Dustbunnies
a Harry Potter story
by Magic Toes 11
I've been asleep for the better portion of the morning. It has been five days since the advent of the full moon, but I'm neither as young nor as resilient as I had once been in my youth. I can no longer shrug off the wrenching transformations brought on once a month and bounce back within days of the full moon, like I once had. Since passing thirty-five years of age, my recovery time after each transformation has grown to span at least a week for all the aches and the weakness to dissipate; and some pains -- such as the throb in my knees and the itch within the scars on my left shoulder, where I'd first been bitten so many years ago -- never truly disappear entirely anymore. And I've long since given up on counting the number of grey hairs that multiply exponentially each month.
I don't know what time it is when a loud clatter from above startles me from a dazed, mildly disturbing dream, but I figure it must be getting on near noon. I push myself up with a groan, extracting myself from the twisted tangle of blankets, and I rub the remains of sleep from my eyes. As I slowly, achingly make my way through the house, it strikes me that something is missing. The house is too quiet, the room far too stifling. No, it isn't something that is missing -- it is someone...
Sirius Black had been occupying the couch in the front room since Headmaster Dumbledore sent him to my humble home to `lie low,' a little under two weeks ago, and a week before the advent of the full moon. Filling the house with his presence, the couch with his scent and the shape of his body. He'd been with me the night of the full moon, transformed into the shape of the Grim that, as a wolf, I would never seek to harm. Even in the basement, where cold steel bars, painted with molten silver, lined the windows and barred the door, he was at my side. Even when the combination of summer heat and thick fur made it nearly impossible to breathe. As the sun peeked through the barred windows the following morning, I awoke with Sirius' body curled protectively around mine, sweating, bare, and hot. Comforting, even perhaps a little embarrassing, as the very thought of his warm, unclothed body brings a flush to my cheeks.
My hearing is no longer quite so sensitive since my transformation, yet if I stand still long enough, I can vaguely make out the scratching of feet from above me. I laugh incredulously as I cross the house and make my way to a second-story staircase -- the attic at this time of day must be blazingly hot. Sirius, perhaps, has lost complete sense of whatever senses he was reputed to have.
Indeed I find him in the attic, reorganizing the boxes and trunks that comprise my life -- most of which are filled with books, while others contain old seasonal clothing, potions ingredients, photos of times long past. His chest is bare, as are his feet, with only a pair of stolen Muggle blue jeans gracing his too-thin frame, and he kneels upon the floor as he replaces a jumbled pile of books that lie scattered beside a large cardboard box.
As I watch him surreptitiously from around the doorway, he lines each book up as neatly as he can manage, carefully wipes a thin layer of dust from his hands onto his jeans, and proceeds to lift the box the old-fashioned, Muggle way -- by hand. The dust slides from his jeans, swirling and coalescing as if drawn by some intangible wind, and floats thickly through the air. As Sirius picks the box into his arms and turns, I see the lines in his forehead deepen and the faint pinkness at the edges of his nose as he sniffles.
His sniffling gives way to soft, stunted gasps as he brings the box from one side of the attic to a pile of like cardboard boxes on the other side. His step quickens, and as he drops the box heavily atop the stack, I swear I can hear a very faint giggle from the dust that swirls out almost directly into Sirius' face. The very instant the box is safe at the top of a stack of others like it, he swiftly turns away and throws his elbow atop his nose, sweat-slicked chest rising in rapid, panting breaths as he gives in to a fit of short, ticklish cat-sneezes.
"Huh-esshoo! Hesshh! Shuuh! Hhisshoo! Huh... hh-shuuh!"
As he pauses, sniffling hard and rubbing fiercely at the bridge of his nose, I recall that, in his youth, Sirius had been highly sensitive to dust -- almost a liability at times when his sneezing would nearly give us away in the midst of surreptitious pranks. The need for quiet at such times had trained him to stifle his sneezes, and they would always come in rapid fits of 'half-sneezes.'
Sirius apparently has not outgrown his childhood allergy to dust, as he groans, closes his eyes tightly, and raises a hand against another flurry of soft sneezes. "Huh... huh-shuuh! Heissh! Shuuh! Huh... huh... chshuuh! Gah, bugger this!"
I clear my throat, announcing my presence at the doorway, and he looks up with surprised, sparkling eyes. "Blesses, Padfoot. Are you quite alright?"
Righting himself, he runs the back of his arm beneath his nose. "Thanks," he lightly grumbles. "Yes, I'm about as fine as I can be right now, in this heat, and the dust."
"What are you doing?" I ask.
He gives a small, guilty smile, even as he continues to rub his itching nose. "I'd been thinking..."
"That's a first," I chide, quietly and good-naturedly.
"Hush, Moony," he grins. "I was thinking, perhaps, of sleeping up here. That way I wouldn't have to impose upon your couch. I was making some more room."
