It was that same week when Sirius had asked Remus to cut his hair.

It was growing again, he'd said, and last time he'd had to use an old shaving blade he found in a muggle shop. The place had smelled a lot like Grimmauld Place with its air full of dust and the vague smell of age. This time, he told Remus, he wanted a real haircut with good scissors and a skillful hand. Remus had laughed at the time, but Sirius's eyes filled with a pitiful embarrassment and sadness at the thought that a haircut was something of a treat now. So he stopped laughing, and searched the drawers for something non magical to use. Anything filled with magic in this place was testy at best.

The drawers were almost completely empty, dark stains on the wood marking spots where un-used utensils had lain. Remus let himself dwell only momentarily on how much those blank spots made his chest tighten. When they'd cleaned out the house, goblets and plates had been on the table, a full dinner set waiting to serve nonexistent guests, ghosts. It had been a tableau well-suited for Remus, whose life was now full of waiting and emptiness. They put most of it away, except for a few things for Sirius and himself, the only living ghosts in the house.

Remus found some scissors, slightly rusty, and filled a goblet with warm water. He went to the living room and sat on a couch, gesturing to Sirius and pulling a comb out of his back pocket. His hair, though grey, was almost never messy or dirty by any means. Sirius, on the other hand was never clean these days. He thought idly about buying the man a better comb should he get some tangible money.

Take off your shirt, he'd said, you'd have to do it later to get the hair out anyway. Sirius did, and pale skin was revealed for the first time to anyone, yet he did it without thought.

Then he sat cross-legged in front on Remus, resembling an overgrown child. Appropriate, he thought, as he often acted like one. He dipped the comb in the water and ran it firmly through the tangled mane before him. Sirius shivered as droplets ran down the back of his neck, so Remus wiped them off with the palm of his hand. He breathed in, and was overwhelmed with the smell of him.

When Sirius had been young (forever ago it seemed), he'd smelled of sweat and dirt. Just after Azkaban he'd smelled like rotten meat and piss, on the run, dog hair and grass. Now he smelled like dust and whiskey. Like this wretched house, Remus thought bitterly.

He was not gentle with the comb, but Sirius leaned his head forward against the pulling, and the knots slowly came undone. He picked up the scissors and took the bottom strands of hair between his fingers. As he cut a path around Sirius' neck, hair fell onto his lap, his worn shoes, onto Sirius's bare back, not like snow, nor feathers. It fell swiftly and heavily, defying the air that was too weak to make it float.

It was quick, all of it gone in an instant.

Sirius made some offhand comment about feeling light headed.

He still had to do the front, so he turned Sirius around and steadied him with a hand on each bare shoulder. He moved them up to grip the sides of Sirius's gaunt face, and tilted it ever so slightly. Hold still was what he'd said. Hold still.

Then he cut for a moment and leaned back to view his work, ignoring the steady stare directed at him. Deeming the job done, he rose and brushed the black off his lap, shook it off his shoes. It fell to the floor in clumps. Sirius stood, and went to the mirror. Remus followed, brushing the hair off Sirius's back in an annoying motherly way. Sirius, however, took no notice. He was staring at his reflection, his expression inscrutable. Remus finished his sweeping and looked up.

How is it?

Sirius smiled.

Perfect.

The next day Sirius died, and when Remus came home, his hair still lay scattered on the floor boards. Remus left it there. He wept when Molly swept it under the carpet.