Chapter Text
The heavy double doors of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries swing open to reveal the main corridor, all sharp brightness and loud buzz and dizzying hues, evidences of a rhythm that simply won’t slow down for the sake of anyone – it being Monday morning mattering very little to the chaos that, undoubtedly, defyingly, will ensue, as it does, every single day.
Healers and mediwizards and witches move with a sense of urgency, an unsettling frenzy aggravated by the scents of potions, the low hum of incantations, and just, you know – steps, and more steps, heels clicking, hands tapping, wands hitting, sparkles flying. It's all-encompassing, overwhelming, delirious. It's chaos, is what is it. Raw, indisputable chaos.
And the truth is… The truth is, despite popular belief, Sirius Black hates chaos. Absolutely despises it. And he gets it, alright, he knows, really, why one would assume otherwise; why one would look at him and think, no hint of doubt or hesitation, He will thrive there. If anyone would, it’s him. Sirius Black is by all means aware that he has built a reputation for himself, this curated persona that gradually mingled with his actual self, one that has been mingling with his actual self ever since there was a self to mingle with: Sirius Black, problem child. Sirius Black, prankster. Sirius Black, rebel-rebel-hot-tramp-everybody-loves-him-so. Sirius Black, Order Member. Sirius Black, bloody war hero. So much so that, in fact, he suspects that at least some people are more likely to think that becoming a Healer was some sort of downgrade. A quiet settling down. A well-deserved, long-awaited, period of peace and relaxation.
Those people, of course, must have never set foot on St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
So, chaos. He hates it. Hates the fact that it is always there, unrelenting, hates the fact that it never lets him catch a break. Hates how much comfort he finds in it, too, how despite everything it's the one thing that brings him a sense of relief, somehow, and since relief has been the only medicine that actually did something for the ever-present, ravenous void he carries around, he has been managing, for the past two years, to get up just about every morning, to never taking a day off (his restlessness being one of the traits he never quite managed to let go of), to choosing, instead, to roam around the corridors of his chosen turmoil.
Of course, no one knows that this chase (for oblivion, for obscurity) is the main reason he decided to become a Healer in the first place. It wouldn’t bode well with Sirius Black, heroic fighter. Sirius Black, fierce survivor. Sirius Black, the last man standing. Sirius Black, tortured heartthrob. Sirius Black, whatever the fuck the Prophet is calling him now. No, no, here's the thing: Sirius Black chose to become a Healer because he was channeling his grief into something productive (his Mind Healer liked this one), morphing his sorrow into a sense of accomplishment (his Mind Healer loved this one) every time he got to truly help others just… get back on their feet. Get better. Get fixed.
And it’s not as if this is a total lie – Sirius does feel productive, and accomplished. He is helping people. He is healing them, for Merlin's sake. For someone who spent the years prior drawing blood through curses, rather than collecting it for harmless samples, Sirius understands the importance of this change of scenery. It’s just that he hates it too. He knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to hate it, not really. But whenever the chaos is not enough to shut his mind down, and so many fucking times it isn't, whenever said change of scenery is not enough to stop him from remembering, well.
He hates that he helps people get better, and he hates it because no one he helps is James. Or Lily. Or Harry.
Or. Or. Or.
Remembering is, supposedly, a good thing. Brings people closure. Brings people comfort. Brings people an acute pain from their elbows to their teeth, a proverbial kick in the gut, a stab in the fucking eye. Rips their hearts apart and makes them throw up their insides. Which is why, long story short, Sirius Black decided to stop seeing his Mind Healer a couple of months ago, and he’s doing fine, thank you very much. He showers, and eats, and gets dressed. He still looks more than presentable, even if painfully aware of the perpetual seriousness set in his once bright eyes – the dullness of their greys finally resolving to live up to their purpose –, or the insipidity of his once wild hair. He talks to his coworkers, he carries candy from Honeydukes to give to the injured kids (never chocolate, which he knows is a stupid little grudge, but hey, baby steps). He brings flowers to the Potters’ graves. He never lets them wither, which feels both an accomplishment and a sourness, but it doesn't stop him from changing the damn flowers. He falls asleep drunk on the floor of his flat, drools on its cracks and mourns its emptiness. He wakes up, swears to never drink again, has managed to, even, sometimes. Other times, he drinks some more, and gets ready for yet another day of chaos. And noise. And rush. And relief. And dullness. And– repeat.
It has been two years since the fall of Voldemort. Two years since the wizarding world learned that it was Peter Pettigrew, unassuming Peter Pettigrew, meek Peter Pettigrew, fucking rat Petter Pettigrew, war criminal Peter Pettigrew, who had betrayed the Potters, leading Voldemort straight to them, effectively ending the war, and Sirius’ life with it (by then, Sirius already thought there was not much of a life to end – a laughable statement, in hindsight). Peter was granted a trial, but it was a quick affair: guilt-ridden, as one would assume, he confessed to having been a spy for Voldemort for months, to giving him James and Lily’s location, and thus breaking the Fidelius Charm. He confessed to betraying their trust out of fear, begging for understanding and a little grace ("What would you have done? What would you have done?") – and isn’t it just so.
Sirius knows fear. Another common misconception: Sirius Black, fearless warrior. Sirius Black, brave soldier. Sirius Black, idiot dog, never one to be afraid. He would feel compelled to laugh, of course, if these were different circumstances. Sirius knows fear, alright. Knows it intimately, in fact. Despite his supposed Gryffindor boldness, it was fear that ultimately made him convince James that Peter – unassuming, meek, fucking rat Peter – would be a better choice for Secret Keeper. It was the fear of loss – that visceral fear that gnawed at him relentlessly, that ate him from the inside, that stupid, idiotic fear that convinced him he could somehow outsmart Voldemort – that, ultimately, made him lose everything.
And maybe he had been disposed of many things even before that dreadful night: companionship, understanding, warmth, lust, comfort. Trust. He was familiar with loss by then, but he didn't know, not then, what if felt like to exist with absolute, resolute nothingness. Until the very end of the damn war, at least one of his most important possessions was still very much there, and he couldn’t help but take it for granted regardless of all the horrors they kept living through: how could he? As long as James Potter was by his side, he could endure anything the war might throw at him because James Potter was, to him, every cliché one could think of when thinking of love, pure and irrevocable: his steady anchor, his unwavering rock, half of his soul, etc. And James Potter, the beautiful idiot, had promised Sirius. He had promised. He promised to remain his anchor and unwavering rock, and half of his fucking soul. And then he went ahead and broke his promise, not exactly meaning to, no, because of course not, but that doesn’t even matter the slightest because Sirius can’t forgive him, not really, nor himself, not really, and he is now left with this crater between his ribs, this overbearing chasm that threatens to swallow him whole whenever he gazes down at it, this insurmoun–
"Healer Sirius, are you okay?"
And, well, isn’t that just his luck.
"Healer Smethwyck, sir. Splendid. As much as one could be on a Monday morning, anyway. How was your vacation?" Sirius asks, fully in character now, flashing a blinding grin, if a little stiffed, and it doesn't fool Smethwyck for a second. "Came and went, boy. How are you holding up?" he asks, and Sirius really tries not to let his smile flatten at the recurring question. Smethwyck had been both Sirius’ mentor, ever since he decided to become a Healer, and an idol of sorts, someone he had looked up to even before joining St. Mungo’s: he had been the youngest ever Healer-in-charge of the Dai Llewellyn Ward, and the sole reason Sirius decided to focus on his N.E.W.T.s even when he had his heart already set on joining the Order.
Well.
Not the sole reason, so to speak. But Sirius doesn’t like to go there. Can’t, really. It’s not even that he doesn’t want to (he doesn’t). It’s just that, physically, he can’t (he really, really can’t). His Mind Healer thought he should be ready by now; to talk about it, to talk about– Anyway.
The irony of joining St. Mungo’s to work at the Serious Bites Ward is not lost on him. On the good days, Sirius can at least acknowledge that. On the bad days, Sirius will pretend that this choice was nothing but another act of defiance, feigning ignorance towards his actual history and purpose. It’s not like he needs those words to mean anything.
(You see, once upon a time, enfant terrible Sirius Black, trickster Sirius Black, lady-stardust-singing-of-darkness-and-disgrace Sirius Black, learned a secret: a fragile thing, a vulnerable thing, a treasure demanding a tenderness Sirius Black simply never thought he held within himself. Turns out he did. That was, and remains, part of the problem. But Sirius doesn’t like to go there. And the point is. The point is – Sirius learned a secret he was not supposed to have learned, and, well, no surprises there. That, in and of itself, would not be an issue. Secrets are spilled, found out, exposed, all the time. He would know that. The issue is that that particular secret shaped him in ways he is still learning about to this day. The way it molds him is vicious, torturous. It does so continuously. Constantly. Sirius loathes it with the same intensity he once loved it, which, truth be told, is nothing but another kick in the gut.
And because he once... And because he once loved this secret; its bearer; and the way this secret, and its bearer, could be held by him, too; because of that foolish, dumb, overbearing love, there is nothing – nothing – that Sirius does that is not moved by it. And that, that right there, is the harshest hit yet. A punch he didn’t see coming. A strike he couldn’t avoid if he tried. A rusty knife buried somewhere he can’t quite reach. Someone else’s secret, not even one of his own, and still, out there for Sirius to gaze into: his real purpose.)
"Sir?" Sirius replies, clearing his throat, playing a little stupid.
Smethwyck had been working closely with him for years, and would never not ask him the same question: How are you holding up?, which is much more gracious than saying: There is no way anyone would ever come back from this. No amount of healing, counseling, talking, working, will ever fix this. Fix you. I know this and you know this and this is why I need to ask, so you know someone knows it is not something that gets old. So you know someone knows how fresh the wound still is. I would know. You would know. We tend to them all the time.
Sirius hears it all, regardless. He hears it every time, even if none of it is actually spoken, and for that, Sirius is actually grateful.
"Just. With everything?" Smethwyck presses and this– this is new, because Smethwyck doesn't do pressure. Accepts whatever vague answer Sirius gives him, usually, even Sirius’ silences, if he's so inclined. There's something in his tone, now. A little weird, a little worried. Sirius hates it, but is set on pretending not to notice.
"Oh, you know. Same old," he shrugs.
"Sure. I take you haven’t crossed paths with the Minister?"
"The Minister? Of Magic?"
"Herself. We have a bit of a... A bit of a situation."
"Sir?" Sirius asks, impatient and hesitant in equal measure. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all. His skin feels a bit out of place and the stupid worry in Smethwyck’s voice made its way to his eyes, now.
"Now, Sirius, listen up. Academically speaking, you are the man for the job. We would have given you the case either way, of course, although I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible for you to, say, fly solo."
Sirius immediately feels a lump forming in his throat, the anticipation of… something, unnamed, yes, but filling him with a dread that churns in his stomach all the same. He should have gotten used to this by now, but every single time a new patient is admitted, he can’t help the sweaty palms and frenetic heartbeats. Again: it moves him and shapes him and determines all of who he is.
Things were blurry, after the war. They had been blurry, in many ways, during the war – but the aloneness of the aftermath complicated everything. He was never one to be able to sit with himself and just – be. So he tried his best to keep moving.
Now, one needs actual training to become a Healer, intense and brutal. Still, some exceptions were made for Sirius Black, war hero, Sirius Black, valiant duelist, Sirius Black, unexpected genius (?!), part of it because every second he wasn’t fighting with the Order, he was learning bandaging charms and bone-mending spells with Poppy, or helping Lily harvesting essence of dittany and brewing batches and batches of Skele-Gro. His experience, along with his academic credentials (and two heartfelt recommendation letters from both Minnie and Poppy) helped him get into St. Mungo’s smoothly. But despite of the speedy admittance process, Sirius couldn’t get to work right away (something to do with protocols and legislation and other big words he wasn’t capable of processing back then). Since he couldn’t just sit and wait, for waiting made him feel jittery, at best, and useless, at worse, with his mind made up regarding the ward he would like to work at (as if there would ever be any doubts on that matter), he decided to go for the scholar approach.
Enter: Hippocrates Smethwyck.
He was above all curious as to why would Sirius Black, of all people, would want to work at his ward, or spend his time, his well-deserved, long-awaited, period of peace and relaxation, researching how to tend to injuries created by some creatures he, himself, fought during the war, or writing pages and pages of parchment about said creatures, their taxonomy, their habitats, their diets, yes, but also their history, how they communicate, how they organize themselves, and how they interact and connect with wizards. Sirius was nothing if not thorough. When Smethwyck asked him what, specifically, was he hoping to achieve with all that commitment, Sirius just shrugged and said, curtly, I want to work with werewolves, and that was that.
"Sir?" he tries again, not exactly comforted by the nervousness Smethwyck is still trying – and failing, miserably – to disguise.
"A patient came in this morning. Brought by some Aurors, although the Minister followed shortly after. This patient… a Werewolf. I don’t think he got bitten recently, the scars – the ones we can assume are from both the bite and transformations that followed, that is – are faded enough. He is likely in his twenties, although no one has been able to identify him yet."
Sirius just shakes his head, reaching for his pocket to take some notes to keep his now trembling hands busy, then proceeds to drop his pen. Twice. Smethwyck is kind enough not to mention it. "The patient has endured severe torture and prolonged exposure to what we believe to have been the Cruciatus Curse," he goes on, monotone and clearly wanting to get it over with. "He’s currently non-verbal and unresponsive, likely due to the physical and psychological trauma he's suffered. Despite this, his magical vitals are surprisingly strong, indicating a resilient core. And–"
And Sirius isn't granted the mercy of holding his breath, of bracing himself. The mercy of wondering. The mercy of hoping. The mercy of determining what is it that he would hope for. There’s simply no time, as a high-pitched voice breaks whatever thought he was beginning to form, whatever silent prayer he was about to utter, whatever secret plea he was harboring in his chest.
"And we need you, Healer Sirius. It is a… time-sensitive matter, you see. Millicent Bagnold."
Sirius turns around to face the Minister, who is standing poised in a set of dark blue robes cascading to the floor, a sharp, but not unkind, look on her face. They had met before, so Sirius has to assume her introduction to be a small act of kindness, an allowance of sorts: here’s some time. Get yourself together. "Minister Bagnold. Sirius Black, at your service."
She takes his hand, shakes it in a firm and polite manner, while giving him a clipped smile. "I understand Healer Smethwyck already gave you some context?"
Not nearly enough context, Sirius thinks, bitterly, although still replying with much more neutrality that he’s feeling towards this whole conversation. "Unidentified male in his twenties. Non-verbal. Not responsive. Likely to heal. I’m not sure how I can help, Minister. I do focus on helping those who get bitten to navigate their new reality, but from what I understand this patient’s lycanthropy is not a recent affair." He turns to Smethwyck, then. "Shouldn’t we take him to the second floor? Even Janus Thickey would be more adequa–"
"I’m afraid that will not be possible," says the Minister, cutting him off. "We need you to hop on this case. Urgently."
"Oh," Sirius says, which is just about as eloquent as he can muster right now. He really, really doesn't like this. "And why me, of all people here, Minister?"
"The beast," comes a third voice out of nowhere, some Auror Sirius had never seen, but immediately hates, a basic instinct by now to distrust whoever would equate lycanthropy to monstrosity, as if there was a choice there, as if anyone’s whole existence could be reduced to their condition, as if that type of prejudice wasn’t exactly the type of thing that lead those neglected by the magical world to the welcoming embrace of darkness, as if–
"The beast," the Auror goes again, clearly unaware of the enraged expression in Sirius’ face, "is mostly non-verbal. He is calling for you."
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius is eight years old the first time he has the dream. He jolts awake that night, his heart a war drum pounding persistently in his chest, the remnants of the whole ordeal still swaying in his mind. Sweat soaks his bed, sends chills down his spine, the somber silence of Grimmauld Place enhancing the lingering confusion and mild panic. He’s positively terrified.
You see, Sirius Black, nuisance extraordinaire, always pretended to be tougher than he was. He always had to, for the mundanity of vulnerability just wouldn’t do in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black: it signaled weakness, a sort of deficiency that had no place in their blood, a withering weed one would have to rip if ever found somewhere within them, punishment for attempting to survive in such sterile lands. The Blacks stood as unwavering testament to a lineage steeped in tradition and grandeur, and moved within a reality that not just anyone could reach, let alone understand - and so, needless to say, one can't exactly be soft when one is a Black. Simple as that, really.
On many occasions, and long after his eight-year-old night terrors, Sirius would be asked, are you not afraid of them?, and he would laugh, shake it off, because yes, of course he was, but no, not in the way everyone apparently expected him to. He had heard the whispers and had witnessed how the unspoken opinions on his family manifested: eyes glued to the ground, a sudden tension settling down, hurried footsteps walking away. Beware of the Blacks, like they were all a bunch of feral, rabid dogs. Beware of their ire. Do not cross their path. They are all mad. They are all vile. Except Sirius knew madness and Sirius knew evil – and the thing is, even as a child, he knew those words meant different things to him from what they meant to everyone else who was not a Black. He couldn’t blame them, even then. One needed to carry the genetic codes that borne that cruel insanity they kept muttering about to truly understand what it meant to be mad, and vile. He couldn’t blame them for their lack of understanding, but couldn’t bring himself to forgive them, either, for despite his surname, Sirius felt he was the only one who managed to be on the lookout for shades of grey.
And the Blacks, for all their apparent absence of color, placed perfectly within all shades of grey. Physical violence, for instance, had always been abhorrent to his parents, a crude display unsuitable for a blood so noble. That’s why they wouldn’t associate themselves, for the most part, with “dark lords” with no real right to claim that title: lordship, Orion would state, is not something to claim, nor something you can even earn. You are either born with it, or you aren’t. And if you aren’t, you probably didn’t deserve it enough. The Blacks knew politics, knew relationships, knew treaties. They knew money: and they waltzed their knowledge around with elegance and poise, never truly engaging with the uncouthness and the frivolousness of warfare, just positioning themselves well enough to remain as they always were – unbothered, untouched, unreachable. That seclusion, as it turns out, was the real curse they all carried. It protected them, but would invariably drive all of them mad. Turn some of them evil, yes, and all of them rotten. They were grey in rituals, but fully black in emotions: a complete absence of light, and a silent affliction none of them mentioned out loud, not really. For ages, the Blacks distanced themselves from… others. Eventually, the Blacks distanced themselves from each other. Somewhere along the line, the only thing they could feel anything towards was – well, their name. Their legacy. Somewhere along the line, everything else – real, meaningful human connections, the fragility of passing your heart to someone else, the blinding trust it requires, the allowance of loving and being loved in return – just lost its place at the table.
