Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. The Harry Potter universe was created by JK Rowling and consequently belongs to her and her various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter two
With a wham the door closes behind him and Sirius is safe, alone but safe. The room isn't dusty and stifling anymore but it still looks as if it is a remnant of another century. Green is the dominant colour, the dark, menacing Slytherin green, and everything is velvet, a sea of velvet. For a second he wonders whether he would be more comfortable in his old room but he shakes the thought off quickly. The room belonged to an optimistic, mischievous boy with a rebellious mind. He had spent as little time as possible in it and left when Muggle posters were not enough of a rebellion anymore. He will not return now to admit his defeat.
With a frustrated groan he throws himself onto the unmade bed. Whenever he sees Remus like that – angry and determined but most of all alive and obviously caring – he aches for him. The pain is not new. Before Azkaban, they broke apart, two lovers in a world full of chaos and death. Back then, he felt it for the first time, this painful longing for someone who had been at his side for ever and suddenly wasn't, wouldn't ever again.
Another sleepless night with old memories lies before him as Sirius makes himself comfortable. The expensive linen of the pillow is yellow from age and feels cool and soft against his face. Everything too threadbare Molly has thrown out already. Sirius feels like he is one of those linens, perfect once but now only careworn and kept around as a keepsake. He closes his eyes and dives into a world that is still whole.
"Sirius, I have to ask you a favour," says James. The living room is so dark, Sirius can hardly see the hazel eyes behind his glasses.
"Anything."
"Lily and I, we want you to be godfather."
Sirius stares at his best friend for a long moment, feeling scared and elated at the same time. He never thought about this before but now it makes sense. Who else but him? James' parents are dead and Lily's won't be able to protect the baby from Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
"I...are you sure?" he asks nonetheless.
"Yes," says Lily from the door. She must have been asleep minutes ago, for her hair is as wild as her eyes. She holds a single candle in her hand and looks like a fierce and fiery angel out of a Muggle painting.
"I'd be honoured to look after Harry. I'll protect him with my life," swears Sirius solemnly.
"Padfoot, we don't want you to die for our baby. We want you to live. If the worst comes to the worst, if we... I need to be sure that my son is raised by someone who loves him." Lily speaks in a low voice, which is threatening to break any second. Harry is asleep in their bedroom, as Lily refuses to leave him alone in another part of the house. He is a tiny pink miracle to Sirius and his heart swells at the thought of Lily and James entrusting him with their most precious possession.
"Don't worry, mate, I intend to live and see my son grow up and become a Quidditch ace like me," smiles James.
Sirius sniffs into the now tear-stained pillow. James' confidence in something as simple as life always cuts him like a knife but it is the memory of Lily which hurts more than anything else. He failed them, failed her, and Harry Potter grew up unloved and neglected. If only he could go back and make everything right. If only. He closes his eyes again and...
...stands in the flat he shared with Remus. It is a rainy day in February and he just returned from yet another battle. His left arm is burnt from a hex but he does not feel pain, too limp and exhausted from aiming and duelling for hours. Remus is not home yet, as usual, and the tiny treacherous doubts are back, sneaking into his mind like thieves in the night.
It is impossible, right? A friend would never betray them so completely. A friend would never endanger Harry's life. Little Harry. A friend would not do that.
But it is possible and someone informed Voldemort about the whereabouts of the Potters and the Longbottoms. Other Order members have been ambushed and killed. Someone close to them does not care about honour, friendship and love anymore.
Let it not be Remus, Sirius begs silently and heads for the shower. He winces when the hot stream meets his arm but it is good, the steaming water washing him clean of the memory of screams, blood and death and thoughts unworthy of a Marauder.
A draught betrays Remus' presence before a tentative hand closes on his shoulder. Sirius does not turn around but he melts into the touch. Remus knows what it is like to live through a battle a second time, knows about nightmares that won't stop after waking.
"Your arm needs treatment," Remus whispers and his voice is like a spray of hot, reviving water.
"Needed the shower more," mutters Sirius, defiant like a child and just as willing to obey and be loved and cared for.