"Torturing yourself seems more appropriate. You know I don't mind, but you could have asked me for help."
"You've been so unwell since the full moon, Remus. I wanted to be helpful," he says, taking short breaths through lightly parted, highly kissable lips. "The least you could have done throughout the years is kept your books a bit cleaner."
"Yes, well, the dust upon them doesn't bother me," I say, murmuring an apparation spell beneath my breath and withdrawing a handkerchief from my pocket. The movement, my crossing the room, seems to stir the dust no matter how carefully I step -- it dances in thick, sentient clouds, illuminated by the sunlight that pours through the open attic windows. A barely audible, mischievous chuckle reaches my ears once again. "I do, on the other hand, seem to recall a certain animagus with a particularly nasty allergy to dust."
"Exactly," he returns, impatiently snatching the handkerchief from my hands. "Which is why you should have taken better care --" He suddenly breaks off with a light gasp and buries his face against the handkerchief, eyes squinching shut with the sudden, overwhelming need to sneeze again. "Huh-eshoo! Sshuuh! Esshuh! Huh... essh-uh!"
"Blesses again, Padfoot. Perhaps we should go downstairs, get you washed up."
He holds up a hand, eyes still half-closed, and his hair spills into his face as he bends forward, pinching his nose, and painfully stifles two more sneezes. As he pulls his hair from his face, sniffling, he shakes his head stubbornly, still clutching fast to the handkerchief. "Honestly, I don't know why you insist on keeping so many books. That's just begging for a dustbunny infestation. And, if you haven't noticed, your attic is simply crawling with them."
"And, honestly, I don't know why you insist upon doing things the hard way," I return lightheartedly. Recalling the giggling that came from neither Sirius nor myself, I add, "Though you may very well be right about the dustbunny infestation." With a quick incantation and a flick of my wand, I levitate three boxes one after the other to the other end of the shed. I settle them down as gently as I can manage, hoping to keep from stirring up any more dust and irritating him further. An invasion of dustbunnies had never bothered me, and I'd normally have left them alone; however, just like cats, dustbunnies are always irresistibly attracted to those with allergies. I make a mental note to find a new home for the dusty creatures I'd soon be displacing, particularly if Sirius had designs to sleep in the attic.
"I had been doing things the easy way," Sirius protests, finally sticking the handkerchief in the back pocket of his jeans. "Until your books shed so much dust I couldn't concentrate on a Wingardium Leviosa spell for more than five seconds without sneezing my head off."
"Was that the sound I heard earlier?" I ask, settling the boxes in a neat stack with a gentle push of magic.
"Yes, I -- dropped one of the boxes halfway across the room," he admits, though hesitantly.
"Sirius, there's no need to suffer. I could have moved these boxes when I was rested, if you had wanted me to."
This merely draws a glare from him, thin brows knotting, accentuating the lines of age and toil that have etched themselves into his face. "Now stop that already, Remus!" he suddenly snaps. "There's plenty I can do, if only you'd let me do it."
"I hardly think that --" I begin to protest, weakly. Sirius cuts me off before I can say another word.
"You've been unwell, Remus. More so than I ever remember after the full moon. There's no need for you to coddle me." He sniffles, angrily, impatiently scrubbing his nose with the handkerchief. The dustbunnies hang thick in the air, squeaking as the circle us both, even though no breeze moves through the open attic windows. Simple, impish, prankster creatures, yet no dustbunny I'd ever encountered could resist a solid argument.
"I'm -- sorry you feel that way, Sirius," I say in a soft tone.
"Look, it's no big deal," he quickly dismisses. "Just let me do something. Let me be helpful. And stop being so bloody independent."
As I stare at him, blinking, too stunned to register any emotion other than stark surprise, Sirius breaks into a wide grin.
"It's about time you let someone take care of you, for a change. Just for a little while. Take it easy, until you're feeling better, Moony."
I smile, closing my eyes, and I nod in resignation. "I will, Padfoot. So long as you at least let me clear the attic of dustbunnies once I have the strength to perform a decent wind spell again. After that, I'll let you do what you will with the attic."
Sirius nods, grinning even as his fingertips tighten around the handkerchief in his hand. The dustbunnies have begun wailing in their thin, tiny voices, spinning in the air about us both, perhaps provoked by my comment to flush them out. "Fair enough, provided you don't mind me moving... your boxes..." He pauses, voice catching as a shuddering, involuntary gasp seizes hold of him, and he throws the handkerchief across his face. "Oh, bugger thi-his... heh-esshoo! Hesshh! Shuuh! Hhisshoo! Hh-hh-ehshoo! Ihshuuh! SHHUUH!"
I raise a hand, involuntarily, towards his shoulder, but I quickly drop it again to my side. This is exactly what Sirius does not want right now -- he's as stubborn and prideful as I can be, at times. I will not coddle him, but I cannot hide the amazed concern within my voice as I murmur, "Blesses, as many as necessary."