Sirius was afraid of them, yes. Mostly because there was no them. Sirius was afraid, yes, and rightfully so, because they felt like a hideous fucking mirror he was constantly forced to look at. They felt... inevitable, honestly, a bitter premonition he needed to fight tooth and nail to break.
Anyway, he had to toughen up, and toughen up he did. It was a necessity, really, born from both rebelling against his parents' unspoken-yet-suffocating expectations, and shielding his little brother from those same demands, as best as, and for as long as he could.
(In hindsight, toughening up was not enough, because of course it wasn’t. The expectations were still deeply rooted inside him, and no amount of defiance ended up protecting his little brother. Or anyone, really. That was just his luck.)
Despite his efforts, Sirius Black, naughty heir, Sirius Black, spawn of Satan, was, in fact, scared shitless most of the time: of Walburga’s cold stares and sharp words, of Orion’s prolonged silences and rough palms, of Bella’s delusion and Cissy’s indifference, of Kreacher’s whispers and of the unspoken curses his name carried along. But also: of heights, and the dark, and tight spaces, and dogs. Beneath his bravado, he was but a frightened boy, grappling with the weight of his family's legacy, sure, although just as much as with the weight of, well. Being an eight-year-old child.
So, evidently, dreaming of confusing conversations with a black, shaggy hound, and waking up in the middle of his cold, and very dark, and very empty, bedroom, makes him… fidgety, to say the least.
The years pass, but the dream never changes (in many ways, neither does Sirius - amongst other things, and perhaps above all of those, he is still very much scared shitless). Sirius always finds himself wandering around an unknown setting that holds, regardless, a hauntingly familiar aura, this magnificent Manor with dark corridors and rooms echoing this eerie, distant laughter he can't quite distinguish. Sometimes it sounds like Bella's, sometimes it sounds like his own. At the gates of the Manor, a black, shaggy hound is always waiting for him, and Sirius immediately knows this with a certainty in his bones he never feels the need to question. Invariably, he walks towards it.
"Where am I going?" he whispers.
"Away from here, I suppose," the hound replies. "Only by doing so can you reach your destination."
"And so you know my destination?" Sirius presses.
The hound always returns with a knowing tone, "I already told you. Away-From-Here, that is your destination."
By then, Sirius remembers to look down and take a look at, well. Himself. Notices he's empty-handed, sometimes barefoot, sometimes with mismatched socks, and not a single bag. "But I have no provisions with me. I didn’t even bring my wand."
The hound barks, a resemblance of a bitter laugh, replying, "You are too young for a wand. And, either way, you need none of that," and then just– disappears. On the other side of the gates, well deep into the darkness, Sirius hears a soft, almost imperceptible howl echoing through the towering trees of the forest ahead. He assumes the hound is calling him. Leading him towards– well, something.
He opens the gates.
He wakes up.
Sirius never tells anyone about the dream, not exactly. Firstly, because what would be the point? And, too, because for a while the dream stops occurring altogether. At first, Sirius suspects it has something to do with him going to Hogwarts, like an omen at last fulfilled: the hound indeed guiding him Away-From-There, and does it really feel like a destination of sorts, the crimson in the walls, the laughter in the common room, the tangled legs by the fireplace and, later, the fumbling kisses behind closed doors, the hurried prophecies spoken out of love – hasty, burning –, and the warmth, its tenacious devotion to not going anywhere, the feeling of finally, finally, arriving home.
Hogwarts feels like home, but that home, as it turns out, probably isn't Away enough.
When the dream comes to him again, Sirius is twelve years old, and figures that, perhaps, he merely needs to go further.
Then next time he has the dream, Sirius is fifteen years old, and it's an eventful night, the first where he goes to bed feeling, albeit faintly, his newfound second heartbeat. It is also the first time that the dream feels... familiar. The restlessness is still there, but by then his fears of darkness and canines is fully vanished – he now welcomes both, actually, like old friends into his house, with a warm embrace and a fresh sense of rightness.
Sirius is sixteen and had just left Grimmauld Place for good, and when the dream visits him on his first night at the Potters’, he begins to fear that maybe there is no destination to be reached, not really.
When the dream decides to become a weekly occurrence, Sirius has already left Hogwarts, and is for the first time learning to truly accept, unashamed, love and tenderness into his life – and, because of that, he also tries his best to accept that there is a change that this foretold journey will last forever. And that, maybe, that is okay.
He supposes the dream tries to visit him again, after James’ death. He is twenty-one years old. He doesn’t remember a thing. The months are filled with Dreamless Sleep Potions and cheap scotch and loud parties and countless nights as Padfoot. None of those took him away, either.
☾ ✹ ☽
The dream comes again when he's twenty-three years old, only a couple of hours before arriving at St. Mungo’s for what he hoped, to no avail, would be a regular Monday (he stopped hoping altogether for quiet, calm ones).
Considering his record, aiming for normalcy after yet another cryptic conversation with his imaginary hound felt sloppy. Amateurish. Really fucking dumb.
Sirius strides down the main corridor of the Serious Bites Ward, his footsteps echoing against the freshly polished floors. He follows Smethwyck and the Minister, and two stern-faced Aurors are flanking him. Everything, even more so than usual, feels loud. Busy. Too much. The scent of antiseptic and potions is hanging heavily in the air, mingling with the faint, but very much there, metallic tang of blood, and it's the only thing effectively grounding him now. The hallway seems to stretch endlessly, lined with doors that guard all sorts of roaring sufferings. He has been allowed to work as a Healer for little under a year, now, and even before that he was more than familiarized with the raw reality of the injuries hidden behind the muted green doors. For what it's worth, he still hasn't managed to get used to any of it.
Sirius’ heart... is doing its best, really. Feels angry, it does, pounding frantically in his chest, a relentless rhythm of anxiety and dread, while his mind races and tries to catch up with the possibilities of what awaits him at the end of this walk. Every step is heavier than the last, louder, too, everything coming to a stop when they reach the very last door of the corridor. It's almost picturesque, the whole scene. eSmethwyck pauses outside, his hand resting on the handle, before turning to Sirius, with eyes filled with a mixture of determination, and pity.
Sirius doesn't have it in him to feel offended.
He doesn't have much in him, at all, to be honest.
Because Sirius Black, little charmer, Sirius Black, lady fucking stardust, can be many things: impulsive, careless, hasty. But Sirius Black is not stupid. He doesn't have to look behind the door to know what awaits him. Who awaits him.
Rationally, he has no one else left. Rationally, there are no werewolves out there who would be semi-conscious and calling for Sirius Black. Rationally, no one else, werewolf or not, would be calling for him at all. Rationally, he knows that, despite of it all, he shouldn't dare to hope.
Once upon a time, Sirius Black was as brave as his reputation suggested. Not because he dueled, not because he fought. Sirius Black was brave once, because he chose to take the biggest risk of them all: allowing some light in to balance out the dark. He was reckless, too, then: the light was much too blinding, much too warm. It made him fierce, but then it left, disposing Sirius of every good thing he had managed to let live, and grow, inside him.
It left him empty.
It left him weak.
Ironically, it proved him there were worse things than being a Black incapable of feeling. He prayed, for the longest time, for his family curse to take its claim on him. Life had been ruthless enough times for Sirius to not underestimate it, so he braces himself for yet another hit of sheer cruelty. He can take it. He has to.
(For a second, stupidly, he wishes he would have made himself look better. A plea, a fragile thing: look at me. Look at me. See how I thrive. Look at me. Look at me. Look at – )
"Sirius?"
And there, on the bed, eyes wide and face wrecked, Sirius comes to find Remus motherfucking Lupin.
Notes:
The dialogue from Sirius’ dream is an adaptation of Kafka’s “My Destination”, from his gem, and one of my favorite books, Parables and Paradoxes. You can read it here: https://zork.net/~patty/pattyland/kafka/parables/fourshorts.htm#destination
Thank you for reading! see you soon <3
L x
Chapter 2: Demolition Lovers
Notes:
hello again! thank you for sticking around. I'm really excited for this one. ❤️
tws: mentions of suicidal ideation, panic attack, unhealthy coping mechanisms, anger issues. sirius is going through it :(
check the tags & take care of yourselves. ❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
All we are,
all we are
is bullets, I mean this
War has a way of distorting everything – it blurs the edges of time, smudges around all remnants of trust. It takes… things into its hands, and reshapes them into other things, invariably more deformed. Uglier. War… takes. It takes. It takes, and so it isn't exactly surprising to Sirius when his life, as lived through the chaos of war, throws another cosmic joke his way.
It goes like this: Sirius Black falls in love with Remus Lupin. In retrospect, the stupidest thing Sirius Black, certified Casanova, could ever do. It’s also the most beautiful thing Sirius Black, stubborn mutt, ever did – so, evidently, he just. Kept doing it.
Now this love, this love that once had been this pure, immaculate miracle Sirius got to hold, ends up, of course, taking a new shape, becoming instead a tumultuous blend of devotion and despair and – and isn’t that so very much on brand. Sirius is nothing but stains and bruises, not really, and thinks himself to be the furthest things from pure, or immaculate. On the contrary – he knows he is damaged beyond repair, even before the war casualties, like perhaps he had already been born crooked and wrong.
The way he loves merely had to catch up to the rest of him.
And once it did, well.
He supposes he could blame the war. He’s just not sure which one.
They moved together, after Hogwarts. Remus thought it hasty; Sirius thought it crucial. They fought about it, then fucked about it. By Christmas, they were kissing under charmed mistletoes and dancing to Astral Angel amongst the floating candles. Everything felt urgent, and burning, and right. James even got them a bottle of Elderflower wine, made by Molly Prewett herself, as a token of affection, something that clearly stated: About time!. Lily, the ever-present voice of reason and practicality, just clearly stated: About time!. No one else fussed over this development, so that was that.
Anyway, they moved. And, in the beginning, their flat, their home, felt essentially like a sanctuary. A place for silent prayers. A place for loud prayers. A place of timelessness, of stillness, of gentleness. A place of ardor, of celebration, of passionate preaching. A place so sacred Sirius knew, in his bones, there was no way it was meant for him; even stepping in felt, at times, sacrilegious. And yet – it was also so inviting he felt compelled to just– stay, kneel, worship, repeat. A bit like The Jesus Prayer, equally solemn, however humbler – something softer, just for the two of them, but just as incessant. Like falling in love: it just kept going. Until it didn’t. And against his best judgement, he remained there, a celestial permission granted not because of his stains and bruises, but despite of them. Looking back, maybe his most unforgivable sin was, ironically, kneeling for too long. Getting too comfortable, feeling too welcomed; for when he opened his eyes again, their holy land had turned into a battleground, the walls of their cathedral now echoing with unspoken fears and unresolved tensions.
It goes like this: Sirius doesn't remember the date, and he's a bit ashamed, really, but it is nighttime and he is standing by the window, staring out into the dark. London is quiet, he remembers that, contrasting with his agitated thoughts, a whirlwind of worry and anger, he remembers that, and Remus is late. Again. He fucking remembers that.
Every full moon, Remus leaves on a new mission – an irrefutable request, a bitter command ("Dumbledore needs me, Sirius, and I’m the only one who can do this!"); he spends the moons with different werewolf packs, supposedly to talk them out of joining Voldemort, although Sirius wouldn’t know how successful Remus is at that ("You know we’re not supposed to talk about the missions, Pads, so can we please just enjoy dinner for once?"). There’s not much Sirius actually knows these days, frankly, although he is yet to figure out if it’s clarity he’s really yearning for, or full oblivion.
To be honest, and for the first time in a while, he has no idea what he wants. He wants Remus to never leave again ("I can’t make those promises, Sirius, please drop it!"). He wants Remus to never come back ("It’s like you don’t even want me here, anyway"). He wants to forget they ever met ("Moony, before you I’ve never been seen at all and your eyes are terrifying and I hate you and I’m drunk and will marry you someday and it’ll be so unforgivable you will finally hate me back"). He wants Remus to crack his chest open and build them a new cathedral, from scratch, an empty thing for them to fill, them alone, nothing else. He wants Remus to eat him alive ("The things your mouth does, Remus, I swear–"). He wants to eat Remus alive. He wants Remus. He wants Remus. He wants Remus’ absence to stop feeling like an immovable dagger. He wants his silences to stop widening this chasm between them. He wants to learn how to stop being silent again. He wants to be able to shut the fuck up. He wants to stop hurting.
He's so done with wanting things.
The sound of someone apparating snaps him out of his reveries. He turns quickly, an instinct by now, heart pounding with a mix of relief and dread, only to see Remus stumbling into the room, his face pale but with smeared crimson all over, his arms and torso revealing deep, bleeding gashes, and his amber eyes so, so tired.
(In that millisecond before reaching for him, Sirius thinks, and he remembers that: There you are, love. I miss you. You are the most beautiful thing in this world, stained and bruised as you are now.)
"Remus," he breathes, rushing forward to catch him before he collapses, only to see him flinching at the touch, eyes looking back at him with something akin to... guilt? "I’m sorry, Padfoot," Remus croaks, voice barely audible. "I’m so sorry," and Sirius just guides him to the sofa, hands trembling as he assesses the injuries. "Oh, love," he says softly, grabbing a clean towel and some healing potions he's been stocking up from his brewing sessions with Lily from a nearby cabinet. "Let’s take care of you."
(Sirius wants, and wants, and wants. He feels feverish, ravenous, vindictive. He wants – crusades, and revenge, and burning churches. He wants heresy and murder. Big teeth and sharp claws. He wants Moony fucking safe, for once.)
After helping Remus with some of the Blood-Replenishing potion, Sirius cleans the wounds quietly, only muttering, softly, some basic healing spells for his broken ribs and the yet again dislocated shoulder. Remus’ body is tense, and the silence that stretches, and stretches, and stretches between them feels heavier than usual, more loaded, more dangerous. Remus is the first to break it, murmuring a soft "I don’t deserve this," as the tears mingle with the blood on his cheeks. And then, softer still: "I don’t deserve you."
"Shut it, Moony," Sirius replies, feeling himself trembling, and opening his mouth to say something else, anything, only to close it again for good measure. It has been a long time since words were easy between them. An even longer time since Remus has been like this – open, raw. Real. It's not supposed to break Sirius’ heart. It does anyway.
Remus just shakes his head, eyes a little too wide, tone a little too hysterical. "I feel like I’m ruining everything. I feel like I’ve already ruined so much, Pads." Sirius pauses then, hands stilling over a particularly nasty cut. "Vulnera Sanentur." He looks up, meeting Remus’ anguished gaze. "No one is ruining anything, Rem. You need to rest. You need to heal. Tomorrow we can talk about this, yeah? I miss talking to you, Moony. I miss you."
Remus’ shoulders just shake with a silent sob. "I’m scared," he admits, not really answering Sirius’ plea. "I’m scared of losing you, of losing myself. Of what I might become. I’m scared of this fucking war. I’m scared for Lily, and James, and Harry, Pads, and–"
"We’re all scared, Remus," Sirius cuts, a bit more harshly than he intends. "Vulnera Sanentur."
Remus shoots his eyes down, fumbling with his bloodied hands.
"Moony?" Sirius tries, a kinder tone, lifting his face with his free hand. "We’re all scared. But we have each other. That’s how we win the war, right? You told me that. We’re supposed to be in this together. You and me. Prongs and Evans too. But us, Moony, alright? And you…" he stops rambling and tries instead to gather some of his rusty Gryffindor courage. "And you keep shutting me out. How are we supposed to survive this war if we can’t trust each other?"
Remus’ face crumples as tears flow freely now, and Sirius knows the words hit him somewhere deeper than they were supposed to. He does nothing about it but wait for Remus’ reply. "I’m sorry," he eventually repeats, voice breaking, but not denying it. Never denying it. "I’m so sorry."
Sirius’ own eyes burn with unshed tears. Keep yourself together, Black, he thinks, grimly. "Vulnera Sanentur. There, Moons. All set." He wraps his arms around Remus, pulling him close, despite the blood. The silence... the silence keeps stretching, thickening the air in the room.
Eventually, act of courage: "Please, Moony," and Sirius isn't sure he knows what he's begging for, but Remus clings to him, then, so perhaps they're both imploring for the same things. It still takes Remus a moment to say anything, of course. Sirius senses him gathering his own bravery. "I want our trust back, Sirius. I do. But every time I come home it’s like I’m not… whole, anymore. I keep losing bits and pieces of who I am. I keep thinking that some of those were too important, and I lost them anyway. I don’t recognize myself most of the times, Pads, and I’m afraid that one day there won’t be anything left for you to recognize as well. And, anyway, how can you trust something you can’t recognize?"
And, well, Sirius’ heart positively shatters at the rawness in Remus’ voice, so he resolves to tighten his grip, as if by holding him close, he could somehow show him what his words fail to express. Sirius wants, and wants, and wants. He wants to scream: Why can’t you let me find those missing pieces? We drew maps together! We can find anything we want! We just have to keep looking! He wants to scream: Why do you leave if it tears you apart? He wants to scream until he starts seeing spots, he wants to spit in Remus’ face, he wants to lick the stubborn blood under his eyelid.
"I recognize you, Remus," he says, instead.
"No, you don’t. Not anymore you don’t."
Sirius has to scoff at that. "Why would you say that?"
"Because –"
“You know what, it doesn’t matter. Remus. Piece by piece, lost or found, wounded and bloodied, I recognize you. There is so much left of you – so much of you right here to... to care for, sweetheart. I just… I need you to talk to me. No more secrets, Moony, no more silences. I will… I will accept those, too, and in the dark and ignorance I will still recognize you. But…But that’s the catch: I shouldn’t need to. I shouldn’t need to, right, Remus? So will you please? Please let me in?"
"And if you hate what you find?"
There is nothing about you I could ever hate, Sirius thinks, fervently. "There is nothing about you I could ever hate."