"I see," says Remus and reaches for the soap. Strong, long-fingered hands on his back, massaging the tension away with the grime of war and the smears of blood. Sirius knows that he should ask where Remus was during the fight, what on earth kept him and was more important than fighting for the Order, but he can't, he simply can't. Not with Remus' hands on his back, his shoulders, his arms and neck. Tender care; firm fingers gliding smoothly over his tired skin. The first kiss onto the nape of his neck makes him shiver. Betrayal cannot be so sensuous, so soft.
"Sirius." His name a caress, not called out in desperation at the height of combat but pronounced carefully. He drops his head and groans, frustrated and relieved at the same time. He loves Remus, loves him deeply and unconditionally, fiercely too. But never before did it hurt to love, never before. His head is spinning from the heat and the steamy air and from Remus' kisses and his hands all over him. He gropes blindly for the plastic curtain and almost rips it off in his attempt to get away.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry. 'm tired and..."
Remus nods. Remus understands. Sirius wavers there, trembling from exhaustion and too worn-out to explain, to ask, to demand. But Remus understands, he always does. It is his Moony who takes the towel and dries his shivering body, covers him with a bathrobe and leads him into the bedroom. Moony. No traitor would give him such a warm look as he heals Sirius' arm with a determined flick of his wand. But he wasn't there, did not fight with them. Sirius' thoughts are a disjointed mess and all he wants is to go to sleep. Yet, the excitement of battle has not left him entirely and the images are too vivid to push away. Traitor or no, his arms find their way around Remus and pull him close. Desperate for human touch, Sirius kisses him, helpless in his need, until Remus takes over. Oh, how good it feels to come together like this, clean and bare of any coherent thought. Hands on him, fingers in him, the pain delicious and welcome for a change.
A knock at the door startles him out of his memories. Swiftly, he wipes away the wet streaks on his face and sits up. The room is lit by only one candle and it looks gloomy and unreal compared to his vivid dreams. Suddenly, he feels ashamed, half-hard as he is from an old memory. He should not be indulging in this, reliving his past won't do any good. The people he lost won't come alive again.
"Sirius, I know you're not asleep. Open up," Remus' muffled voice sounds through the door. He could turn around and pretend not to hear but this would not be a very Gryffindor thing to do. It is only Remus after all. Not his Remus though. The Remus he knew had kinder eyes and warmer smiles.
When he opens the door, Sirius has found his composure again and even manages something resembling a smile.
"Lonely, Remus?" he asks evenly.
Remus does not answer but pushes into the room, stepping up so close to him that Sirius can smell the lavender soap he must have used very recently. The scent warms his insides and his eyes follow him into the room. It is the first time Remus is in it.
"This may sound cliché but we need to talk," Remus starts and sits down on the corner of his bed.
"About what? Perspectives?" Sirius asks tersely.
Remus gives him a weak smile. "This particular topic turned out to be unsuitable, didn't it?"
Sirius feels his temper rising. "Fuck the fancy talk, Moony. It's me you're talking to."
"How could I forget?" is Remus' reply. Barely a whisper and yet enough to make Sirius shiver. "The thing is that we both forgot how to --"
"Yes, yes," Sirius interrupts impatiently. It does not do to dwell on each other's deficiencies. He may be better off with his dreams and his memories if this is where Remus is heading. More recent memories of Tonks and Remus taint his mood and keep his temper dark. "What do you really want to talk about, Remus?" It is not fair of him to corner Remus like that, he knows this, but talking is not the only thing he unlearned in Azkaban. He also runs out of patience quickly. Not that it has ever been one of his virtues.
Remus fumbles with the sleeves of his robe, a sure sign that he is uneasy about something. "Well, us."
Sirius isn't sure he heard correctly. "Did you just --"
"Yes," says Remus and he is the impatient one now. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it. You're skulking around me – this – like a starved dog and the pun is very much intended."
"So you think you know how I feel? You tried analysing me downstairs about an hour ago and I can't say that you --" He never finishes the sentence because Remus jumping off the bed, crossing the distance between them and pressing him against the wall takes all that was left of his coherency from him.
