"I'll take the bird," Remus murmured.

Clothes. Books. Bedding. The furniture he'd constantly been sprawled on or had a foot kicked up against or had absently let cigarette ashes fall to. All of it. He'd leave it up to Harry, he supposed, what to do with the bulk of it, but at least he could take the bird.

"And whatever else," he added, tearing his gaze away from the sheets to look at Harry, "even just to store. My place is mostly empty."