Outside, the moon has risen, but Remus doesn't have the patience to deal with it tonight. Even with the blinds drawn, however, slices of moonlight filter in through the living room and the kitchen to seep into the lines of his face. The pieces of the radio have finally been swept up. The toaster and pans have been packed in cardboard boxes and carried off to the moving van outside.

Remus is sitting on the tile floor with a bottle of firewhiskey next to him, attempting to drink himself out of existence. So far, it isn't working. He takes another swig.

Where was he? Oh, right, sooner or later. Sooner or later, he assumes, this entire mess will make good conversation material: What? Sirius Black? Yes, yes. I knew him. Lived with him for nearly three years. Funny how things can turn out, eh?

Sooner or later, maybe, but for now he doesn't want to think about it. Or think, period. Because James is dead, and Peter is dead, and Sirius should be, should be, dead. And for all realistic purposes, he, Remus Lupin, is the last Marauder left. He'd always quietly assumed he'd be the first to go.

Sirius had always suspected so too, Remus thinks. He would always frown, tight and angry and sad, at a new grey hair or a change in Remus's limp. Remus had always understood these things to be the legacy of too much stress placed on too young a body, of too many bad nights, but Sirius had never accepted it.

You don't need a cane! I do. You don't! I do, Sirius. You're fucking twenty-one, Remus. And I happen to need a cane. It's just the way things are.

Now, Remus shakes his head and empties the pale green bottle. You'd think, you really would, that disappointment and betrayal would eventually reach a level where they would cancel each other out, and things would stop hurting so badly. But, apparently not. Selling the loft is like tearing out his heart and dragging it over coals. It's liberating too in a way, to be trading in his memories for cash because at this point, Remus desperately wants to forget.

He wants to forget the M25 at six o'clock, the snake of cars and horns winding along the road toward downtown, and Ella Fitzgerald on the radio, singing him home. He wants to forget the smell of cumin and paprika, garlic and ginger, greeting him each night after work. He wants and wants and wants to forget Sirius in the kitchen, hair pulled back into a short ponytail, cooking to Charlie Parker or Benny Goodman.

Once he forgets, he can move on and stop wondering how much was truth and how much was lie. The Prophet and the old radio had said Sirius was a murderer, and once upon a time, beneath sheets, with his cheek pressed against Sirius's chest, Remus would have called that a lie, but memories of sixth year have come floating back, making it easy to believe.

The Prank, James had dubbed it, one lazy summer before he and Sirius had moved out of the Potters's.

The Betrayal, Remus had sourly opted for.

The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Done, Sirius had corrected quietly and reached out to run a hand through Remus's hair, to make sure he was still there, to make sure, now forgiveness had been given and received, that Remus was not going anywhere.

If there's one thing among all the others that he'll never forget, it's Sirius's fingers in his hair. That's one scar he will have to live with; he'll just add it to the pile.

There's a knock against the doorframe. Remus raises his head, frowning first at the way his brain seems to slosh in his skull and then at the young man in the doorway. His name might be Joe, or it might not. That, at least, Remus seems to have forgotten.

"What's next for the truck, Mr. Lupin?"

"Hm," Remus presses a finger to his temple and tries to concentrate, "there are three or four boxes of books in the bedroom down the hall. I think."

Joe smiles warily. "That's, ah, a lot of books."

"Not really, no."

The boxes in the bedroom only make up Sirius's fraction of the total library, mostly noir detective stories. With ladies in red and Russian villains, Remus fancies. He'd never paid much attention to them before; they were just books that showed up on the nightstand occasionally. Now, they're just another set of boxes for the truck.

Taking a deep breath, Remus gets to his feet, steadying himself against the counter. He finds the bag of garbage he's been collecting and stuffs the empty whiskey bottle in.

Sirius's books will go to charity. His other bits and pieces like old brooms and Quidditch cards will go in the garbage.

Ella, Benny, Charlie... His records, Remus will keep.