"I see now, talking won't work," Remus hisses and presses their lips together. It's angry and urgent and desperate and Sirius can only open his mouth and surrender. The older Remus kisses differently. He knows what he wants and there seems nothing left of the hesitant boy, who always waited for Sirius to take the lead. Sirius almost loses his footing as the kiss deepens, not used to this closeness any more than to talking and smiling. It is overwhelming to finally get what he yearned for and to realise that this is not what he wants. He finds that he cannot let go, cannot give in, because losing control does not mean a fuzzy warm nothingness any longer but a profound and threatening darkness that is inside him, always. He pushes Remus away before he knows what he is doing.
"No, this...I can't," he stammers and averts his eyes. He hears Remus crossing the room and coming to a halt in front of the heavily curtained windows. The only sound in the room is their breathing.
"I don't understand you," Remus says into the heavy silence. "I used to know you so well, or at least I thought I did. And when you snapped at Nymphadora, I really thought that...but never mind." Sirius finally dares to look at him. Remus seems older than just a minute ago, as if all vigour has left him. Sirius knows what he should do. He should open his fucking mouth and tell Remus that it is not his fault that he is an impotent shadow of his younger self; that he never expected that Remus still felt something for him; that his jealousy may have been pathetic but that he loves him, still. But more importantly, he should go over to Remus because there is too much space and bitterness between them, a whole gulf of silent reproaches and unnamed slights. And yet, Sirius finds himself incapable of doing the right thing, paralysed by shame and self-disgust and the weight of too many years.
Eventually, Remus faces him and his face is grey in the dim light. "I'd better go. Goodnight, Sirius."
Hours later, he is still feeling the kiss on his dry lips and he hasn't moved, couldn't move. There is nothing to do or say with Remus gone.
When morning comes, Sirius hasn't found any sleep. How could he? Remus is the only friend he has left, the only other Marauder who remembers James and Lily fondly, who remembers Sirius how he used to be. But exactly this stands between them. Everyone else does accept Sirius for how he is now, is surprised that he has some sanity and humanity left, and nobody but Remus follows him with haunted eyes, behind which the memory of their happy past is lurking. Remus knows who Sirius used to be, in fact, he knew his younger self better than anyone else – apart from James – and it was Remus who came to love what he saw. And it hurts to see the remnants of this love, the look of regret. Sirius cannot recreate the past and he cannot turn back into who he used to be. And thus, he cannot turn back to being lovers because it would be pretending, would be clinging to something that is no longer there. Most of all, it would be dishonest to both of them and Sirius has never lived a lie.
As usual, he begins the day by gazing out of the window, imagining what it would be like to just walk out of the door and live like everyone else. The longing rips him apart and he stops when the pain grows too strong. He will survive, live another day, clean out another cupboard. The thought makes him chuckle bitterly.
When he enters the kitchen around noon he finds a note. Remus is gone.
"Pitying yourself again, are you?" says an all too familiar voice.
Sirius is lounging in front of the fireplace of his room, a glass of Firewhisky in his hand. His hair is unkempt and he has been wearing the same robes for three days now. There have only been two visitors since Remus left. Mad Eye came over the same day Remus left and barked something about a secret mission, which he did not elaborate on because it was, well, secret. A day later Arthur passed by and left some roast beef and bacon. And the Firewhisky Sirius is drinking now. Drinking alone is a bad habit but it keeps the nausea at bay and there is no one around who would complain.
"Shut up, Phineas. I am not in the mood for another curtain lecture on how I pollute the Ignoble and Most Incestuous House of Black," Sirius drawls, putting as much venom in his voice as he can muster, half-drunk as he is.
"I'll let that slide because I'm on duty," Sirius' ancestor replies with oily contempt. It's a subtle slight, of course. Even in death Phineas Nigellus has more freedom and importance than Sirius or so he wants him to believe. "There has been an accident in the Department of Mysteries."
Sirius straightens in his leather armchair and turns to face his ancestor. "What? Who?"
