Where I imagine you and what we are doing and what I do, inevitably, when I think about it. But I do not know if you want, and it is not easy to admit that what I want is to please you. If you let me, Sirius, if only you let me".

He burns those letters without the need of any enchantment, with the fire of what is not said. Sometimes the intensity of what he thinks does to him makes him blush, even in the darkness of the room. Even when Sirius is hundreds of kilometers of distance in his golden cell in London. Doing everything except answering his owls.