He stands with his eyes closed, handkerchief pressed firmly to his face, and he stifles two stray sneezes, weak enough to sound like coughs, before blowing his nose and stuffing the handkerchief into the back pocket of his jeans. Sirius looks at me, cheeks flushed and a sheepish expression upon his face as he murmurs, "Maybe it's time we went downstairs, already."
"Yes, I think so." I hesitate a moment before slipping an arm across his shoulders. Sirius doesn't seem to mind. Moving to the staircase, I make sure to slam the attic door behind me, creating enough of a breeze to keep the laughing, incited dustbunnies from following us.
As I lead Sirius down the thin staircase, I hear his breath beginning to whistle in his chest. He'd suffered through occasional bouts of asthma in his youth, and while he'd outgrown the worst of it by the time we were teenagers, the tightness occasionally bothered him, especially if his allergies had been acting up. In this respect, I'm only mildly concerned, knowing that even at its worst, he'd never suffered a full-blown attack; however, the small shack near the cliffs of Dover could provide precious little of the care he'd received as a student in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.
"You're doing it again, Moony," he says with a wry, slightly hoarse laugh.
"What's that?"
"You're worrying yourself over nothing."
"How can you tell?" I say with a tight, guarded smile as we enter the kitchen.
He kicks aside a chair at the small dining table and falls into it. "The way you're looking at me as if I might fall to pieces any second." He grins as well, even past the sniffles and the rubbing beneath his nose. The dustbunnies might not have followed us downstairs, but Sirius' nose is still clearly irritated.
Shrugging, I draw my wand from the inside fold of my cloak and wave it towards the sink. The taps open to soak a clean washcloth with warm water. "I don't want you falling ill, that's all."
"It's just a small allergy. It'll pass." As he speaks, he fumbles the handkerchief from his back pocket again, losing the fight to contain another volley of soft, rapid, and almost ironic catlike sneezes. "Huh... isshoo! Shuuh-shuuh! Eh-hisshoo! Ihchuuh! Huh... huh-shioo!"
"I'd hardly call that a small allergy, Padfoot," I say, wringing out the warm washcloth and crossing the room. As I reach him, I swipe the cloth beneath his eyes, across slightly puffy cheeks and at the sides of a reddened nose. "Blesses, by the way."
"Thanks," he says with a strong sniff. "Don't bother blessing me. I'll probably be going all afternoon thanks to your dustbunnies."
"I could try to brew you a potion that would help --"
He cuts me off with a bright, sharp laugh. "Oh, Moony, no offense, but I'd rather cope with an afternoon of the sneezes than watch you blow yourself up over the cauldron!"
"Here now, you're being most unfair!" I protest, though I smile lightly. "My potions-making ability might not be quite up to par, but I only blew up a cauldron once, and that was long ago, in our third year of Hogwarts!"
The giggles have a hold of him, and it warms my heart to see his gaunt, hardened face giving way to some degree of happiness. "And, if I recall correctly, the potion exploded across half the Slytherins, including one slimy Severus Snape. I think it took over a week before Madam Pomfrey could get rid of the tentacles they'd all sprouted."
"Yes, well," I murmur, dabbing the washcloth across his forehead, "I suppose you really shouldn't be mixing armadillo bile with a bicorn wart infusion."
"That's probably a safe assumption, genius," he lightly chides, sniffling again, his forehead twitching as he bites back another round of sneezes, stifling two against a closed fist.
I'm flushing at the cheeks as he looks up to me with that almost dreamy expression upon his face. I point to the handkerchief still clasped in his hand and say, "Blow."
"Yes, Mum." He laughs again and brings the handkerchief to his nose to give it a good blow. The tightness in his forehead seems to ease, his breathing evening out once he's cleared his nose of some of its dust-induced irritation. "I have a better idea, at any rate."
"Hmm? And what would that be?"
"A cool shower always used to do wonders for my allergies."
"That's probably a good idea," I say as he stands, tucks the handkerchief into the back pocket of his Muggle-issue jeans, and starts towards the bathroom.
Sirius pauses in the doorway and looks back over his shoulder. As he speaks, his voice drops to a whisper, husky from both his sneezing fits and with soft, impish desire. "Care to help me get clean?"
I feel a heavy blush creeping into my cheeks -- I'm still somewhat shy when approached with such overt affection, even after all these years. But, although it still makes me nervous, I can't deny such a fetching invitation... "I am a bit hot after moving those boxes for you."
"I'll wash your back, if you'll wash mine," he adds, winking, and disappears through the doorway.
And as I follow Sirius to the small bathroom, slowly loosening the front of my robes, I swear I hear a vague, dim giggle, as if the dustbunnies had already begun to plan their next attack.
The End
Not mine. Neener.