"Good. I see you haven't wasted your mind on drink entirely. The message is as follows: Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured. His blood-traitor wife and children will be here soon. Oh, and Harry Potter."
Sirius stands up so quickly that he trips over the bottle at his feet. He curses under his breath and spells the tiny puddle of Firewhisky away with a hissed spell and a flick of his wand.
"Are you quite finished?" Phineas Nigellus asks icily.
"Tell Dumbledore I'll be delighted to have them here," Sirius replies, untouched. Harry will be here any minute! Phineas huffs and mutters something Sirius doesn't care to catch. He spells away a few stains on his robes and then he is already on his way downstairs. Harry and the Weasleys will have to travel by portkey to escape Umbridge's ever watchful eyes and they will either arrive in the hall or in the kitchen. He hears a clattering sound as he arrives at the bottom of the staircase.
"-ain, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father's dying?" Kreacher's dark voice permeates through the kitchen door. The sneaky little bugger must have been eavesdropping.
"OUT!" Sirius roars, as he speeds to the kitchen. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest. Why did Harry have to leave Hogwarts? How is he involved in this? Fred and George are pale and dishevelled, Ron is scrambling to his feet and Harry and Ginny are still on the floor. "What's going on?" Sirius asks the little group and helps Ginny to her feet.
It's a bloody mess. The Weasley children and Harry have been there for only twenty minutes and already they are shouting at him. It's typical of Dumbledore not to explain things to them properly and keep them in the dark about basically everything their parents are involved in.
"We don't care about the dumb Order!" Fred shouts at him.
"It's our dad dying we're talking about!" his twin adds just as loudly.
"Your father knew what he was getting into and he won't thank you for messing things up for the Order," Sirius tells them, angry more at Dumbledore than at the twins. "This is how it is – this is why you're not in the Order – you don't understand – there are things worth dying for."
"Easy for you to say, stuck here!" roars Fred. "I don't see you risking your neck!"
Sirius' blood freezes and it takes all his willpower not to lash out. How dare he accuse him of being a coward after what he has done and lost in the first war? But this is not Snape being nasty, this is a teenager being scared and worried about his father, so Sirius swallows his anger and says calmly, "I know it's hard, but we've all got to act as though we don't know anything yet. We've got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right?"
They obey grudgingly, but they obey, and Sirius lets out a sigh of relief. Right now, he sincerely wishes Arthur had not brought him the bottle of Firewhisky because this would have gone smoother without him being drunk and his mind being clouded. It is a sad thing indeed that he feels elated by their presence. He cannot stop watching Harry out of the corner of his eyes. James and Lily would be so proud of their son. Sirius cannot think back to their first encounter in the Shrieking Shack without feeling proud himself. His godson turned out well, despite his despicable aunt and uncle. That he is worried about something does not escape Sirius. He will have a chat with him later.
There may be nothing else but at least there will be a later this time. He shouldn't feel good about it because Arthur may be on the brink of death, but he does. Harry's home.
And then Remus is back. Sirius was decorating the first floor when he arrived and he hasn't plucked up the courage to go down yet. It is, of course, silly. Sirius has a proper reason to talk to him – Harry's Christmas present – but even if he hadn't, he should not be afraid of talking to his best friend. He has been feeling much better since it had been settled that the Weasleys and Harry would spend Christmas at Grimmauld Place. Busy decorating and singing Christmas carols, it was so easy to put off any thoughts about Remus. But now that he is back...it will be best to talk to him after dinner. Perhaps he will be too sated and comfortable to be looking for a fight. Sirius expects him to be sulking though and dresses in Muggle clothes. Remus likes that.
"Sirius Black, if I didn't know you better I would call you a pathetic, cowardly little wanker," he berates himself through gritted teeth, levitating a mistletoe over the staircase.
At dinner he talks to Harry and Ron and avoids looking at Remus. Nonetheless, his heart beats faster when he is around. It is almost as if he can feel his presence. He knows that he screwed up fundamentally and he isn't sure how to make it up to him, but it is nice to have Remus in the house, even if all he gets is a cold shoulder. The evening is pleasant all the same. Even Molly is agreeable since she knows that Arthur is going to be all right. Before long, Remus excuses himself and, with a cup of tea, he disappears into the library. Molly frowns as the door closes behind him, before turning to Sirius and leaning close to him.
