The House With No Doors.

In this house there are no doors. A rough orange and brown brick wall separates the bathroom from the kitchen, and the bedroom from the library.

Remus apparates from one room to the next, his hands deep within the pockets of his trousers, a newspaper under one arm, his eyes flicking warily into shadows.

In this house with no doors time passes in strange ways, for no sun flicks through a curtain, no snow rests upon a windowpane. Remus measures the passing of his life in other ways. The distance between shaves, the interval between cups of coffee, the phase before and after the full moon.

Remus remembers things past and mourns for an unobtainable future. He has built this house to remind him of Azkaban, willing to feel the oppression and isolation that He feels. But he knows that it is not good enough, for he has his small comforts. The faded and torn sofa, the bookshelves marching in straight lines, the stove with the copper kettle, the sagging bed with the twisted duvets.

It has been five years since everything he knew was turned up side down, a timer with all the sand automatically thrown down to the bottom. Remus does not know how he will ever come out of this. He cannot understand how he could ever begin to accept such a betrayal.

In this house with no doors Remus perches on the arm of his sofa. Images play behind his eyelids like a roll of film, pausing for a few seconds all bordered in black. Sirius walking across a snowy field, his boots crunching and cracking, little flecks of white scattered over his hair. Padfoot licking at a wound in Remus' side, his tongue is wet and it makes Remus squirm. Sirius' cold feet touching his warm ones in a cramped single bed. Sirius walking away, throwing glances over his shoulder, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

Remus opens his eyes, the image projector stops playing its reel of memories. He stares into the hard, unforgiving brick wall and he howls.