Pause. "Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. Can we do that?"
"You will tell me, then? What you’ve been up to, those missions Dumbledore keeps sending you off to? The fucking blood on your hands all the time, Moons, I–"
"Yes, Padfoot. I will tell you everything," and Sirius has been at war for long enough to recognize a white flag. "Alright. So. Tea?" he tries.
"Tea."
Sirius charms the record player for them – she walks through the stars, with the past Saturn and Mars, who knows how she feels with the moon on her heel… –, and in this one last act of communion, two beaten disciples sharing blood and body, too tired to stay up for supper, but too restless not to touch, and grab, and bite, they fall asleep in each other’s arms. He remembers that.
It goes like this: Sirius Black falls in love with Remus Lupin. Inevitably, foreseeably. He loves him, torn or whole. He loves him, a carnal thing, a spiritual thing. He loves him, like a dog, a man starved, a pilgrim, a devotee. He loves him, stains and bruises. The blood on his hands, the blood on his mouth. He loves him, ferociously. With intent. With malice, too. He loves him so much it would destroy him. He loves him so much it feels like a war.
The next morning, Sirius wakes up alone.
He never sees Remus again – and for that, he supposes he could blame the war.
He’s just not sure which one.
☾ ✹ ☽
Despite popular belief, Sirius Black hates chaos. Absolutely despises it, and some of it has to do with his upbringing: even if he was a mess himself, he couldn’t ever just – be messy. At Hogwarts, he would fold his socks neatly. His tie was always impeccable. His unruly hair was so by deliberate choice and styling. He liked order, and, as time passed, he began to need it, too. Things would have to be in their rightful place, drawers organized, house cleaned, hands scrubbed. If he was to be stained, he would be so on occasion, and always in secret. If he was to be a mess, that was his problem and his alone. No witnesses. No one at all to take a closer look at him. Assess the damage. Attempt to fix it.
Which is why it's safe to say that Sirius Black is having a bit of a moment right now, as he finds himself locked inside this small, unused room at the end of the corridor of his ward, surrounded by all sorts of medical instruments scattered around the floor. Okay, so, assessing the damage. He can do that. He can do that. His breathing is harsh and uneven, which, alright – he's trying really hard not to not lose his damn mind. Suffice to say Sirius is – what? Overwhelmed? Speechless? Fucking pissed off? Everything everywhere all at once? He thinks, a little dazed, of the large dog in his dreams. He begs, silently, bitterly, for the stupid hound to just, for once, point him towards – something. Somewhere. Away-from-Here. He needs to... He fucking needs to – to move, or something. Yes, he needs to move. Or else. Or else.
He's also distantly aware that the room had been filled with medical instruments and rare potions neatly arranged on shelves and tables. Some of the shelves he’s sure he assembled himself. Sirius Black, orderly healer. But Sirius Black, mad as a hatter, barely registers them once he gets in. His vision is clouded by a bloodshot haze of anguish and pure rage, frankly, so give the man a fucking break, because how dare he, how dare he–
There's a gutural cry, an actual growl, a sound essentially animalistic leaving his body as he grabs a rack of vials and hurls it against the wall. The glass shatters, as glass does, the potions inside sizzling and hissing as they hit the floor, their contents mixing into a colorful, mocking mess. There it is again – Sirius Black, witches and wizards! The mess of a man himself!, and since the fit is very much not over, he kicks over a cabinet, sending an array of enchanted bandages and medical tools across the room, and it still isn't enough. Everything is moving too fast, and not moving all at, and Sirius feels petrified, but also restless, so, well. He goes for the wall, a less than methodical punch. Not a brilliant approach, since he needs his hands to do his job. To perform healing spells on his patients. To perform healing spells on the love of his life (another punch) who is very much alive (another one) and very much not missing which means–
Which means–
“Healer Sirius?”
Sirius tries to ease his breathing as he stares at his bloody knuckles. Tries recalling his Mind Healer’s stupid advices: Think of five things you can smell; four things you can touch; three ways you want break Remus Lupin bloody neck; two things Remus Lupin c–
“Healer Sirius, could you open the door, please?”
“One moment, Healer Smethwyck,” and, frankly, Sirius should win some kind of award for managing to string a whole sentence together, since his chest keeps tightening further, breaths coming in short, painful gasps, something he hasn't experienced in quite a bit. Somehow, impossibly, Smethwyck’s presence ends up... sort of grounding him, in a way. He feels a glimmer of control returning, and tries to focus on the shattered remnants of his outburst. Assessing the damage, here we go again: five broken vials, four wrecked books (great job, Sirius, really), three ripped packs of enchanted bandages. His wand, thrown across the room. Two heartbeats, his and Padfoot’s, who had been dying to make an appearance because of course, of fucking course, he couldn’t perform a genuine attempt at fully hating Remus: a part of him, dog or not, would always want the bastard. There is no way around it. Sirius, obviously, avoids to think beyond that, but isn't naïve enough to pretend not to want.
That wanting had found its temple within his very bones a long, long time ago; it isn't going anywhere, not really.
Not that it matters one bit.
(He's actually, really, really so done with wanting things.)
Back there, he thought for a moment that he was going to kill Remus Lupin. If whatever the hell had left him like that (literally, what the fuck left him like that? Who the fuck left him like that? Where were they? Where the fuck were t–) couldn’t kill him, Sirius would. Sirius would. In fact, Sirius kind of felt like he had to, because, for months, he mourned Remus. He mourned him even before he was presumed dead. He mourned him with a conviction that would, sometimes, scare the living shit out of him, the fleeting thought of Remus still being out there leaving Sirius to feel, too, like a traitor. A coward, for not doing more, for not scouring every inch of the earth to find him, to bring him home. A coward, for not doing enough.
For all his ferocity and determination, the weight of defeat settled in much sooner than Sirius ever expected, and at those times he was left merely with the shame of that realization, and yet. Impossibly, that sort of thought was always short-lived, though, because at the same time Sirius simply couldn’t bring himself to believe Remus to be alive. Even when his restlessness got too much to bear, the idea of a world in which Remus was out there, living and breathing, but away from him felt too– mind-boggling, too– out of place. Admittedly, he had to come up with a plausible explanation. One: someone broke into their flat and kidnapped him. Two: Moo– Remus left to buy some milk for their morning tea and some Death Eater attacked him. Three: Remus was cheating on him and finally decided he had enough of his drama and got himself a cute Muggle lad with no mommy issues and then the cute Muggle lad with no mommy issues turned out to be a serial killer and threw Remus into the Thames.
It's that – Remus wouldn’t just leave. Not after– not after them. Not after the mischief, and the friendship, the bloodshed. Not after the. Not after the loss. Not before their fucking conversation postponed for the morning after. Not before… not before not before not before notbeforenotbef–
Either way
Sirius mourned.
He drank himself stupid – with James, a couple of times, and then alone, and then with whoever would offer that kindness. He slept around – with James, once, and then with whoever else would present themselves as a viable option (living and breathing, and very much not vanished into thin air without so much as a fucking note). He organized every single drawer in their flat. Remus’ books. Remus’ tattered shirts. Remus’ muggle polaroids. Remus’ cooking recipes. Remus’ underwear. He tried separating Remus’ belongings from his own and, because he couldn’t tell them apart, he burned everything. Then sold the flat. Then bought it again for double the price. Then drank himself stupid again. And after all that, which didn’t last for all that long, he simply– stopped. He grieved James, and Lily, and Harry, and Peter, to an extent, and his brother, before anyone else, and himself, whenever possible, and after every shitty coping mechanism was dull and overdone, he grieved everyone properly. Talked about them to his Mind Healer. Wrote them goodbye letters. Paid the respects he had to, cried about it, took his potions, went on walks. Journaled about it, too.
Things were more complicated with Remus, because of course they fucking were.
War has a way of distorting everything. It doesn’t take much for one to come to terms with that. It does take a little more to understand the extent of the blurs and smudges, because one simply gets used to them. The carnage, the hunger, the terror. Before the war, Sirius couldn’t stand even the sight of blood: how deep the red, how metallic the shine. He stopped playing Quidditch after the first time he got hit by a bludger, his nose broken and bleeding all over his uniform. Even visiting Remus at the infirmary was dreadful, an effort Sirius wouldn’t have made for any other Marauder (something James constantly reminded him of, ever since James got hit by a much nastier bludger and spent two weeks in the Hospital Wing with nothing but a couple of enchanted “get better” pieces of parchment from Sirius – a courtesy, really). After the war, blood felt– homely, almost. It opposed absence. It opposed doubt. Blood was certainty, finality, something definitive, however awful. A bloodied body meant something. Blood, but no body, meant something. Blood, in and of itself, meant something. Sirius bled a lot – from curses, sure, but from loss, mostly. After his little brother, he felt like a gushing wound. After James, he was overflowing, completely sure he would choke on his own blood at any moment.
With Remus… there was no exit wound. That was the problem. He was a confined blasting curse, he was a fucking bullet, he was something, alright, lethal, for sure, something Sirius didn’t know how to stop carrying around. For all his Healer training, he still had to learn how to reach out and just – extract. Stop the internal bleeding. Make it pour. Stitch it after. Instead, and because he had no idea what to do with all of that,
Sirius stopped.
And that felt horrible, too.
He knew it was contradictory, at best, how he kept swaying between accepting Remus’ death too easily yet mourning him too quickly, not to mention the persistent part of himself that couldn't imagine a world that kept turning without Remus in it, and how all of these perceptions led to the same flammable conclusion: dead or alive, he hadn't done enough, and maybe he hadn’t done enough because maybe he hadn’t loved enough.
The thing was… Sirius was just so sure he got it right. The loving, that is. It felt right, even if overwhelming, to look at Remus and think: That’s it. Even if he never outright said it to him, not really, because their love wasn’t like that, not really, Sirius was sure, and at such a time, where no one was sure of anything, that certainty alone felt more absolute. Undeniable. Dogmatic. On his worse days, he figured the ugly mirror was following him around like a shadow; that any moment he turned around he’d be faced with everything else undeniable: his deformities, his stains. His name, and what it carried. A reverent reminder: You’re Sirius Black. you are Sirius Black. you are Sirius Black.
It goes like this: Sirius Black falls in love with Remus Lupin. He lets that love rot and die inside him: bullet or wound, Sirius is not certain. He’s just waiting to see who’s the killer and who’s the victim. Either way, they both die at the end. That’s war for you - it takes. it takes. it takes.
So, Remus. Bullet or wound, he’s dying on a fucking bed on Sirius’ fucking ward. Instinctively, Sirius thinks he might kill him himself. Frustratingly, Sirius knows it’s way more likely for him to go into sepsis. Rationally, Sirius knows his mentor is standing outside the door waiting for him to come out, so come out he does.
“Healer Smethwyck, sir,” Sirius says, forcing his voice to sound unaffected, failing absurdly.
“Are you alright, Healer Black?” Smethwyck asks, gentleness laced with concern, for which Sirius should be appreciative, but is only resentful. He doesn't mean to, but instinctively flinches, as he feels the bitterness bubbling up inside him, again. “Let's see the patient, shall we? No recent wounds, you were saying?”
"Um, well, none we haven’t already attended to, and, therefore, none that requires our immediate attention. Physical, at least," Smethwyck quickly adds.
“So, Re– the patient calls my name and that’s the only plausible reason I am to be here, sir? I'm no mind Healer, Smethwyck, nor do I intend to become one now.”
“We need you for both medical reasons and, well, one might say… Legal reasons? Political? I'm sure we can both stop pretending you don't know who that person is.”
“Sir, I can assure you, I have no idea who that person is,” Sirius cuts in venomously, fully meaning it.
“Everyone knows who that person is.” Smethwyck returns, not unkindly. “And he’s calling for you. He could have crucial information on– I mean, anything, really. You know Dumbl–
“Seriously?!”
“Dumbledore says,” Smethwyck continues, pointedly ignoring him, “that the war is never truly over. There is a lot of work to be done, Healer Sirius, and in many ways trickier than fighting and casting curses. There are movements that can’t be ignored, even if subtle.”
“And I suppose a semi-mute insane werewolf will let us in on the subtle movements of the dark forces, sir?”
“Don't be cruel, Sirius.”
“Don't be cruel, Healer Smethwyck. Send the patient to a mind Healer.
“…I will. Obviously, I will. But we need you to at least attempt to talk to him. Just the once. For all we know, he might not even acknowledge where he is or who we are.”
Sirius takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. Admits defeat, screams internally, and fights the urge to go back inside, effectively break his hand, and take a fucking leave for two months. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to see him again. Don't make me go inside, he wants to beg. What if he knows who we are? What if he knows who I am? What then?, he wants to ask. He's not sure if he has it in him to put those words out there. He's not sure if he has it in him do say anything at all, so he settles on the worst he could muster: “…Okay.”
“Okay?” Smethwyck's eyes soften, then, relief washing over his features.
Sirius just nods, the weight of the moment very much still pressing down on him. “Yeah, alright. One conversation. But if he remains unstable, we’ll send him to the 49. I mean it.”
☾ ✹ ☽
“Hello there. Can I come closer?”
(They never end up sending him to the 49. It would be too easy. It would be too hard, Sirius’ mind supplies.)
Sirius stands at the doorway, the sight of Remus lying motionless on the bed sending a shiver down his spine. The room... is oddly quiet, with only the soft hum of magical equipment filling the uneasy silence. And as for Remus, well... Remus barely registers Sirius’ voice. It makes Sirius itchy, because Remus had always looked at him. He was quiet, yes, but never distracted. Even when he had begun to distance himself, his eyes had remained there, ever-present, never looking away, and anchoring Sirius until the very last time they locked gazes. It feels wrong, now, looking at those eyes and not seeing those eyes perceiving him. Seeing him. Sirius tries his best to ignore the pang in his chest.
He, of course, fails. He's certain he is about to fucking pass out, actually, when he hears behind them the Minister clearing her throat, which, okay, then. “Remus?
Nothing. “Remus? Rem– for fucks sake” he mutters, fighting back resignation. He could try something else.
He could. But he won't. Honestly, he is not going to go there. Do that. He is most certainly not going to do that. He is Sirius Black, First Class Order of Merlin, and he is not some lovesick fool who will simply go and do that. He is one hundred percent not going t–, oh, fuck it. “Moony? Moons? Can you hear me?”
And that, because of course, that. That gets Remus’ eyes up, and suddenly it's them, just the two of them, there. For a fleeting moment, there's recognition. For a fleeting moment, there's confirmation. For a fleeting moment, the amber eyes that had always seen through Sirius, down to the very core of his being, albeit still clouded, distant, now have a distinct spark of something, soft, yes, but undeniably there. And, oh, Sirius wants to reach out and stick his fingers inside those eyes and chew on them and have them inside him so that he can be seen again in some way he didn’t realize he was missing. Sirius wants to burn the Hospital down. Sirius wants to grab Remus by the throat and rip it apart. Sirius wants Padfoot’s heartbeat to slow the fuck down. Sirius wants Sirius’ heartbeat to slow the fuck down. Sirius wants to hold Remus’ heart between his teeth. Sirius wants to bite.
The moment is gone before Sirius stops wanting. He drops his voice even lower, barely a whisper now, but loud enough for Remus to hear him. “Hello, Moons. Do you know where you are?”
“… Sirius?”
“… Uh, yeah, Moony, it’s me. Do you know where you are?”
“Sirius. Sirius.”
Which, honestly, is not good. It's not... terrible, and does weird things to his heart, having his name on Remus’ lips again, but it's not good. He sighs, turning to the Minister and the two Aurors. “Has he said anything else at all?”
“Not really, Mr. Black, not ever since we… encountered him,” Millicent replies, cautiously, and, yes, that reminds him. “About that, Minister. How exactly did you… encounter him, as you put it? Like, literally, how did you, because Remus Lupin has been missing for years and I find it hard to believe your Aurors have nothing to do with the current state of this patient” Sirius sneers, unable to tame the growing anger in his chest or control the rising intensity of his voice.
“Mr. Black, I can assure you no Auror laid a finger on the werew–”
“He has a fucking name–”
“Which I’m sure matters a great deal to you” the Minister cuts, voice suddenly much sharper, “but is not the pressing issue for everyone else. For all we know he could be a spy, or could have been, at least, before whoever decided they had enough of h–”
“Remus is not a spy,” Sirius all but snarls.
“We’ll leave it to the Aurors to determine that.”
“Oh, you mean your little minions who refer to my patients as beasts? Brilliant, Minister. Why not go ahead and put Bartemius on the task, too? In no time, we'll have Remus thrown into Azkaban for the crime of getting beaten up!”
“...No such thing will happen, Mr. Black, but we will have to bring your friend–”
“Not my friend–”
“He will need to be brought in for questioning about his disappearance, especially given the timing and his whereabouts over the past few years. He might have important information, Mr. Black, and I refuse to leave any stone unturned for the sake of one person’s emotional comfort. There’s too much at stake, and besides–”
“Oh, Minister, no one is under the impression you’d take anyone’s emotional comfort into consideration. You didn’t during the war, and you sure as hell won’t start now.”
“Whatever your qualms with the Ministry, Mr. Black, I can assure you this is neither the time nor place to address them. We will need to cooperate. You will heal Remus Lupin. You will nurse him back to health. And you will call the Ministry once he utters a word other than your name. Are we clear?”
“Minister,” Smethwyck interjects suddenly, “no one orders our Healers around here. We are all fully aware of our duties, and ours are, above all, towards the patients. Healer Black will do everything he can. But perhaps it’ll do everyone a great deal of good if you leave now. All of you.”
“I will, in a moment,” the Minister replies easily. “But before I go, I have to ask. You see, Mr. Black, there were... trying circumstances in which we found your friend.”
“Not my friend,” Sirius says again, instinctively.
“Of course. Anyw–”
“What circumstances?” he cuts, his brain catching up to the conversation. The Minister, for the first time, looks… apprehensive. “Mr. Black. Are you aware of the whereabouts of your cousin?”
At that, Sirius barks a sardonic laugh. “Minister, everyone and their sister is my cousin. You will need to be more specific.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Black. Bellatrix Lestrange, I mean. Were you, to this day, aware of her whereabouts?”