"I think something is wrong with him," she says in a low voice. "You're his friend, why don't you talk to him?"
Sirius is torn between annoyance and relief that he now has an excuse to follow Remus. "Aye, aye, Molly," he says and salutes. She cannot hide a smile. Nevertheless, he stays for a few more minutes, collecting his thoughts. He could do with a damn drink about now.
The door to the library is ajar and Sirius can see dancing candle light through the gap. At least Remus does not sit brooding in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open.
Remus is sitting with his back to him, reading. Sirius grins. Hardly anyone knows that Remus only reads when he tries to dodge something or someone uncomfortable. The strange habit goes back to his childhood when he could not do anything but read. Once he told him that he had been reading enough for a lifetime in the few years before he came to Hogwarts. No, his Moony had never been a great book lover, had always preferred the practical experience. He shuts the door as silently as possible and goes over to his friend.
"Must be bad if you prefer books to the kitchen," he says lightly. He notices the slight shiver that goes through Remus' thin body. He appears to be comfortably folded into the old-fashioned armchair but Sirius sees how tense he is.
Remus doesn't look up from his book when he answers. "Did Molly send you after me? Don't bother, I'm fine."
"Yeah, that's why you're in the library." Sirius drops onto the slightly careworn sofa opposite Remus. He points his wand at the fireplace on the right side of him and lazily mutters, "Incendio".
The pages are turned with determination as the fire flares up. Sirius gives Remus time to think of a reply and makes himself comfortable.
"You wouldn't know if I had come to like books after all, would you?" Remus says testily. The blow is rather low and Sirius grins like a dog.
"It would take a personality transplant to turn you into a bibliophile."
With a bang Remus shuts the book and is promptly tickled into coughs.
"They haven't been dusted in ages," Sirius states unnecessarily. Now that he is here with Remus, he is less edgy. This is known territory; they have sat like this a hundred times. Of course, it is also the fact that he is Sirius Black who always laughs in the face of danger.
"Why are you here?" Remus asks wearily after he calmed down. He leans forward, forearms propped on his thighs, and his eyes are wary in the flickering light.
Sirius shrugs. "Guess."
Remus' eyes flare up and, yes, he is angry, and, no, he won't pretend that nothing happened, as he usually does. "Guess? Oh, you wouldn't be here to apologise for being a major prick because it's you and apologies are just not done. So I have no idea why you're here. Perhaps you feel like being irrationally jealous again and want to share."
Experience taught Sirius that disarming him is the only way to stop Remus from working himself into a righteous rant. So Sirius smiles at him and says, "Christmas – the holiday of love and forgiveness, remember? It's just around the corner and I thought you'd like to participate in my present for Harry."
Remus' face grows visibly paler and he leans back, withdrawing from Sirius as far as possible without leaving outright. "I don't know whether I want to punch you or admire your audacity."
"I'd prefer the second option," Sirius says dryly.
Remus sighs. "Fine, fine, if you want to talk about Harry, by all means, let's talk about him. Have you got something in mind?"
"Yeah," Sirius says and leans forward to pull out the brochure out of his back pocket. He throws it over to Remus like a frisbee and it hits him square on the chest before dropping to the floor at his feet. Glaring, Remus picks it up and unfolds it.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts?" Remus nods approvingly. "He'll like it."
"That's the plan."
"Do you sometimes wonder what James and Lily --"
"All the time," Sirius cuts in tersely. Remus remains silent and folds the brochure. "I had Mundungus sell a bit of Goblin-wrought cutlery, so galleons aren't a problem."
If Remus is offended by Sirius' comment it doesn't show on his face. Perhaps he has long stopped caring about what others think. He has been dependent on other people's generosity for almost all his life. Sirius used to fight the inevitable and let Remus pretend but what good would it do now?
