Dirigo

He would sit. And while he sat, he would let Sirius talk at him. He’d been packed for three days already, clothes neatly folded, books piled on top. McGonagall had given him a Grackle feather quill as a discreet present after they finished their O.W.Ls. You work hard, Remus, she’d said, uncharacteristically gentle, and I just wanted to remind you that many people notice.

The feather was soft as he drew it through his fingers, listening to Sirius’ talk. He didn’t hear many of the actual words, just the tone, the cadence that, after five years, was so familiar. Back and forth, the feather ruffled between his fingers. He would go home and use the quill to write the letters that it would take Sirius weeks to respond to, but he would keep writing them, posting them in the mail in their careful envelopes, with their careful addresses and their careful owls.

The sunlight was shafted across the small, heavily draped room and it caught the blue-black of Sirius’ hair. It wasn’t the first time that Remus had noticed that it matched the Grackle’s feathers, black until the light hit it. More than what it seemed, plain and simple until illuminated.

It wasn’t the first time that Remus wondered if he was anything like that as well.