Sirius Black can’t catch a fucking break, apparently, because what the actual fuck. “… Are you kidding me right now?”
“I’m afraid I’m not, Mr. Black. Mr. Lupin here was found… at her hands, I’m afraid. She was with… others. From before. Other Death Eaters, as the Aurors who managed to capture them confirmed.”
Sirius feels an angry grip tighten around his heart. “They did this to him? The Death Eaters… they did this to Remus?”
“One can only assume. That’s why your help is essential, too. They refuse to speak. They’re at Azkaban, of course, waiting for a tr–”
“Who’s they?”
“Mr. Black?”
“You mentioned my batshit crazy cousin. Who else was there?”
“That’s confidential, Mr. Black, as I’m sure you can under–”
“Minister. Who.was.there.”
“… Very well, Mr. Black. I won’t have to remind you how crucial is it that this conversation won’t leave this room. There are some… issues at stake here. You’ll understand.”
Sirius remains quiet, his gaze piercing through the Minister. He braces himself. He won't like this, of course. The pause stretches indefinitely, and Sirius is about to rip the Minister's head off, and then:
“What do you know about Bartemius Crouch Junior?”
Notes:
titled after MCR's Demolition Lovers - https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/16Fp67kTFhH0XK5Cl6Oz7r?si=ac0f6ab8d4af4553
Chapter 3: Shake the Disease
Summary:
It’s the fear that makes him do it, in the end.
tws: depictions of violence
take care of yourselves ❤️
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Turns out Sirius does not know a great deal about Bartemius Crouch Junior.
Here's what he does know: he was a friend of his brother, which, to be fair, couldn’t exactly be qualified as good news. He was sorted into Slytherin – again, and even with Sirius actively trying to let go of his somewhat childish prejudices, not really great sign. He knows that he – Barty, as his brother would call him – is the only child of Bartemius Crouch Senior who, despite being a pureblood like themselves, had never received an invitation for so much as a Yule party hosted by the Blacks (and that is saying a lot); so much so that on more than one occasion did Sirius get the clear impression that his father most likely disliked Crouch more than he did one Fleamont Potter (and that is saying a lot).
“Barty Crouch Senior,” Orion had said once, voice dripping with disdain, heavy glass of scotch in hand, “is nothing more than a sycophant. That man will lick the Minister’s boots for the promise of becoming Minister himself, and when it suits him, will attempt to slither amongst the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He has no true loyalty, no spine, nothing but a hunger for his own advancement. It’s shameful. A man who would turn his back on his own blood, his own family… now that’s a disgrace if I have ever seen one. I hope the kid doesn’t follow his footsteps, although, if his sorting is anything to go by, you won’t need to worry” he finished, speaking towards Sirius’ brother then.
“Oh, trust me, father, Barty is nothing like Mr. Crouch.”
“Very well. He seemed like a fine young man. You should bring him around more often. And the Rosier kid, too. See, Sirius, one can, in fact, go to school and not make friends with the wrong sort.”
By then, Sirius knew better. “Yes, father.” He had mumbled, silently begging to be excused to his bedroom.
Now, Barty hung around for years. In retrospect, Sirius is actually a bit taken aback with how little he knows about someone who’d spend almost every holiday wandering around his house. Sure, the kid didn’t talk much. Not around Sirius, anyway, although he always suspected Barty was the kind of person who’d have lots of things to say when comfortable around other people. Not all of them good. Not really.
So, the kid used to stay with them in Grimmauld Place.
Grimmauld Place... is fucking huge. There are many things to be said about the house, sure, but its size had always overwhelmed Sirius. It was this daunting labyrinth, all endlessly stretched corridors, vast halls, and imposing rooms. It was always cold, too, whether from the ancient marble or the embedded cruelty within its walls, and always so, so very lonely, no matter how many people walked through its spaces.
As for Sirius, he was never allowed to bring any friends, and he never once even considered asking. It's not like he wanted them to be there, anyway, but the solitude of that house felt… suffocating, at times. His brother had had friends around, though, and if they were already drifting apart even before Hogwarts, those friends were the final touch to their relationship's demise.
Which couldn’t be helped.
Sirius wanted to. But, in the end, couldn’t bring himself to mend it. Them.
You see, when you're a Black, you can't choose the bullshit you hear at the dinner table. Sometimes, you can't stop yourself from repeating said bullshit to avoid reprimands from your parents, to avoid looking at them and feeling their irrefutable disappointment stinging every particle of who you are. You can't control the House you get sorted into (if you could, Sirius mused, things might have been very different, in a way that made him, shamefully, sometimes yearn for). And while you can never truly walk away from your name, you can, given the opportunity, choose to surround yourself with people who don't give a toss about it, or about the bullshit you've been supposedly forced to repeat. So when Barty and– Evan, was it? started coming around, it became crystal clear that his brother had chosen a side. Even before they knew there were sides to choose, sides had been chosen. Choices, choices. Blood purity or common sense. Foes or friends. Green or red. Black or – whatever its opposite was.
(Sirius is still trying to figure that one out.)
As a kid, Sirius hated the lot of them and, embarrassingly, not only (nor mostly) for the right reasons. He hated how close they all seemed to be, how very friendly his brother managed to look around them. Sirius hated how there was love in there, too, and how unfair it was that, unlike his brother, he was never granted the comfort of finding love somewhere he was allowed to look for it. He was intolerably jealous, and for that, he hated his brother more than the rest of the bunch, because that’s not how things were meant to go. No, because Sirius was the one who was supposed to come back home and say: “Let me show you what you’re missing”. To come home and, perhaps, leave unsaid: “Please be jealous of me please look up to me please look at me at all can’t you see me shine see how I shine I’m impossibly blinding, please, R–”
When his little brother came back from his first couple months at Hogwarts, he didn’t need to say anything at all. Sirius was looking. Sirius was always looking. Sirius suspected his brother never really understood how much Sirius looked. He suspected his brother probably thought, for his entire life, that, if anything, Sirius was looking down on him.
Anyway, he came back home from his first time at Hogwarts, with the same vibrancy Sirius couldn’t contain while talking about his friends, and Sirius despised the fact that his brother had found that same camaraderie, effortless, natural, in the likes of… Barty and Evan.
At least he had half a mind not to bring bloody Snivellus to their house.
It wasn't always like that, of course. They were close, before. Before Hogwarts, Sirius would sneak into his brother’s room and spend endless nights plotting imaginary escapes to far-off places (“if Mother forces me into those cashmere robes again I will ask Kreacher to pack my things and take me to some remote cave” “why the hell would you bring Kreacher?” “why the hell not?” “and why the hell a cave?” “you know, I’m not quite sure about that one. There’s this place I dream of every now and then–” “you have dreams too?!” “Sirius, everyone has dreams” “and can I come along?” “the only way I’m leaving is with you coming with me”), or laughing at their cousins (“have you seen Bella’s hair?! Looked like a rat’s nest” “yes where the rats threw a party and invited the whole neighborhood” “you heard Andy, she was styyyyling it for the Lestrange boy” “I don’t know what that was and it definitely was not styling it”), or plotting harmless pranks (“Are you sure Cissy won't hex us if we turn her hair purple?” “She'll never know it was us. Plus, it suits her better!”).
When the other Slytherin kids began tagging along, Sirius understood the silent agreement of just. Not meddling. Standing behind. Leaving them be.
But the thing is. The thing is.
Grimmauld Place is fucking huge, and fucking cold, and fucking lonely. And so, whenever Sirius had nothing better to do (which was not at all that often, what with planning pranks for the school year with his own friends, thank you very much, or becoming an Animagus, or writing to James, or panicking for weeks because of how pretty Remus was like what the fuck was up with th– the usual, really), Sirius would, well. Go to his brother bedroom. Stand behind the door. Not to meddle. Not to interfere. Not to look at him. But listening all the same.
It was a childish habit. There’s no other way of putting it. More so than disrespectful or uncouth, it was juvenile. Petulant. But once he started, he simply couldn’t stop. For the most part, the conversations were… harmless, actually. Very much like the ones he held with James, or Peter, or Remus. They complained about McGonagall (which, okay, rude) and Binns (very valid), helped each other with homework, and bickered amicably. That’s how Sirius came to know, for instance, that Barty Crouch Junior was a downright swot: not just because of his grades (impressive, alright, Sirius would have to give it to him), but also because of how he talked about whichever subject they were all studying.
He reminded Sirius, impossibly, of Remus: the wits, the sarcasm, the cunning maneuvers. The damned freckles. How, around his brother and the Evan kid, he remained quiet, unassuming, like he was afraid of taking up too much space. Only speaking up for a witty remark, but always with a bite somewhere. He was pretty, too, from what Sirius remembered.
So, all things considered, no. Sirius does not know much about Barty Crouch Junior.
For Barty Crouch Junior’s sake, it should have remained like that.
Because, you see, now Sirius knows a little too much about him. He’s aware that there’s a story that needs to be told, context that must necessarily be added. He’s aware that he will need to– focus, listen, deliberate, choose the right course of action. But, right now, he’s physically incapable of doing anything but remaining still, to avoid grabbing his wand, and making his way to Azkaban.
To skin pretty-faced Barty Crouch Junior alive, that is, and of course that is not something Sirius can let on, not without jeopardizing his already fragile reputation and so, instead, he answers, “Not much, Minister. What did he do to my– erm, to my patient here?”
“We should wait for Dumbledore to arrive. We sent an owl already, and it would be best not to repeat this conversation too much, Minister,” one of the Aurors interjects, a palpable tension in his tone.
“Dumbledore can retrieve our memories afterwards,” Sirius snaps back immediately. “Absolutely not. I won't wait a single second more.”
“I agree, Mr. Black,” the Minister says, nodding solemnly. “Although this is a complicated topic. Should we move rooms, or at the very least go outside?” Sirius seemingly snaps back to reality at the suggestion. He casts a cautious gaze at Remus’ bed, and resists the urge to touch his tousled hair or graze his fingers across the bridge of his nose – what the fuck, Black –, turning instead back to the Minister. “Of course. My office,” he says, leading the way.
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius is, in fact, going to skin pretty-faced Barty Crouch Junior alive.
Sirius is going to drag the smug bastard into some deep, hidden cell in Azkaban, and take his time carving Remus’ name into his flesh, because why the hell not, right? Sirius is going to break every bone in Barty Crouch Junior’s body, while making him count by 7. Sirius is going to make his insides rot with some sort of potion of his own creation. Sirius is going t–
“Given the type of damage to the Mind, I would say the Cruciatus Curse was used extensively. For well over a year, although it couldn’t have been the only one. He wouldn't have survived it for so long otherwise. Some lesions suggest the Transmogrifian Torture, but they likely alternated between these and less severe curses to keep the patient alive.”
Well. Maybe the vengeful murder would have to wait. Because Sirius is going to be sick. Not that anyone is actually paying attention to him, which is for the best, really. “Well, Healer Smethwyck, we already retrieved the attackers’ wands and we checked for the last spell performed. The Cruciatus Curse, indeed,” the Minister confirms.
Smethwyck frowns. “So they weren’t performing it when you caught them, Minister?”
“Not… not exactly”, the Minister begins. “You see, some Aurors had been tracking a surge in Death Eater activity in the Scottish Highlands–”
“Death Eaters, Minister? After all this time? But the war–”
“…Is never really over, Healer Smethwyck. We have managed to capture most of them for the past years. But we are dealing with fanatics, and some of them seem to be under the impression that–”
“Minister", Sirius cuts, impatiently, because he does not give a flying fuck about everything that's being discussed that is not Remus. "What the fuck happened to my patient?”
It's one of the Aurors who speaks up instead. “We received a tip-off about an abandoned castle that was suspected to be a hideout, and sure enough, after some tracking spells, we located it, despite the intricate wards.”
Sirius tenses, but remains quiet.
“The raid took place last night,” Bagnold proceeds, “and once inside, we found evidence of dark magic and, well, some traces of blood, which led us to this hidden… dungeon, of sorts. That’s where Mr. Lupin was found, ... barely alive.”
Sirius is still quiet. Oh so quiet. All clenched fists and tight jaw. Merlin, he is going to chew Barty Crouch Junior’s freckles off his fucking nose.
“The Aurors split their forces. Some stayed behind to tend to Mr. Lupin, of course, performing some basic healing spells, while others tracked your cousin, Bellatrix, and Mr. Crouch Jr. The duel was nasty business. The Lestrange brothers, you know them, Apparated there, too. But we managed to capture them all.” The Minister pauses, letting the weight of her words sink in. “They’re now in Azkaban, as previously stated. Mr. Lupin was brought here immediately. Any later and he might not have survived. Now, Mr. Black. Please understand that we are sharing these details with you because of your past… membership in the Order of the Phoenix and your involvement in this case as, we hope, the Healer in charge. I cannot stress enough that confidentiality is of the utmost importance here.”
“You said… you said his magical vitals were strong,” Sirius says, turning to Smethwyck, forcing every word out of his mouth, and blatantly ignoring the Minister, because he really thinks he's going to be sick any moment now. “Did you–”
“I ran some diagnostic spells, Healer Black, and the magical core is almost intact; a beneficial side effect of his lycanthropy, I suspect, given the usually enhanced healing ability. The physical injuries are easy to deal with, too, albeit there will be some profound scarring. There are some concerns about his vision, but it’s his Mind we should be worried about.”
“So get him a Mind Healer!”
Surprisingly, it's the Minister’s turn to speak. “What do you know about Mind healing, Mr. Black?”
“What do you know about Mind healing, Minister?” Sirius mocks, unable to stop himself.
The Minister, for all her sharpness, is once again gracious enough to ignore his tone. “There are certain curses, certain… ailments that can only be treated through techniques like Legilimency and other mind-wandering spells. To heal a… well, a broken mind, to put it bluntly, one needs to… look around first, of course. But, you see, the effectiveness of these spells relies heavily on the recipient's… willingness to cooperate."
Sirius scowls. “What are you saying, Minister? Has anyone actually tried–”
“The Aurors attempted some of these spells on site to determine if Mr. Lupin was… ahem, to understand the full scenario, really. We needed to understand if he was captured, under which circumstances, or if he was collab–”
“Well, of course, Minister. The war really is never over. The man is bleeding out and beaten to death and you still have it in you to believe he was working with them?!”
“We all had it in us to believe some people were working with them. Some people we were right about. Some people we weren’t. All of us delt with the… outcomes of this war, Mr. Black. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.”
No, you fucking don’t, Sirius thinks, rancorously.
“Anyhow, Mr. Lupin showed significant resistance, making it nearly impossible to get any clear understanding of his condition or intentions.”
“Of course he did,” Sirius interrupts, again, voice crisp. “What the hell did you expect?”
The Minister just nods at this, actually acknowledging Sirius’ point. “That's why we believe you might be the key to his recovery. We could call a Mind Healer, Mr. Black, but Remus has been calling for you specifically, and his reaction to your presence just now suggests that he might be more… receptive to your help.”
“So, you think he'll, what, let me into his mind?”, which is fucking hilarious, because Remus never let him in before. He never let me in even when we recognized each other. What makes you think he would now. He never invited me in – just showed himself out.
“Worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”
☾ ✹ ☽
Orion Black teaches Sirius Legilimency when the kid is fourteen years old. It's a thoroughly planned affair, a very much agreed upon thing: Sirius is to join him in the drawing room every morning after breakfast. Meet me inside, Sirius. And he does.
Orion... Orion is a man of few words, and maybe that’s why he’d rather spend his time hearing other people’s. Not only their thoughts, no; Orion Black is also a practical man, and before anything he will try to attentively listen to whatever is spoken from the mouth. Only if he senses something – mistrust, hesitation, weakness – does he go for the mind. And he is bloody good at it, too. He has mastered it so no one could sense his presence. In fact, for all his grandeur, Orion Black can make himself utterly negligible. It usually takes him, at worst, seconds – little concentration, imperceptible eye contact – and then he just. Slides in. Hello, hello, welcome aboard. Make yourself at home, sir, yes, yes, welcome. The most oblivious of men don't feel so much as a discomfort upon his arrival, and it remains unclear if this is solely due to his exceptional skill (he is incredibly proficient, after all) or their lack of awareness (since, apparently, people don't really spend much time dwelling inside their own heads). Orion hates even the possibility of the latter: to him, there is nothing weaker than being unaware – of both your surroundings, and your insides. The Mind is a palace, his father, Arcturus, would say. No one’s worthy of its comfort but yourself, Orion.
The year is 1973 and Orion’s eldest son, Sirius, is sitting across from him.
It takes Orion less than a second to get in.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t really need to. The kid, for once, is also quiet. Their gazes meet. And then: the bedsheets, maroon. A pained, distanced howling. Death’s-head hawk moths, a panoply of chrysalises (?). A black hound speaking in riddles (??). Scarred skin, a bridge of a nose. “You can’t tell anyone, Sirius”. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”. “Can you keep this a secret, Sirius?”. “I would keep all of your secrets”. “Please don’t run off, Sirius”. “Kiss me, M–”
(Orion couldn't know that Walburga had taught Sirius Occlumency when the kid was thirteen years old. It was not a thoroughly planned affair, after all, nor an agreed upon thing. The year was 1973 and her eldest son was sitting across from her. Walburga needed a culprit for the broken family heirloom. Sirius needed time to figure out why the hell he wanted to kiss Moony’s lips, and Orion couldn't know that, either. Walburga knew where to look. Sirius learned how to hide. Walburga invited herself in. Sirius slammed the door in her face. And that was that.)
The year is 1973 and Orion’s eldest son, Sirius, is sitting across from him. It takes Sirius no more than ten seconds to block his father out. He remains quiet, but there’s defiance in his eyes, and listen. Orion Black is a man of few words. There is not much that can impress him, but his eldest just did. And he could say: Well done. And he could say: You made me proud. Or even: Who are they? More daring: Who is he? Instead, he just stands very still, the kid also eerily quiet. And then: “The mind is a palace, Sirius. I’m glad you get it.”
Boy does he get it.
“Now let me show you how to do this.”
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius Black performs Legilimency for the first time when he was twenty-one years old.
The year is 1980 and Remus Lupin is sitting across from him.