"I'll buy them on Wednesday," says Remus. This gets him Sirius' attention.
"You're leaving again," he states.
Remus nods. Sirius craves a drink and he says so. Wordlessly, Remus gets up and walks over to the hidden liquor cabinet. Drinking was one of Sirius' grandfather's bad habits. His grandmother had, of course, not approved of it and so he had the secret cabinet built into one of the heavy, old-fashioned bookshelves. It worked well from then on. His grandfather pretended not to drink and his grandmother pretended not to know.
The crystal tumblers clunk against each other as Remus puts them up for filling. It's Firewhisky Mundungus procured – illegally no doubt – but the preciously cut glasses give it an air of luxury and style.
"Where did you get it?" Remus asks, one eyebrow raised. The bottle in his hand is still full but Remus' voice is equally packed with disapproval.
"Dung," Sirius answers, head rested against the sofa. The leather is soft from use and age but Sirius doesn't dare relax yet. Remus is monosyllabic, which is always a bad sign.
"Ah," Remus makes and fills the glasses. With a wry smile he hands Sirius his glass. "To things coming easily."
The tumbler hits the table so hard that it breaks. Sirius hasn't realised how much anger he has in him until this moment when it literally bursts out of him. "Easy, Remus? Easy? That night you told me that you didn't understand me and you know what, Remus? You really don't. Most of the time I'm not sure what I fear the most. Waking up and still finding myself trapped in this fucking house or waking up and finding myself back in Azkaban," Sirius bellows, breathing heavily.
"Sirius --"
"Just shut the hell up," Sirius bites out angrily. "You have no idea, so don't even think about pretending. It's all easy to tell yourself that I'm fine, a little touched in the head and bored, but fine otherwise. Maybe I should just find something to occupy myself with, right? But you know what? I'm not fine and I don't think I'll ever be, not here. I can't just take you up on a snog and a shag. Letting go like that, I don't think I remember how." His voice breaks. "For twelve fucking years I tried to get things out of my head, tried to make them not true. But they are, Remus. Seeing Lily and James' bodies before my eyes is as real to me as seeing you...because I've seen them lying there, lifeless, for over a decade, over and over again. And it's my fault! My fucking fault!"
"Enough, Sirius. Enough!" Remus demands, looking alarmed and shocked at the outburst he triggered.
"Is it?" Sirius snarls. It is about time Remus understands and he will make him. "I know that I messed things up, I know that it's my fault people treat me like a dung bomb bound to explode every second. I know all that. I don't need you to remind me of how things are supposed to be. Things never go as they are supposed to go, at least not for you and me. If they did Harry wouldn't have that scar on his forehead and Lily and James would be sitting with us. If they did I could tell you that I --"
"Sirius, don't!" Remus says and his voice is only a whisper. He has gone completely white since Sirius started letting lose the spate of angry thoughts and suppressed feelings that had built up inside him for a long time. But it is the look in his eyes that makes Sirius stop. It's despair and fear similar to his own and he realises that Remus cannot cope with the truth any more than Sirius can cope with the past. With sudden clarity he realises that he could alienate him, could lose him for good. "I'm sorry," Remus says into the sudden, ringing silence. "This...this isn't the moment. Another time, Sirius. I...yeah. Excuse me." With a haunted look, he leaves the room, flees it, and leaves Sirius behind.
Again.
Things never go as they are supposed to go, at least not for you and me.
They don't, not for Sirius and Remus, and the right moment never comes. Christmas is upon them in a heartbeat and passes all too quickly and then Easter approaches and although Remus does not downright avoid being alone with him, he keeps Sirius at a distance with polite smiles and courteous conversation he usually reserves for strangers. There is a line neither of them wants to cross just yet and Sirius cannot take heart to confront Remus once more. What if they don't find a common ground? What if twelve years have been too much, even for them? And then Easter passes and Sirius finds himself and his life unchanged until Harry storms into the Department of Mysteries and Sirius grabs his wand and chases after him. And then...
And then he stops worrying because nothing is important any longer.
It is not the end. A memory remains.
Anything else would be too bitter.
Fin
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