InsaneJournal

Twelve Grimmauld Place was quiet.

The only sound disturbing the dank oppression of its heavy atmosphere was the soft, rhythmic plodding of Sirius' footsteps as he walked slowly along the hall. Worn timber floorboards whined under his weight. The sporadic creak reverberated off of the narrow walls of the hallway, surrounding Sirius: trapping him; serving only to heighten the loneliness of his current predicament.

This was all there was: Sirius, Grimmauld Place, and the ghosts of his past.

He couldn't bear it.

He had to escape.

He remembered the attic.

***

Sirius' thin arms raised his long, and now, rather-spindly body, through the trapdoor. Coughing, he got to his feet, wiping his dust-covered hands on the front of his trousers. He looked about him.

"Sanctuary," he muttered. His voice was flat – as worn as the walls of this place, this house: this prison.

Sirius stood still, entirely unsure as to what it was he expected to find here.

And then his eyes fell on it: the piano.

Sirius shuffled to where it stood, neglected.

Forgotten.

He pressed a finger to the surface, his fingertip weaving a trail of ebony sheen through the dust of these many years.

He lowered himself onto the stool, seating himself at the piano. He was, he realised, at a complete loss as to what to do. Sirius had never learned to play: the piano had been Regulus' domain, and not his.

Sirius pressed his index finger to a key. The tinkling sounds rang through the attic. He pressed it again, this time incorporating other keys in quick succession.

The notes clashed and grated against one another. Sirius screwed up his face in distaste.

"Dreadful," he said.

Yes, definitely Regulus' domain, he thought to himself.

He wiped his dusty fingers, once more, on the front of his trousers, his hand hastily skimming over fabric and thigh.

Sirius, however, was not ready to leave. Not just yet. He continued to sit, at the piano, hidden amongst the clutter of generations, in this place of makeshift sanctuary.

***

Sirius was not sure how long he had been sitting, staring, when the sudden and familiar crack of apparition pierced the monstrous silence of his childhood home.

"Padfoot?" Remus' voice rang out on the floors below.

"Padfoot?" he tried again. Slightly panicked, Remus completed a speedy search of Grimmauld Place's many rooms.

"Where the bloody hell is he?" Remus wondered aloud, hands on hips.

And then he looked up.

The attic.

***

"There you are!" Remus said, as he hauled himself up onto the grimy floor: "I've been looking for you."

"Can't have been looking very hard, Moony."

Remus raised an eyebrow at Sirius' reply.
"What are you doing up here, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing," Sirius said, in as nonchalant a tone as he could manage, "Just…noodling about at the piano."

"I didn't know you played."

"I don't."

"Ah," Remus answered, "Then, er, why are you up here?" He approached Sirius as he spoke.

"I always wanted to, you know. Learn to play." Sirius had, evidently, not heard him. Or was simply choosing not to respond to his question.

"I didn't know that, Sirius."

Remus sighed, unable to deny the pull of the past that seemed alive in this place: "I suppose there's a lot I don't know about you. You know, sometimes I wonder…"

"You wonder what?"

"Well," Remus began, "I just…I never really knew you, did I?"

"Yes you did Remus. You knew all of the important things. The things that mattered."

That I loved you, Sirius thought. But could not quite bring himself to say.

Not yet.

Remus smiled gently. "Budge up," he said suddenly.

"What for?"

"I'm going to teach you something."

"Oh. I don't know, Moony. I'm too old for that now."

"Nonsense," Remus said as he seated himself beside Sirius. The rough wool of Remus' cardigan brushed against the fine hairs of Sirius' bare arm.

Remus took Sirius' hand in his own.
"Nonsense," he whispered, "You're never too old."