It takes Sirius a couple of seconds to get in and the thing is: he doesn’t mean to. Not without asking first. Not without any warning. He probably doesn't mean it at all. Definitely not on a Christmas Eve so little days after the full. Not with Remus looking like that: all dark circles and trembling hands and pronounced cheekbones and hung clothes. Merlin, the man can barely hold himself upright in the chair. He is malnourished, and exhausted, and moody. He is, even so, smiling up at Sirius while holding his fork with some roasted vegetables. He is the most beautiful creature Sirius has ever seen.
He is also a fucking liar and keeps brushing Sirius off.
Now, Remus and Sirius were not perfect. No, not really. They probably didn't do the whole relationship thing right. Remus and Sirius didn’t go on dates. Remus and Sirius didn’t go to the cinema. Remus and Sirius didn’t write love letters. Remus and Sirius didn’t do… what? Boyfriends? They didn’t do that. But. But. Remus and Sirius did trust. Remus and Sirius did honesty. Not always, and not with the best approach: Remus too hesitant to allow himself some dignity, Sirius too flippant to allow himself some grace. But they did try. After everything they went through, after that bloody prank, after joining a stupid war, they did try, which is why Sirius hates the realization that Remus and Sirius are becoming, instead: Remus. Sirius. Not like James and Lily. Or Marlene and Dorcas. Or Alice and Frank. Just Remus. Just Sirius. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black.
Sirius hates that. It sounds foreign without the conjunction. It sounds wrong without them, connected to each other: Remus-and-Sirius. Remus-and-Sirius. Remus-and-Sirius. See? That sounds pretty. Rhythmic. Cadenced. Remus and Sirius. Never one without the other. An addition to each other, two nouns put together to signify something else entirely. Remus is very different from Remus-and-Sirius. In Remus-and-Sirius, Remus is still Remus, of course, and Sirius is still Sirius. But there is elegance in that calculation, in adding Sirius to Remus or Remus to Sirius. The whole two negatives making a positive thing: Remus-plus-Sirius, Remus-times-Sirius
Except they are immeasurably more elegant that mathematics. Divide two negatives here and nothing positive ever comes up. It’s prettier, of course. More fragile, too.
And so– Legilimency. This is how their night goes:
Sirius asks something harmless about the full moon. Remus replies curtly, with some mild attempt at humor. Sirius crosses his arms, angrily. Remus copies the gesture, making a face. Sirius keeps his arms crossed, less angry. Remus imitates his expression, but frowns more deeply, in mockery. Sirius attempts to keep his composure. Remus pokes his ribs to tickle him. Sirius laughs. Remus smiles. Sirius apologizes. Remus doesn't. He just – keeps smiling, and it's tight. It's guarded. And it hurts, it hurts Sirius so much, because there was a time he thought Remus would share everything with him: his own secrets, the universe’s. To Sirius, Remus himself was an elegant equation, in the sense that, no matter the expressions, the equality would always be him. Friendship and trust equals Remus. Love and friendship equals Remus. Naps and mischief equals Remus. The war and survival equals Remus.
There was a time in which, unfairly, Sirius thought Remus would not only have, but would be, the answer to everything.
(In many ways, that remains true, and that is a fucking problem. But he doesn't go there.)
Gradually, Remus began to just shut him out, and that simply wouldn’t do. Because, you see, it wasn’t fair. Remus was supposed to be an answer. To be the answer. To be, at the very least, his answer. To be his constant. Over two years into it, the war made Remus nothing but silences and long stares and deep sighs and conundrums. A paradox. A mathematical problem, yet to be solved, not really seeking to. And Sirius, well. The easiest, simplest answer: he’s a Gryffindor. Sirius Black, curious mind. Sirius Black, never knowing when to leave well enough alone. Always chasing the fucking bone, always looking for a good place to bury it. Sirius Black, never paying attention to the mess he makes while digging the damn hole. Sirius Black, never noticing how angry the teeth, how drooled the ground. The complicated answer, infinitely less elegant than Remus’, or Remus himself: he loves that man who is a boy who is a kid who is a wolf who is a paradox who is a problem who is his constant and his answer and his bone and his everything. He has no recollection of ever being controlled about Remus Lupin. Remus Lupin makes him feral. Remus Lupin makes him stupid. Remus Lupin makes him mad. Remus Lupin makes him so mad he stopped feeling scared of going insane on account of his family. Black blood madness? Try loving Remus Lupin.
The year is 1980 and Remus Lupin, the boy bone wolf problem answer man he loves oh so much, is sitting across from him. Sirius has yet to promise him to recognize him forever, and on that night, Sirius fears he doesn’t, at all, not anymore.
It’s the fear that makes him do it, in the end.
(A common occurrence if he’s ever seen one.)
It takes Sirius a couple of seconds to get in. One moment Remus is smiling up at him, a dimmed spark in his eyes. The other Sirius is locking is eyes with Remus’, and, well.
When he practiced with Orion, he felt like he had to push his way into the mind. Orion never backed down without a fight. He was a true Black, after all. With Remus, there was no resistance, not immediately. Like his mind was never expecting it, for one, but also like Sirius’ presence, in whichever way it manifested, could never grant discomfort. The first few seconds, in fact, Sirius felt a strange pull, drawn into a whirlpool of thoughts, and memories, and the thing is. Remus is a focused person. The man loves clarity, knowledge, order. Which is why Sirius is pretty sure his thoughts and memories are clear as water, and probably would enlighten him, scratch his itch, if he actually bothered to look. But... But Sirius penetrates Remus mind, and it invites him in, and he feels so overwhelmed with how soothing, how warm, how welcoming it feels, like he’s living a memory of his own, like he’s not inside Remus’ head, not really, because it’s not Remus. Sirius. There’s a conjunction, there, an addition, there, an elegance, right there, Remus-and-Sirius, what’s-yours-is-mine, thank-you-so-much-for-letting-me-in-oh-sweetheart-i-missed-you-so-much-i-could-eat-you-alive.
He doesn't fully realize what he is doing, and in a blink of an eye Sirius is out. And that makes him angry. And his anger makes him feel like a child. And that makes him angrier. Because, when the hell did Remus learn Occlumency? Why did he? WhywhywhyWHYWh–
“Sirius?! What the fuck were you doing?!” Remus roars, eyes widened in a mixture of surprise, and hurt, and unmistakable rage.
Sirius... is shaken, and confused, and barely has it in him to stammer “I… I didn’t mean to. I just…”
“Why did you do it?!”
A beat. And he knows, he knows he shouldn’t. He does it anyway. “Why did you do it?”
“What?!”
“The Occlumency. Didn’t know you had it in you, Moony. Something to hide?” he snarls.
Remus’ tone is pained when he replies. “Yes, Sirius. I do. We all do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it.”
“What do you mean, Remus?!”
“I said forg–”
“Well, fuck you! Fuck you, Remus, okay? Forget it?! I’m always kept outside. Like a fucking dog! So maybe I should leave, right? I should, right, Remus?”
And, to his surprise, Remus simply answers: “Yes, Sirius. You should leave.”
“Merry fucking Christmas, then, you fucking idiot,” and he Apparates to James and Lily’s.
The year is 1980 and, on those last days before 1981, Sirius gets to hug James and Lily for the last time. Some months later, they go into hiding.
In the meantime, Sirius moves back to their flat. Remus welcomes him back, and they never talk about any of it. James, Lily. The fucked-up prophecy. The Legilimency. The Occlumency. They barely talk at all. They remain together, because the world was a scary place for two men boys kids in a war. But they exist separately. Remus. Sirius. Two negatives, not really ever getting the calculus right.
And isn’t that just so.
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius Black performs Legilimency for the second time when he is twenty-three years old.
The year is 1983 and Remus Lupin is laying on his bed.
Over two years after the war and Remus remains all silences and long and conundrums. He’s quiet, there, but not really. It reminds Sirius too much of before, and so. And so.
Remus looks up at him.
And it takes Sirius less than a second to get in.
Notes:
ok so!! how are we feeling?
not so good?
it gets better (?!) or does it!!anyhow
this was a tougher one to write because there’s just. so much angst lol. and i really felt the need to focus a bit more on the Black family dynamics and so, yup, we’re here.
wolfstar my babies they just… will get better ok. they will!! they just need to go through the nine circles of hell and make out in all of them (heaven is not fit to house a love like theirs etc!!)
some treats i can't stop thinking about for this chapter tho:
- sirius taking a bit longer to perform the legilimens spell the first time he does it but after the war being able to do it in less than a second just like orion 😭😭 was it his medical training? was it the dreadful curse of becoming your father?! who knows!
- sirius seeing the marauders in the slytherin skittles because tbf that’s just abt right!! they were all kids at one point!! they all had so much potential of growth and change and back then they really were just 11 year olds trying to get through exams 😭 fuck voldemort but also fuck dumbledore ya know
- the parallel between remus/barty which came to me one night before falling asleep and after yapping abt it for hours to my youngest sibling i cannot let that one go (will be revisited!)
also the chapter is named after one of my fav songs by depeche mode. a bop!thank you for sticking around <3 see you soon
L x
Chapter 4: What to Do When the Earth Swallows You Whole - Part I
Summary:
Only winners get through the night.
Notes:
tw: depictions of anxiety, depictions of torture/blood etc. it’s a heavy one, so, please, take care of yourselves.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
55.415558, -1.705998
The first thing Sirius notices upon entering someone’s mind is temperature. It’s perceived even before his own mind adjusts to its current purpose, before his own mind starts looking.
For Sirius, a mind is first felt and only then seen.
Now, Sirius is not the most proficient of mind wanderers: he’s all feeling and myopic at best, since he rarely ever has it in his heart to want to look around. He is incredibly competent, mind you. And he could, provided he wanted to, be great at it. It’s in his blood, after all, passed down from one Black to the other. Hopefully, it’ll end with Sirius, and because Sirius doesn’t particularly enjoy this… genetic inclination, he’s more than happy to be its last bearer.
But all in all, it’s extremely useful now.
Extremely useful now.
You see, Sirius is all bark and no bite. “Get him a Mind Healer,” yeah, right. As if Sirius wouldn’t hex whoever attempted to get near Remus, Healer or not. As if Sirius could trust anyone to know how to help. What to do. Where to look. No fucking way, not regarding Remus. How would they know what a particular frown meant? Or what to make out of a specific moan? Sirius spent a decade of his life getting to see Remus, getting to learn him, to know him. Secrets and suspicions aside, Sirius knew, rationally, that he knew that person.
(Nobody else did, not anymore, not in that world, so Sirius would have to suffice.)
And then, well. It’s Remus. It’s Remus. He’s just. Right there. He came back, he thought, stupidly, moments before deciding to give this madness a try. He came back to me. He came back, and so Sirius was ready to chain the man to his fucking bed, frankly, and he was not going to take any risks, not by doing something as naïve as trusting anyone else with Remus. Which is why he's here, right now.
Now, the mind. The mind is a tricky matter, which is a well-known thing. One does not need private lessons with Orion Black, or intensive Healer training, to be aware of that. Most people don’t know how tricky the mind is, though. How volatile. How delicate. It is a tough thing to break, but even tougher to mend. It is hard to lose, but harder to bring back, once lost. It is resilient, but stubborn. It is overwhelming, and sensitive: depending on who’s in it, it’ll react accordingly. Even when one has their barriers down, the mind has defenses of its own: if it senses a looker, it’ll bombard them with visions, memories, pictures, lights, brightness, shadows, shapes, movements; if it senses a feeler, it’ll throw other things their way: goosebumps, tingling, butterflies; fear, anxiety, pain, nostalgia; warmth; coldness.
Despite his Gryffindor temperance, and regardless of what most people think, Sirius is usually more rational than emotional. Usually. Part of it has to do with his upbringing: at one point, Sirius had to relearn how to, in fact, feel things, and how to process them, too. It was uncouth to display excessive amounts of emotion (i.e., any amount, truly), because, above all, emotions were utterly useless. Blacks were emotional creatures, the lot of them, and that’s the catch: provided they allowed themselves, they would rule their lives, and the family’s legacy, through emotion. They were all wrath, and hysterics, and arrogance. All mad, too, in every meaning of the word. Thankfully, they were all entirely aware of that, which is why they enticed each other to live, and rule, with reason. Reason makes you sharp. Reason makes you fast. Reason makes you win. Sirius loves winning, always did. He loved winning at being the best son. The best Black kid. The best student. The best prankster. The best friend. The best shag. The best hair. The best fighter. The best healer. He was all of those, for a time, even if not simultaneously, and it still takes him a bit of effort to make peace with the fact that he can’t always win.
With Legilimency, he doesn’t win. He’s quick on his feet, and performs it brilliantly. He knows how to be silent about it, make himself imperceptible (Padfoot really makes sense in so many ways, he thinks, then barks a laugh at that). He’s all that, but he’s also a bit messy about the whole thing, because he hates it, and Sirius Black hates having to be the best at something he hates.
So, for most minds, he’s a feeler. Big deal.
Remus’ mind feels like… feels like what Remus’ mind should feel, really. It’s the first thought that comes to him: the warmth feels right, which probably means that Smethwyck was correct. When one’s mind is beyond repair, usually related to the damage of the magical core, it always, always feels wrong, regardless of temperature. Like a terrible heatwave, or being underdressed during a snowstorm. It’s uncomfortable. Remus’ feels the opposite. Sirius actually thinks he could stay there for a while, acclimatizing, trying his best to remain quiet, unmoving, just taking in how right it feels. He wonders if the mind recognizes him; if it is in fact as welcoming as it feels to him, or if it’s a gesture granted only to Sirius. The mind rarely ever is diplomatic, but this is Remus we’re talking about. It could just be an exceptionally polite mind. It could still try to get Sirius out once it realizes the mistake of allowing him in.
Which means Sirius needs to start moving.
Now, sifting through the mind is sort of like following a map: an expansive one, filled with countless paths and hidden corners. It’s this vast, multidimensional space, in which each memory, thought, and emotion occupies a unique location on said map. These locations, Sirius came to learn, are defined by specific… markers, coordinates that show both the nature of the memory, and the time it was formed. During his Healer training, this understanding would frequently remind him, funnily enough, of his first (and very successful, might he add) attempt at cartography. A labor of love, and a shared testament of the sheer curiosity of four restless kids. And yet, kids as they were, after countless hours charting every nook and cranny of Hogwarts, marking secret passages and hidden rooms, there it was – the Marauder’s Map. Sirius is still proud of it. He can't stop himself from that feeling, because it took ages to get it right, and ages to charm it properly, and ages to name it in a way that felt meaningful and pompous, and ages to agree that the best idea was to leave it behind for some future mischief-makers. Merlin, he loves it. It took an intimate knowledge of the castle’s layout, which they absolutely had, and a commitment to learning every corner of that physical world, and Legilimency, as it happens, was very much about learning how to map the mental world: not necessarily by creating a map from scratch, not really, since the map is very much there, but by learning the basics about reading one.
Ok, so, coordinates: harder than one would think. Especially for feelers like Sirius. You see, the mind, even when diplomatic, is also… well, a temperamental little bitch, there's no other way to put it. Even when one knows exactly where to look, what to search for, it will lead only to the times, and places, it chooses.
There are a couple of ways around this. The easiest, of course, is visiting a lazy mind. One gets to choose with very low effort the places one wants to roam, and the mind will allow it, because the mind simply doesn’t care. It’s kind of dormant, most definitely unbothered. The hardest, and one Sirius doesn’t even consider, is by having no regard, whatsoever, for the mind's temperament, or will. Meaning that a Legilimens force their way into a different direction. Oh, you want me to see this? How about I see that! Type of thing. It’s sadistic, contemptuous, abusive, and because of it, extremely painful for the target.
This is Remus we are talking about, and, again, Sirius does not want to announce his presence, because if he's kicked out, then he's kicked out. So he just follows.
And, all of a sudden, it’s really fucking cold.
Flesh memory is a funny thing. Because Sirius immediately recognizes that cold. He finds himself standing in a dimly lit room, gets the faint scent of damp earth, and fear, and annoyance, and even before his eyes adjust, the temperature hits him, and he knows exactly where he is. Somehow, he thinks he knows exactly when he is, too.
He hopes he’s wrong.
(He, of course, isn’t.)
So. The Shack. Because, of course, The Shack.
The full moon hanging high in the sky, its silvery light filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls, and, well, Sirius is a feeler. He’s not just seeing the whole thing through Remus’ eyes and memories. He’s very much feeling it, too. Remus’ body aches. His bones feel like they were on fire, and his mind is essentially a whirlwind of sheer dread. Each breath he takes feels labored, the transformation pulling at him with relentless intensity. Sirius, who is now Remus, but is also just Sirius, is still very much focused on the how pain perseveres. Everywhere. He is in fact so focused that, just like Remus, he barely has time to register the door creaking open.
Sirius is a feeler, but even if he wasn’t, you know? Above all, he’s a man that never lets anything go.
Remus is, too.
Which is how he knows, even before looking, and, in this case, even before feeling, that he will find Severus Snape in the doorway.
He does find Severus Snape in the doorway.
His pale, greasy, annoying face is very much there, staring at Remus who is also Sirius, a mixture of curiosity and – victory? The kid isn’t right in the head, for fuck’s sake – etched across his features, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in the sight of Remus, hunched over and trembling with the effort to keep the transformation at bay, as if the moon would be benevolent for once.
Remus’ heart pounds in his chest, an angered thing, the rhythm erratic and filled with panic. There’s only one word going through his mind, incessant, frantic: No, no, no. No, no, no. Sirius, too, can feel the wolf just beneath his skin, clawing to break free. Desperation surging through him. Him, trying to warn Snape, trying to shout, but all that comes out is a guttural growl as his vocal cords begin to change. No, no. And, at last: Please. Please. Please.
His vision blurs, Sirius’ along with it, and his limbs start to contort painfully. The edges of his consciousness are fraying, and for the first time Sirius gets to feel it. To be, literally, on Remus’ place. Try walking in my shoes, he would sometimes angrily reply, when Sirius or one of the other boys were a bit too careless with his past, or pre, moon dispositions. He can now feel every wrenching shift in Remus’ body: the elongation of his bones, the stretching of his skin. There is also, and so prominently, the fear, so visceral, so palpable, Sirius himself feels like he is passing out. He’s surprised Remus hasn't, at least not before seeing Snape's eyes widen in horror, realization dawning on him.
That’s the last thing Remus sees, and so that’s the last thing Sirius sees: Snape, the terror in his features. And the last thing Remus feels? The last thing Sirius feels? An overpowering drive to hunt, which lingers there, the only constant amongst the chaotic blur of sensations, sounds, smells. And, too, so prominently, the fear.
Everything goes dark.
And then a different cold ensues.
Sirius recognizes it immediately, too, mostly because his past years have been spent in very similar settings: the stark white walls. The smell of antiseptic. The scent of potions, the hum of incantations. Steps, and more steps, and more steps. Chaos, even amidst the faux calmness of morning.
It is morning, that much is evident, and given the coordinates Sirius finds himself in, he figures it must be the morning after.
Remus is in one of the beds of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, his body weak and mind stull foggy, the remnants, Sirius figures, of last night’s transformation. It takes but a few moments for the slimy git’s face to come back to him. The fear he saw in those eyes, reflecting Remus’ own fears along with it.
The moon was ruthless, but so is dawn.
Someone is sitting beside him, and the sight makes Sirius growl a bitter laugh, because right, alright, we really are doing this.
See, this has been a point of curiosity for years, for Sirius. Who told him? And how? These questions playing again and again in his mind. Now, Sirius knows James had talked to Remus about the whole thing. The Prank, capital damn letter, because there was no other like that one, and with good reason. But he never managed to figure out who had told Remus about The Prankster. At first, because Remus wouldn’t tell him, not that nor anything. Once all was forgiven, Sirius was, frankly, too embarrassed to ask. There would be no point, anyway.
So, Dumbledore is there.
Dumbledore is there, giving Remus who was now Sirius an expression both grave and compassionate, and above all pitying. Sirius hates it, not quite grasping if the hatred is his own, or Remus’, or both.
“Headmaster?” Remus croaks, his voice barely more than a whisper and oh, oh, I missed your voice. Not yet heavy with bitterness, still so young, so sweet, so light. Something twists inside Sirius, actually, as soon as it dawns on him that the sweetness will begin to fade on that exact morning. It's probably the last conversation this voice, light, beautiful, will ever carry. His throat feels... raw, really, as he struggles to find the words. And then, straight to the point, because Remus was never one for patience: “What happened?”
Dumbledore sighs, gaze steady. “You had an unexpected visitor last night, Mr. Lupin”, he said. “Severus Snape followed you to the Shrieking Shack.”
Sirius feels Remus’ heart essentially sinking, the cold wave of fear and guilt washing over him, whose, undetermined. “Did he... see me?”
(He saw me. I saw him. He saw me. He saw me. He knows. He knows. How does h–)
“He saw more than we would have liked. Fortunately, Mr. Potter arrived in time to prevent a catastrophe. Severus is, regardless, aware of your condition now, Mr. Lupin.”
Remus’ mind is racing, now, trying to comprehend the full weight of Dumbledore’s words. He feels exposed, vulnerable in a way he had never experienced before. Sirius feels it, too, his stomach hurting already with the promise of the next, inevitable question. “… How…?”
Dumbledore hesitates, but only for a moment. “Someone informed Mr. Snape of the way past the Whomping Willow. It was, to my knowledge, intended as a cruel prank, not realizing the danger it posed.”
(Someone? Someone? Who would–; I haven’t–; Did somebody figure–; Oh–; Oh. Oh. Sirius. Sirius did it. It was Sirius. It was Sirius. Please, not Sirius. Please, not Sirius. P–)
“… Was it Sirius, sir?”
And, see, Albus Dumbledore is a man of many qualities. He is wise, impossibly so, and dignified, and crafty. He is mysterious, and powerful, and, sometimes, to a certain extent, even benevolent. Albus Dumbledore is not, however, a kind man. “Yes. Yes, it was.”
For years, Sirius could only imagine how Remus felt. He begged, silently, for whatever pain he had put Remus through to be transferred to him. Let me pay for it, instead, he would plead, over, and over, and over again.
After these many years, finally, Sirius feels it, all at once: confusion, so much of it, bright and burning; then anger, blinding, unforgiving; anxiety, deafening, cluttered; disappointment, the lingering one, sinking in into some secret corner where it will, undeniably, grow its roots; acceptance, too, so, so bitter, and the worst of them all, because, fuck, why would Moony accept it so easily? Why would Sirius’ name come up so fast? What did he ever do to him before that? Could Remus sense Sirius was wicked, somehow, even then? Could Remus see his rot, and until then just pretended not to? We were supposed to be friends, Sirius thinks, bitterly, unfairly. Before all else, we were supposed to be friends. Who fucked up first, then? I did something awful, but if you did it to me, I would have never thought you capable. I would need proof. I would break Dumbledore’s neck before believing it. Why did you believe it? Why did I do it? Why did you believe it? Why did I do it? Why did you believe it?
Why did you believe it?
W
H
Y
“I don’t want him visiting, Headmaster. I don’t want him around. I don’– can I– can I change rooms? I’ll bunk with Frank. Or, or– The common room, even, we could charm– Or, I could– sir, the Shack, could I go to the Shack? I’ll sleep there. I’d rather sleep there. I don’t–”
“Remus.”
His heart constricts at this. Sirius also didn’t know about this. Remus, of course, remained in their dorm. He really was the bravest boy, even then. Sweet, yes, but brave, too. But to see him willing to move somewhere else, especially the Shack, a place so full of terrible memories and raw pain and a constant reek of loneliness… I’m sorry, Moony. I’m so sorry.
Sirius feels… Sirius feels like he’s sixteen again. A bliss he longed for on occasion, truly. He was so happy at Hogwarts, for the most part. This right here is the part where he wasn’t, not quite, not at all. It hurts to see the memory so vivid. They usually aren’t, not unless you revisit them. Often. Sirius is sure that if Remus was to perform Legilimency, he would find Sirius’ memories of those days just as vivid, but that doesn't really help anyone, does it? And still, the truth is that only now, right here, does he feel like he is truly back. A child, rotten. Has everything, throws it away. Gets it back, loses it again. Do you ever cherish anything you have, Sirius? Do you value anything at all? Why else would you not keep things protected, and guarded, and safe?
I’m the one those things need to be kept from, he thinks. I’m the one doing the breaking, he thinks. I was not trying to break anything. Snape is evil. Snape was trying to break things. I did it, too, but not on purpose, he thinks.
Not thinking about the things you break doesn’t make you less evil, he thinks, and this time the voice sounds a lot like Remus’, so he shoots back:
I think about you all the time.
Why didn’t you, then?
I don't know. I did. I did. I'm sorry.
I know . I don't think it's good enough. Not now, anyway.
“Remus,” Dumbledore tries, again, bringing both Sirius and Remus back to it. “Forgiveness is a choice no one can take from you. Just remember, both forgiving and holding firm require equal bravery.”
☾ ✹ ☽
57.4590151, -4.2912263
The second thing Sirius notices upon entering someone’s mind is sound.
The noises unfold as follows: Remus, his sweet voice definitely gone, screaming, incessantly, begging, babbling nonsense, crying futile pleas. Chains, clinking. Another voice, devoid of any sweetness whatsoever, laughing, cursing, manically, proudly. Jubilantly.
Sirius hears her before he sees her. But it’s the seeing her that does it, for him.
Seeing Bella is… complicated.
Because, okay, there is nothing Sirius wouldn’t do to protect Remus. He knows it with frightening certainty, regardless of everything else he feels towards him. But Sirius is difficult when it comes to family. There is nothing Sirius wouldn’t do to protect Remus, but there are things he won’t do to avenge him. Rip the Barty kid apart? Yes, please, thank you. But family? One simply doesn’t hurt family, not meaning it, not with intent. Not going to happen, which is frustrating, because Sirius wants to want it. Remus deserves to be avenged, and Sirius wants to do right by him, but. But.
Blacks hurt each other all the time, although not in the way people think – for Merlin’s sake, they’re not savages –, and not to the extent some would presume. Bella is actually the only one of them that might live up to the rumors of their madness. Sirius could, too, if not for the silver lining of, you know, not having been converted into a power-hungry Death Eater with a knack for murdering muggles. And so, amongst the good ones – what ridiculous notion, Sirius would think, over and over – all is forgiven, even his surname, or at least that’s what they say: he’s just Sirius. He’s not mad like them. He’s not right in the head, not all there, but he’s not them. He’s mad, but not in the same way. Which is laughable, because he absolutely is mad like most of them. And because, you see, most of them did not become power-hungry Death Eaters. With reason; obnoxious beliefs aside, Sirius always thought becoming one was kind of embarrassing. Wearing masks and bowing before some delusional man? Right. No. Blacks don’t hide their faces, Blacks don’t do anything that warrants hiding who they are.
The face of a Black is also, very much, who they are. No one mistakes them for anyone else. That’s prideful. That’s ostentatious. That’s them.
Blacks don’t do shame. Even when his Mother would make Sirius out to be an embarrassment, Sirius never truly believed it. In fact, he was certain his Mother didn’t fully believe it, either. She hated that he was a Gryffindor, she hated that he would “follow the cuckoo half-blood into a pointless war”, and she hated him for leaving.
But shame?
He was Sirius Black. Her firstborn. The rightful Heir of their Noble and Most Ancient house.
Even after being blasted from the tapestry, Sirius knew: that was, too, motherly love. She loves me just as much as she hates me, and she feels nothing at all, and isn’t it sad that I’m moved she cared enough to burn me out?
Bella… Bella also doesn't do embarrassment. She is just as proud as Sirius, because she is just as powerful, and just as unafraid of it. For Bella, though, her particular brand of madness took her places no other Black dared to go. Narcissa was too sophisticated, and his little brother too cowardly. Not Bella, so, in all fairness, she is not like other Blacks.
She is madder.
And, for that alone, Sirius wouldn’t think of hurting her. Not actually.
Now, Sirius and Bella do have history with hurting each other. There would be ruthless hexes when they were little, and, before that, fits of accidental magic, back and forth; at Hogwarts, in between slurs and spiteful accusations, Sirius would burn Bella’s hair off, Bella would vanish Sirius’ fingernails. No one fought like Bellatrix Black and Sirius Black, truly, and nobody else but them understood how alright it was to fight like that. Like they were practicing, never to go against each other, but to be ready whenever they would need to go against anyone else. Sirius supposes it was the whole eldest siblings thing. Protecting ran deep in their blood, especially when it came to family. Andromeda was only two years younger than Bellatrix. Sirius’ brother was only two years younger, as well, which means Bella and Sirius had only two years of reigning as carefree Black children, because once their siblings were born? Oh, not a single day went by without them caring. Fighting. Attacking. Protecting.
(In many ways, it didn’t matter, for either of them, which remains, Sirius knows, their heaviest cross.)
After the sound, the smell comes. There's blood there, and decay, and fear, and glee, everything metallic and molten and wrong. Padfoot’s heartbeat goes frantic, Sirius’ too with it. Chains clink softly as Remus, who is now Sirius, barely conscious, hangs from the stone wall, his body a canvas of agony, the dim torchlight cast flickering shadows across the grimy floor, highlighting the dark stains of past torments.
Is this…?
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Remus-but-also-Sirius raises his head to see Bellatrix pacing before him, her eyes alight with a sadistic gleam. The Crouch kid (I really am going to fucking kill him) leans against one of the walls, twirling his wand between his fingers, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Sirius just arrived, but he knows it, he feels it: they had been at this for hours.
“Tell us, werewolf,” Bellatrix hisses, and fuck, Sirius thinks, embarrassed, he misses her too, even if there's venom in her voice, even if there's maliciousness. “Where is the Dark Lord?”
Remus, the brave idiot, actually smirks at this. Smirks. “Isn’t that ugly tattoo of yours supposed to tell you that?”
Bellatrix's lips curl into a snarl. A flick of her wand, and then: “Crucio.”
And, well, she definitely means it. His body's convulsing, and Sirius feels it, too, along with the guttural scream tearing from his throat as this acute fucking pain courses through him, sending electric shocks through his spine, making every muscle spasm, and he endures, and endures, and wonders, not for the first time, how the fuck is Remus alive. “I know it’s near impossible teaching animals good manners. But I’ll do my best to teach you, beast,” she sneers, stepping forward while lifting the curse. His whole body's trembling. Sirius is sure he is about to piss himself.
“You see, Lupin, we know you know something. Where is he?” Barty demands, suddenly, his voice much lower, but not less clear, than Bella’s. He raises his wand and mutters an incantation. Remus’ bones immediately crack and splinter, the sound, ugly, deafening, echoing off the stone walls.
“St… Stop being so fucking dense. You’re right. I’m a fuck... fucking beast. I’ve been with other werewolves until you got me. Aren’t you friendly with Greyback? As–ask him.”
Shut up shut up shut up you fucking moron you’re going to get yourself killed, Sirius thinks, deliriously, even though he knows Remus is very much alive, which, frankly, at this point, matters very little.
Are you real?
Remus?
Oh, great. I lost it. Why the fuck are you in my head.
Remus, love. Please, what the hell is g–
“Are you fucking my cousin?”
And that, well. That’s Bellatrix for you. Sirius wants to want to kill her, and hates it that that’s exactly the approach he’d go for.
Or so he thought, because then she clarifies, “My other cousin, that is. I know you were fucking the blood traitor. So what, he had enough of you, and you decided to court the little one? Oh, Siri Siri is going to kill you… Or would, ah! I will kill you, but that’s a shame. I hope I get to tell him. Poor idiot’s going to get his tiny heart broken.”
And, um.
What.
What?!
What the f–
Jesus fucking Ch–
Moony, what the fuck–
“Oh, of course,” Remus replies, breaths coming in ragged gasps, and how the hell is this man still able to keep his sarcasm is beyond Sirius who, if he wasn’t so fucking pissed, would fall in love a little bit more. “You know me. Can’t have enough of you lot. Shame I’m a fucking poof, really, or else I’d go for y–”
“Crucio!”
Bellatrix's eyes flash with fury, and they look eerily like Sirius’, a thought that Sirius isn't sure is his own, or Remus’. “Enough lies! Where is he, animal? I came down to Grimmauld the other day, you know? Visit my auntie, you know aunt Walburga of course… Took good care of our little Siri… Took better care of little Reggie, too, although didn’t matter much in the end, did it? A traitor, and a corpse! Ah, but you were there too, were you not, little wolf? Maybe the corpse outsmarted us all... And the place reeked–”
“I wasn’t there. I’ve never been there, you psych–”
“Crucio! Enough! You were there. And I found your itty-bitty letter to Regulus. Not exactly as romantic as I would expect, but maybe we were keeping the affair a quiet thing? Bet baby Siri couldn’t even t–”
“Shut the fuck up. Leave him out of this. Sir–”
“Sirius! Cousin dearest was so good before. Even when he began drifting away. You know? You made him soft. He thinks he hasn’t changed, silly little thing. Oh, he has. And he will. You made him soft and now you’ll make him broken. Isn’t it brilliant? Isn’t it? Now… You will tell me where the Dark Lord is. And then you will tell me why the hell is a braindead werewolf like yourself writing to my baby cousin about such dark things… Horcruxes. Does your lunatic leader know of this little interest you’re taking? And discussing it with a Black, no less… If I hadn’t checked your arm, I could swear you were one of us.”
“I will never be one of you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what Horcruxes are. I have never been to your cousin’s house.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” she says, high-pitched, waving her wand again while casting a Transmogrifian Torture, no time whatsoever for Sirius, or Remus, really, to brace themselves. Remus’ body twists and contorts and Sirius is again feeling, so deeply, the features morphing grotesquely as new waves of pain wrack him. His screams fill the dungeon, now, and Sirius knows it's a fucking symphony for Bellatrix, ignites her, makes her positively giddy. Barty just… he's just watching, his expression one of detached amusement. “It's almost impressive, really,” he remarks. “I see why Regulus would like you. You’re stubborn, like your little boyfriend. You’re… resilient. You will break, eventually, though. People always do." Barty stares down at Remus for another second, before adding, quieter, “Is he really dead? Regulus?”
Bellatrix ceases the spell, allowing Remus a moment of respite, most likely because, like Barty, she also cares to know about Regulus. Remus doesn't say a word. She crouches down, her face inches from his, theirs. “You can end this, you know,” she whispers, her voice almost gentle, a sweetness so foreign that Sirius can only shiver. “Just tell us where he is. Tell us what you know about them, too. The Horcruxes.”
Remus’ eyes, glazed with pain, meet hers. “I would. I’m not even sure you could spell the word, though. Maybe the information is too much for you. Maybe let’s not worry your pretty little head,” he rasps, defiantly, stupidly.
Remus, shut the fuck up!
(Sirius is about to kill this infuriating man and lick every drop of blood out of his face and burn the damn dungeon down.)
Look who’s talking. You never shut up for a second in your entire life and I needed to hallucinate you for you to be the reasonable one, seriousl–
“Ah, well, well. So be it.” she says, softly. She stands and exchanges a glance with Barty, who nods and, together, they unleashed a barrage of curses, each one more excruciating than the last, and the noises fade as follows: Remus’ screams, reverberating through the dungeon, the ugliest his voice had ever sound. Bella’s laughter, sadistic, frustrated, determined. Sirius’ heart, thumping franticly in his chest, making him dizzy, so dizzy, and falling, and falling and f
☾ ✹ ☽
51.5312581, -0.1103517
Yes, so. Flesh memory is a funny thing. When Sirius is guided to the next location, he feels the space in every single part of his body. He could go in blind. He could go in deaf. He has only a moment to feel that comfort of knowing exactly where one is headed. Then he remembers where he is, and why the fuck was Remus Lupin in his fucking house, he checks the coordinates, checks again, because Sirius didn’t live there by the time this memory happened, not at all, so Remus couldn’t possibly be visiting. Not him, that is.
Now, returning to Grimmauld Place was not in his plans, and this feels, distinctly, like returning. He hates the bloody house, and the bloody house hates him right back. And yet. Even there, in a memory, not even his... Hatred or not, the house recognizes him immediately. You see, Grimmauld Place has been in the family for generations, and it is a testament of pure, unmistakable Black magic: old, thick, dominant. The wards let him in, as expected: every real Black, and only a real Black, can get through the wards without struggle. But more than just an allowance, the magic is… alluring, in a way, and exudes this satisfied energy, sort of like a purr, a slow pulse, a prosperous hunt. “Welcome back”, the house seems to whisper. “I’ve been waiting. We all have. I hate you. Why did you leave? I hate you. Where is everybody? Why is there a wolf with you? Why are you a wolf? Where is the dog? Where is the hound? Why did you leave? W–”
So, yes, Sirius hates the house. Promised never to come back, in fact. Ever so dramatic, almost forced the unbreakable vow on James. There was just too much of them. It suffocated him. Sirius would joke the house, itself, helped making him insane, and in a way, it did. It does. He hated it for every way in which it would drive him mad, and, with time, Sirius began hating it for every way it made him feel safe, too.
With Remus was different. There was security, as well, in their flat, and Sirius would take it, far too often. But it was too close to a religious experience, and who is ever truly safe around god? Remus allowed him in, gave him shelter, but Sirius never believed to deserve it, not really. Grimmauld Place offered a tangible safety. It didn’t require trust, and it didn’t require devotion. All things considered, it actually should feel more arcane, hold some more mysticism to it; but, as it turns out, the protection it provided was much more practical. It came from blood, and blood alone, something that, unlike love, cannot be revoked.
To share a space with god is to accept the possibility of having love being taken from you. To share a space with family is to acknowledge that nothing will be taken from you, whether there’s love out there or not. Love is not the most important thing with family, and that’s what makes family so strong. Family is the most important thing with family. Love comes after, if it comes at all, and if it does it isn’t sacred, not really, it is pragmatic, and a little moody, and it makes one cry all the time but gets the job done and that.
That’s safety, too. Because godly experiences make you freefall, and family always throw you a net, and, for the most part, Sirius despised the net. What it truly meant. How it kept him safe, but stuck, unmoving, all the same. How it felt like he could be devoured, except that this time, unlike with Remus, he didn’t much care for being devoured. With Remus, he wanted to feed him his bones, to feel his teeth drag through the flesh, to have himself be ripped apart. He never wanted that with anyone else, and he most definitely did not want that with his family, which was a problem, because his family was the true starving beast: all he had to do was stay, and he’d be consumed, inch by inch, engulfed by their madness and enjoying it, too. He hated that he liked it.
All in all, it’s weird to be back.
So, the house. Sirius thinks again of how many times does Remus replay this particular memory, because the house also feels surprised by Sirius’ presence. Almost as if, after so many visits from this particular mind, it would never expect someone else but Remus (who, in contrast, is very much not welcomed there). “Welcome back” slowly fades to a sarcastic “You? around here?”, and isn’t that perfectly descriptive of the dynamics of its inhabitants, too. “Don’t you dare leave this place; leave and never come back. Welcome home; fancy meeting you here. Step away from my doorway; please go up to your bedroom, we kept the muggle posters. Come back; go away. I’m proud of you; I wish you were never born.”
Family, right?
Sirius, who is also Remus, climbs the stairs and the movement snaps Sirius out of his thoughts. Although, he’s so used to doing it, even when he hasn’t done it in years, that he again quickly forgets this is not a memory that belongs to him. When he opens the door to his brother’s bedroom, he still not fully grasping that it’s not Sirius doing the getting in.
(The bloody house makes it all the more confusing. It is positively reeling with the whole ordeal).
As soon as the door opens, Sirius forgets how to breathe, because, oh, oh, hi, it’s you. His eyes still so childish, his curls still so angelic. Everything about him feels heavy, cutting, and a little sad. Every single instinct pulls at Sirius with vicious stubbornness. I’m going to hug you now. I’m going to break your arm. Where have you been? How long until you’re gone? Are you really here? How’s mother? How’s father? Do you still dream of empty caves? Did you pack our things? Can we go now? I missed you so much. I miss you so much. I miss you every day.
“Took you long enough.”
Sirius feels Remus scowling, his brow furrowed in irritation. “Don’t be a little shit.”
“You sound like my brother.”
“Well. I live with your brother.”
Lived, Sirius corrects silently.
You, again?
What can I say. Can’t keep away from you, Moonshine.
Why did you say that?
Why did I say what?
Lived. We live together.
Oh, love. Do we?
Don’t we?
Do we?
“So, you kept your promise then.”
Remus’ eyes narrow at this. “What do you mean?”
“Of not telling him. You wouldn’t still be living with him if you had.”
“You have very little faith in him,” Remus says, a hint of reproach in his voice.
“Well, he has very little faith in me.”
I thought you were dead until a couple seconds ago, you fucking moron, Sirius thinks.
“He thinks you’re dead. Kind of hard to have faith in dead people,”
Thank you, Moony.
Anytime, Padfoot. Are you real?
I could be.
Will you? Be real?
...Yes, love. I will.
Sirius sees his brother’s face hardening, knowing what's coming even before hearing him say it. “He didn’t even when I was alive.”
“Can you blame him?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think it does.”
“Well, you would think that. You love him,” and there, a hint of bitterness Sirius could never miss.
“Don’t you?” Remus asks, not denying it.
You didn’t deny it.
I didn’t.
“He’s my brother.”
“Is it not the same?”
Don’t be daft. “Don’t be daft.”
“You sound like your brother,” Remus replies, with a small, victorious smile.
“Yes, well. I lived with my brother for years, you see. Kind of hard not to sound like him”. And then, petulantly: “I lived with him first.”
Remus sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like we’re going nowhere.”
“See, now you just sound like yourself. Much better.”
"Oh, Regulus. I’m touched,” Remus says, sarcastically.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Regulus shoots back.
“Don’t be emotionally constipated.”
“Don’t be emotionally… emotional.”
Remus raises an eyebrow. “That’s the best you could do?”
“Why would I save the best I could do for such a pointless conversation?”
“Why would you keep going at a pointless conversation?”
“Why are you so fucking stubborn?”
“Why are you?”
“Learned from my brother,” Regulus admits, a glacial smile on his face.
“…Same, actually. Can we move on now?”
Regulus remains quiet, as if studying Remus’ face.
“You owled me,” Remus presses. “So tell me, what am I doing here, Regulus?”
“Did you read my book?”
“Regulus, you sent me a 500-page tome. I’m sure you have a lot of free time these days, but–”
“That’s a no, then,” Regulus interrupts.
Don't be so fucking rude.
Leave him be, Padfoot.
“That’s a no,” Remus confirms, tone flat.
“You know, I took a massive risk sending you that book,” Regulus says then, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but noticeably annoyed all the same.
“Why did you?”
Regulus pointedly ignores him, asking, instead: “Do you ever dream, Remus?”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to answer here, Regulus.”
“Do you ever dream? Or, rather, do you have dreams that, maybe… come up more than once?”
Sirius feels his lips curling along with Remus’. “I feel like there’s a joke I could make here… And involving your brother, no less. So if you could cut to the–”
“Does Sirius talk to you? About dreams, that is,” Regulus interrupts, again, in a very serious tone, clearly set on ignoring whatever brilliant joke Remus could make regarding his recurrent dreams involving Sirius. It, of course, pisses Sirius off, because he would love to hear all about those, thank you very much. “There’s another great joke there,” Remus says, and Sirius has to bark a laugh because, yes. His little shit of a brother had no sense of humor whatsoever. Poor thing would never survive Remus.
I miss your laughter.
I miss your laughter, too. Thank you for laughing along.
You're welcome. You'll have to tell me that great joke someday.
“So that’s a no.”
“That’s a… maybe? Nothing specific. He had nightmares sometimes. Before… Before moving together, I remember he’d even cast silencing charms and such. Now, not so much. But, then again, he doesn’t sleep much, these days," Remus says, trailing off.
“I’m not really interested in my brother’s sleeping schedule,” Regulus cuts, impatiently. “And I’m not talking about nightmares.”
“Regulus, I really don’t have time for whatever this is. I got an owl from a supposedly deceased Death Eater who is also the brother of the person I live with. The fact that I even showed up here makes me wonder if I should go to St. Mungo’s and ask them to admit me in Janus Thickey or something. I cannot –” Remus starts, his frustration bubbling over.
“You see, we all have them,” Regulus goes on. “Dreams. They’re not like… visions or anything. Not nightmares, either. It’s a, er… family thing. Ancient magic, extremely powerful. Unknown origin, too. Some think it’s probably some weird blood magic thing a particularly crazy Black did. Some think it could be astral, or actual dream magic. One can’t be certain, though. But we all have them.”
“… I mean, good for you? You called me here to talk about your dreams? Again, I’m touched,” Remus jokes, his sarcasm, however, barely masking his confusion.
“I used to memorize them. Well, the ones the family would talk about. My father, Orion, would dream of wolves, if you can imagine. Constantly. There was always a choice to be made, which is, well, also a recurring theme. His involved running with wolves. Or a wolf. Or… whatever the hell he chose instead. Us, I suppose,” Regulus continues, his voice now sort of distant, as if he was talking more to himself.
“Ok…?”
“Sirius dreamed of a hound. He stopped talking about it once he… Anyway, he stopped talking about it. But when we were little, he’d talk about it. He was shy about it, at first, because we are not supposed to share our dreams, you know? I know my father’s because he was drunk once and let it slip. Sirius’ involved some hound guiding him somewhere. A choice somewhere, too, to follow. Some sort of destination he couldn’t quite grasp. Maybe he stopped having them, I don’t know. He would go on and on about a destination away from here. He left, which I suppose is destination enough, so,” Regulus shrugs at this, voice tinged with both resignation and resentment.
Remus... just remains quiet, his eyes pinning Regulus to where he was sitting, urging him silently to go on.
Did you really dream of a hound?
I still do.
What an odd thing to dream about. Why do you?
I have no idea. There’s somewhere I’ve got to be.
Away from here?
Away from somewhere. It’s a destination, you see. Apparently, I don’t need to bring provisions, or anything. Should be easy.
Why isn’t it?
I’m not sure, Moony.
“Bella dreamed of blood quills, Cissy of endless flower fields,” Regulus continues, his tone more somber.
“Regulus,”
“I dreamed of a cave. I still do. You see, the dreams never change, not really, and you’re never given a new hint, or a different perspective. I dreamed of the ocean, angry and impossible, and a cave. A dark, cold cave, where I could choose to go, but never dared to, so I didn’t know what was there. Good or bad.”
“Didn’t? Do you know now?” Remus asks, leaning forward again.
A pause. “I think I do, yeah,” Regulus replies, his eyes meeting Remus’.
“What is in the cave, Regulus?” Remus questions, voice only slightly above a whisper.
“Kreacher went there. To the cave. You know Kreacher? Sirius hated him. He was always good to me. Did you know Kreacher also dreams? About the Department of Mysteries, of all things. Anyhow, I digress. The Dar… Voldemort needed an elf so. Kreacher went there. To a cave, that is. And it was it. It was the same cave.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Brilliant. What is in the cave?” Remus presses, patience clearly wearing thin.
Regulus just looks frustrated. “…You really should have read the book, Remus.”
“Shut it with the fucking book!”
“What do you know about Horcruxes?” Regulus asks, suddenly.
Shut the fuck up.
“What are those?”
There's no way he can be serious.
“Right. My brother would know,” Regulus says, more to himself than to Remus.
“Owl your brother, then,” Remus snaps.
“Yeah, I can’t do that.”
Why not?
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, he thinks I’m dead.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“And, also,” he continues, disregarding the perfectly reasonable point Remus is making. “I know what’s in the cave. And you are the only one who can help me… retrieve it,” Regulus concludes, eyes locking onto Remus’.
“... Alright. I'll bite. What the bloody hell is a Horcrux?”
Regulus smiles a grim smile. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”
Notes:
hello hello!
so i got a bit excited with this one, and i hope you guys enjoy it too. it was a tough one to write, but yeah. gotta get bad before it gets good and all that jazz.
anyhow!! before diving into it i want to thank everyone who took their time commenting and messaging me ❤️ your support means the world to me especially since it took me so long to put myself out there, you know? this fandom really is built differently you all are so amazing etc. thank you ❤️
a couple of things:
if this chapter strikes you as confusing, it is meant to be so. the mind is confusing and i truly believe that the way a legilimens navigates someone’s mind truly depends on the mind one is visiting and on the caster themselves too. sirius is a mess, and remus is obviously a mess, and they’re so messy together, so of course perception is all over the place. i hope the overall messiness doesn’t take away from the plot tho, because we’re beginning to unfold a couple of things here.
the idea of navigating through someone’s mind following coordinates came to me while having some drunken conversation with my gf and yeah, it made perfect sense to me! so i hope it makes sense to you! the three coordinates i wrote down are actual places, by the way, the first being hogwarts “real” location (well, the alnwick castle), the second somewhere in the scottish highlands (somewhere around Inverness, because im a nerd and ive been obsessed over outlander since forever ok leave me alone), the last one grimmauld place (claremont square in london).
also, everyone in the Black family having specific dreams in which they’re offered a choice to break whichever cycle each of them is trapped in is so, so important to me. now, orion’s dream is actually in relation to lyall (whose name means “wolf” (norse origin); i saw this ship once and now it lives rent free in my head so!). bella’s and cissy’s, of course, serving references to quillkiller and nobleflower. and kreacher having one, too, is my favorite thing, because it speaks of how he stands as a true member of the family (his dream being related to the part he played in OoTP is just me being cruel, really. here’s to hoping that in the strangeharvestverse he made different choices.)
it was the first time we see regulus name being mentioned, too, and by remus no less. moonwater!!! anyway, about time lol. but fear not, regulus kinnies, the next chapter is basically like. all regulus. or so i think? who knows truly.
this chapter is titled after roadkill’s debut album, that i highly recommend you hear:
https://open.spotify.com/album/3UaPBDFV8hMoJxHBTEc7UN?si=DgJnPmGuRxG8gJ79qg3-uw
Chapter 5: R.A.B
Summary:
"Cain, you will need to kill me."
Notes:
tw: blood, death/suicide (implied), sacrifice, religious references.
take care of yourselves.
this whole fic is a gift to them, but this chapter especially, so; for my little sibling, @overthedeadsea, with love & squalor.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Cain, you will need to kill me,” is how Abel opens the conversation, hoping his voice sounds calm, knowing it most likely doesn't.
The sky is a pretty shade of orange, some speckles of actual gold here and there, something to marvel at, something, he's certain, to be grateful for. Abel was always one for warm tones, and for warmth itself, too, always thriving under daylight, shying away from the dark, which always seemed like a much more terrifying setting for his sensibilities. He continuously gravitated towards the greater light, actually, whereas Cain, his older brother, was more of a lesser light himself, unafraid to roam through the darkness. It was so much so that their father, Adam, would tell them bedtime stories about it: how God had, on the third day, made the two great lights – one to rule the day, that he had created as a gift to Abel, yet to be born; one lesser light to rule the night, that he created as a gift do Cain, who would be born first, and who, because he would be given the smaller gift, also earned the stars, a consolation prize, of sorts, and well.
God must have really disliked his brother, which never failed to render Abel utterly speechless. Why would Abel, between the two of them, get the brightest light? The most dangerous, the most burning?
Did God know anything about His creations at all?
(Something must be terribly wrong with Him. But, then again, Abel already knew that.)
“What?” Cain replies, evidently taken aback by the bluntness of Abel's tone.
“You heard me. You will need to kill me. It’s the only way.”
“The only way…?”
“Out. The only way out,” Abel clarifies, a bit impatiently.
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“…Did you just make up a word?” Abel asks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Did you really just ask me to kill you?”
“…Fair. You will have to, anyway.”
“Says who?” Cain demands, as he does. He had always been the challenging one. Never one to leave well enough alone. Always chasing the fucking bone. Tireless. Fearless. A bit mad, but who wasn’t? There were not many people down there, so far, but the numbers were harrowing, four out of four, so God better start going about humans with a different approach. Relying on their bloodline to make sane children and men definitely did not look like it was written in the stars.
Not when the stars belonged to his stubborn, brave, mad brother.
“Says God.”
“Please. He said no such thing. Frankly, I’m quite sure He said the opposite. The Lord is very pleased with you. It is I who never gets it right.” Cain's voice is... well, dripping with sarcasm, really, a little angry, a little sour.
“You get it right all the time, Cain. I tried some of the fruit you brought. I, hum, I tried it after… after the offerings. They were delicious. He’s an idiot.”
“Look at you, all wise. Do you even know what an idiot is?” Cain asks, a laugh escaping his lips. Genuine, a rare thing, these days.
“Yes. I mean, I know God is one. I am one, too, apparently.”
“Yes. Yes, you are.”
“So. How are we going to do this?”
“Abel, I will need you to shut up now.”
And, okay. That won’t do. “I will do no such thing. The only way we move forward is for you to leave. As long as you’re stuck here, bringing perfect offerings no one else will deem as such, you will rot. Your fruits will rot. Our family will rot.”
“You’re telling me our family would be better if I leave?” Cain asks, voice breaking.
“I am saying we will not be rotting. There’s no ‘better’ if one of us leaves. But sometimes it’s the only way, you know?”
“And if you die? What, we leave them be? Abel, they’re hundreds of years old. They need us,” Cain argues, then, the smallest hint of desperation creeping into his voice.
“They’ll make more of us. That’s what family is for. I can be gone. They will carry on. Our name will carry on. I have no doubts about that.”
“How? How are you so certain?”
“Oh. Well. I dream about that. I have several dreams, in fact. They’re sort of a… common occurrence. Do you… You do have dreams, too, right?” He tries, because he's been meaning to ask his brother about his. Their father had said that the four of them had them. The dreams. Something to be proud of, and so he was.
“I have dreams, yes. But not of killing you.”
“Of what, then?”
“…”
“Cain?” Abel prompts, going for gentleness. It always worked better with his brother.
“… Of leaving,” Cain admits, his voice a murmur.
“Where to?”
“… Out. Away from here.”
“Good. So. How are we going to do this?” he tries again.
“Don’t push it, Abel. I don’t have it in me to do it. I would die rather than betray you like that,” Cain says.
“You always were softer than you looked.”
“You always were stronger than you sounded.”
“Comes with the job.”
“You might have a point.”
“…”
“…”
“I was thinking a rock. You bash my head into it or something,” Abel suggests, tone eerily calm. He hates the idea of having his head bashed against a rock, thank you very much. But he can’t let his brother know that he knows that’s how he’s going to die. Because Abel is going to die, and by his brother hand.
“Shut up! I will not be killing you. Mother would be furious. And I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to protect you!”
“There’s no protection from God, Cain.”
“What has God got to do with anything?” Cain asks, confusion etched on his face.
“You will find out soon enough.”
☾ ✹ ☽
Abel dies on a cold, rainy afternoon, not long after the fateful conversation he had with his big brother. The whole day is, quite unpredictably, a complete nonsense, because, you see, it doesn’t really rain in Eden. From what his parents told him, it didn’t rain in the Garden of Eden, either, although he had no way of knowing that, of course, since apparently no one was allowed to visit anymore.
Eden itself is very different from the descriptions his parents would provide of the Garden: it's all cracked clay and shifting sands, ochre and umber, your occasional cacti, and, above all, unforgiving heat. Life doesn't quite... thrive, there, which is why Abel has always been so impressed with his brother; of course, being a shepherd is no easy task in such arid conditions, as well, what with his flocks constantly struggling to find sustenance in the sparse vegetation, and only surviving due to his tireless vigilance and commitment to finding every little pocket of greenery the desert hid.
Most pockets of greenery are Cain’s doing.
Cain, who Abel knows has been nurturing a growing fear of being too impatient, too harsh, too brash, too much, is in fact more devoted to his God given task, because of course he is.
(Abel is a little envious of that, but he will never admit it, since his sheep, his days, his light, bring him enough joy for the most part.)
Cain always wakes before dawn (a feat Abel can only hope to one day achieve, for he rises with his light and with his light only), and will spend ages looking for fertile ground amongst the dry, fractured soil, digging deep into the earth for irrigation, building stone barriers to shield his fields, and sowing every seed with meticulous, ardent care, whispering prayers for their growth, until he is left with sturdy, fruitful trees.
His garden, albeit much smaller than Eden’s (at least according to their parents, who, in all fairness, usually have nothing pleasant to say about Cain’s accomplishments these days), is absolutely beautiful.
It looks what Abel can only presume to be heavenly.
It looks like magic.
(His brother came come up with that word, too. Perks of never shutting up, Abel supposes: he keeps inventing pretty words that only the two of them know the meaning of.)
So, they in fact managed, and keep managing, to turn their little desolate bit of land into a place of sustenance. A place of hope. But, all in all, Eden is a harsh land, even if a beautiful one. And, oh, is it beautiful. At twilight, the desert comes alive with fiery oranges, deep purples, and soft pinks, all bleeding into one another as the greater light (his brother started calling it the Sun, and it sounded so pretty in Abel’s tongue, too, so, so sweet) dips below the edge of the world. Shadows lengthen then, casting this lace of darkness over the dunes, and that's when the first stars begin to prick the sky, until they are met with his brother’s light (that he had named the Moon, and it sounded right for Cain, too, and he would speak of it so sweetly, as well; they were just two fools in love with pretty lights in the sky, really).
All in all, Eden is never cold. And it almost never rains.
So, evidently, the whole thing feels like a presage. This is how it goes:
It's an important day. They've been preparing their morning offerings, Abel and Cain, and so the two of them spend the first hours of the day sorting their gifts to present before the Lord.
Cain wakes up first, as always, excitement very much buzzing through him, and spends his sweet time arranging grains, fruits and vegetables meticulously on the altar, which looks distinctly like… like something only Cain could come up with: colorful, and vibrant, if a little messy, and it smells so good, reeks of life itself, appears sort of decadent, too, but not enough to be sinful. It's good. It looks so good.
“Cain, please go fix the altar. It looks undignified,” their father, Adam, calls from outside and, well. Adam is a man of few words, but the ones he chooses to speak never fail to be effective. Jagged. Hemorrhagic.
“But, father,”
“Do you intend to displease the Lord, Cain?” says their mother, Eve. She's sharper than Adam and, for some reason, her words always manage to shut Cain up.
Cain dutifully shuts up, and tries his best to fix the altar. He doesn't do a great job at changing it. Abel wakes up a little later, going about carefully selecting the firstborn of his flock. He chooses his favorite lamb, one without blemish, its coat white, and untainted, and pure. “That’s a weird Creature you have there, brother,” Cain had said on more than one occasion, and Abel resigned to paying him no mind, for he knew his lamb did not like Cain very much. He could never tell why.
Abel leads the lamb to the altar, movements a little stiff, but does it with purpose, nevertheless. It's an offering, after all, so it's meant, it's heartfelt.
Once the altar is ready, the two brothers stand expectantly as the air fills with a divine presence, both bowing their heads in silent prayer.
As always, it's a quick affair: The Lord comes and goes, regarding Abel’s offering with favor, something that, a bit embarrassingly, never fails to make Abel beam. His happiness is, however, short-lived, for then the Lord turns to Cain’s offering. There is a stillness that seems to stretch endlessly, until, as always, the rejection starts hanging in the air, unashamed. The Lord, yet again, doesn't accept Cain’s gift, dismisses it carelessly, and leaves shortly after.
Now, Abel is not stupid. His brother might be brilliant, in many ways, but he’s not really perceptive. Or, rather, he is, but only regarding the things he loves: his trees, his fruits, his moon. Everything else just fades into the background, for him, which makes sense, because Abel thinks it is the only way his mind will be free to focus, obsessively, on those beloved things of his.
It makes him oblivious, and makes Abel lonely, because Abel used to think of them as a team. Invincible, unshakeable, unreachable, the two of them. For the longest time, that’s how they operated: everything they did was decided through silent conversations, secret languages, mutual understandings. They got each other, not because they were alike (they evidently were not), but because they would always, always look at the world through each other’s eyes. What would Abel do? What would Cain do?
And it would always work.
That is, until the Lord started visiting their family. He remembers the first visit, actually: how he immediately sensed the anxiety in their parents behavior, how it was mixed, oddly, with some sort of unspoken arrogance, standing before God in silent defiance, as if to say: You might have made us, but we made us, and we made us better. We will bow to You, but don’t You ever forget that.
Now, Cain doesn't care much for pride, never did, at least not in the same way their parents, or Abel himself. Abel is… comfortable with pride. It's a secure place, pride. Safe, homely. Because, you see, Abel is good, and he knows it. He knows it in a way that even their parents don't see, sometimes, and never did, before, not right away, not until they arbitrarily decided their firstborn wasn’t, after all, good enough.
Until their mind was made up regarding Cain, though... Abel was, simply put, a very jealous child. There is no other way around it, and Abel has made peace with that. He got it then, and he gets it now. Cain... well, Cain is almost impossibly blinding, there’s no other way to put it. Abel can not not look up to him, so of course the whole world (the whole three of them, and the lights, and the lambs, and the trees) would want to look, too.
Back then, Abel just wanted, sometimes, to have someone look at him, too.
It truly is a terrible affair to go about life completely unseen.
When they were younger, around the time Cain started drifting away a bit – when they started seeing the world through their own eyes –, Abel was certain that, were they not the only two children in the world, his brother would have fully let go of… them. Move on to better things, brighter, bigger.
Sort of like the sun, a bit, which made Abel even more jealous, for reasons he couldn’t exactly explain.
And also… Things felt simple, for Cain. Things were never simple for Abel, even there, in Eden, where there were not many things to be, well, anything at all, frankly. But life, in general, seemed, through Cain’s eyes, like an actual gift. Like a beautiful adventure he couldn’t help but feel excited towards. And that easiness was everywhere, with him: in the way he sought oases, in the way he created words. In the way he would befriend even Abel’s animals, and the bees around his trees, and in the way he would throw himself in the sand and laugh openly at nothing in particular.
Abel was, and remains, as Cain would often put it, an overthinker, which annoys him to this very day, because they are in Eden. It's literally only the four of them there. There are so few complexities that Abel can't quite comprehend why his mind won't just – stop. Calm down. Stop worrying. Stop perceiving. He supposes it comes down to his pride: you see, Abel is terrified of failure. A lot rests on his shoulders, at least by God’s and his parent’s expectations: he knows he is good, but still feels the constant need to prove it, to himself, sure, but to the Lord, and to Father, and to Mother, and, too, to Cain. Look at me, look at me. See how I am good. I am so good. Can I be better? Am I the best? Am I enough? Can I be enough? Where does it lead it? Are you proud? Am I? Should we be? Where do we go from here?
It's his never-ending fear, in the end, that makes him pay attention. Makes him perceptive. His brother fears nothing, and so he was distracted when God’s… what was it? Punishment? Demands? Retribution? began to creep around them like an omen.
Abel knew better. Felt it coming for too long, anyway, which didn’t stop from thinking, for the first time in a while: What would Cain do?
Not kill me, his mind would supply.
“You could kill him,” God suggests, exactly on their first explicit conversation about the whole affair, clearly aware of Abel’s inner musings.
“I won’t.”
“If you die, you will. Shouldn’t you kill him anyway?”
“He will survive. He has his name. He has his trees. He has his moon,” Abel replies, and, after a beat, bitterly adds, “he even has my sun, if he truly wants it.”
“He can’t have the sun. It was my gift to you. And, besides, even with the sun, you will break him.”
“But he will survive.”
“So I will make sure he kills you, then. There is no other way. And, frankly, I do not care which one of you dies.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I have a sense that might. Um. Need to start over.”
“You? Why? Are we not good enough?”
“… No, not really. I don’t think this was done right. I might need to start over. Flood the whole place, or something.”
“Bold.”
“I’ll say.”
“Well. If I die, he’ll survive. He’ll survive your flood. He’ll survive anything. I am sure of it.”
“If you are sure.”
“I am.”
“Make sure I get what I claimed. I do not care how you do it.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
☾ ✹ ☽
Abel dies on a cold, rainy afternoon, and Cain does not kill him, not bashing his head against a rock, nor otherwise.
God will be visiting that night, and Abel fully intends to be gone by then. He doesn’t tell Cain where he’s going. Cain’s not his brother’s keeper, anyway, and so he wanders, and wanders, and wanders, heart set on never coming back home, and wanders, and wanders, with a purpose he never thought he could hold inside him, reminding him so much of his brother, and oh, What would Cain do now? He would wander some more, so he did. He knows he needs to die, and he will always, always be good enough to do what's expected of him: but in an inspired act of defiance, he decides to die by his own hand, rather than his brother's. If Cain lives, and dies, with blood on his hands, it won't be his.
Abel eventually comes across a cave in the desert – a cave! In the desert! –, no doubt another oases for his brother to find, and there’s water there, too, so Abel smiles one last little smile, knowing that, one way or another, he will be gone, so when he slips on one rock, bashes his head into another, still smiling one last little smile, he thinks of his big brother, and wishes for him to go, be free, somewhere far, far away from there, maybe East, yes, East is good, as long as he leaves.
Abel never finds out if he leaves, and dies hoping his brother carries a long life, without any blood on his hands.
He never finds out if he does, either, and maybe that is for the best.
☾ ✹ ☽
Regulus Black dies on a warm, suffocating afternoon in 1979. The sun had been particularly unforgiving that morning, like it was personally angry with Regulus, a grudge that only got worse as the day progressed and, well. Regulus can see the irony in that. Pissing the sun off.
Well, the sun can piss off right back, because frankly. A man needs some peace on the day of his death, the war be damned. At least on the day of his first death, that is.
Regulus Black is, for all his frail sensibilities, and would you look at that, a tough bone to break. Not one to actually ever end up dead, not for the lack of trying, on his side or otherwise. But, albeit breathing, and by most standards very much alive, Regulus Black is very aware he will need to die this one time. At least this one time. Even if not really.
(Although, albeit breathing, and by most standards very much alive, he should have known he would end up really dead, one way or another. By his own standards, anyway. He supposes he could blame the war. He’s just not sure which one.)
On the day Regulus Black first dies, the sun is unrelenting, almost daring him to try and go somewhere frostier.
(The sun, of course, wishes for no such thing, and Regulus knows that, too. It’s just that, for the sun’s sake, too, Regulus must go.)
Which is how he finds himself on that stupid cave, and it is a stupid cave, by all accounts. Once Kreacher Apparates them there, Regulus’ first reaction is to laugh, only a little, but a sincere thing, because, come on. The whole scene reminds him, impossibly, of his brother. It’s just too dramatic, and even Regulus’ flair for the dramatics would probably consider the inferi army, the deadly poison, and the gaudy locket a tad too much. Challenging, yes, and undoubtedly life-threatening, and maybe it’s the fact that Regulus stopped giving a damn about challenging and life-threatening circumstances, but it is also a little bit laughable, the theatrics of it all. It has Slytherin Half-Blood Overcompensating Tyrant written all over it, which reminds him of how frightening he should find it.
He finds it in his heart that he isn’t frightened in the slightest.
That’s the thing about losing one too many things, he supposes. Spend an entire life losing and see how little regard you have for the few things you still have. Spend an entire life losing and see how much you are willing to give to win just this one time.
It’s a bit jarring only because he needs to win a couple more times for the whole thing to make sense. But Regulus Black is nothing if not determined. He’s a Black, after all. Mental, like the rest of the family, he is. Only, they apparently are not the maddest out there, and the very reason why Regulus Black finds himself inside that stupid cave (much stupider than the one he would dream of, and isn’t that disappointing to say the least) is proof enough of that.
Horcruxes.
He is sure his reaction upon finding out about them was probably not the reaction a sane person would have, and that is probably proof enough of his own genetic insanity. Some would be alarmed. Most would. Some would be confused upon hearing anyone bringing it up on a conversation. A few could in fact be impressed, and Regulus isn’t above acknowledging great magical accomplishments, but… But it is all so dull.
The Dark Lord, full of secrets and obscured with mysteries, supposedly unbeatable and fearless… Is afraid of dying
Merlin, it is so, so boring.
Regulus is not one for Gryffindor stupidity, mind you. He knows that being bold and reckless and headstrong does not win wars. But cheating? And cheating death, of all things? I mean, if you’re going to do it, don’t be such a coward about it, right? Right?
He considered bringing the information to the Order once he found out about it – about them –, but did not entertain the idea for long, what with imagining his idiot brother and his idiot brother’s best friend doing every bold, reckless and headstrong thing that does not win wars, and going at it until they actually win the war, or until they get killed while trying.
Yeah, not going to happen.
He considered seeking Dumbledore’s counsel, but also dismissed the thought almost instantly, because, well, Regulus doesn't trust it at all. In fact, Regulus hates the man. Loathes Dumbledore’s hypocritical rhetoric about good and evil, as if the line between them weren’t far thinner than anyone dares to admit. Hates how Dumbledore operates from the shadows, while leading literal children into a war they have no hope of winning, definitely not by casting harmless hexes and jinxes against actual murderers. What's his aim, anyway? Turn them into murderers themselves? Turn them into mere memories? War heroes, at best, if any of them survives? Break them, one way or another?
And, well. Not just them. His brother.
Voldemort might have stolen Regulus’ youth from him, but Dumbledore? Dumbledore stole Sirius’. And in doing so, he stole Sirius from Regulus as well.
Talk about unforgivable.
Besides, he is sort of certain the old man knew of the Horcruxes. Regulus is as arrogant as any other Black, but not enough to believe himself to be the only person to figure it out. It’s not like The Dark Lord tried too hard to hide it, either way, not with all the whispering about being immortal that his followers kept spewing. Regulus amongst them, at some point, but this is no time for embarrassment.
Blacks don’t do embarrassment.
When they do, they do it quickly, and they fix whatever needs to be fixed in order to avoid it. Permanently.
Hence, the cave.
The research was a tricky thing on its own. Not researching the Horcruxes per say, not exactly – Regulus found it equally laughable how easy it was to stumble upon those during his random readings at Grimmauld Place. Their library would put the Restricted Section to shame, so, no, not really the most difficult challenge he ever faced.
It was figuring out what they were that was the trickiest. He had to put himself in Voldemort’s shoes, see the world through his eyes, and well, that's the issue, right, because how could he?
Voldemort was arrogant, and Voldemort was mad, and these similarities were helpful but not extremely so, since their shared resemblances pretty much ended there.
Regulus is a Black. Voldemort is a nobody, and not only because of who he was before (who the fuck was Riddle, anyway), but because he couldn’t make himself be a somebody after. He made a name for himself, forgetting that a name, lordship or not, is not something to claim, nor something you can even earn. You are either born with it, or you aren’t. And if you aren’t, you probably didn’t deserve it enough.
Now, Regulus Black is well over believing he was a nobody. In fact, he had managed to be a lot of people, and some of them he was proud of having been. Regulus Black, prodigy seeker. Regulus Black, Slytherin Prefect. Regulus Black, potions genius, beating even the annoying Snape boy. Regulus Black, righteous son. Regulus Black, naïve fucking Icarus.
Some of them he still is proud of being: Regulus Black, brother. Regulus Black. Regulus Black.
(He claimed that one for himself, allowing it to mean whatever he needs it to. There is freedom there, and because of that it took him some getting used to. But he is getting there. He has to, for everyone’s sake.)
So, he had a lot of figuring out to do. He was still writing hints down, following what could easily be dead-ends and pointless leads, investigating, relentlessly, for Regulus Black was a committed little shit when he wanted to and, boy, did he want to.
He had to start somewhere, though, and when Kreacher arrived one day, panting and bruised and senseless, babbling about a dark cave and emerald liquids and death itself, begging for it, apologizing for the begging, and making Regulus see fucking red for the first time in quite some time (because how dare he? How dare he?), Regulus knew with unmovable certainty that the stupid locket Kreacher had taken for the Dark Lord must have been one of his creations.
And then, when Regulus learned about the locket itself, when he put two and two together with Kreacher’s description of it, when he learned, with adamant confidence, that it was Salazar Slytherin’s heirloom they were talking about, even amongst the chaotic anger that buzzed through his veins, he absolutely had to laugh.
The man is a comedian, truly.
Does the Lord know anything about his creations at all?
Regulus can't be fully sure, not yet, but he is positive things will turn out in his favor. There was a lot of research he found on certain… objects, heirlooms of sorts, belonging to the Hogwarts Founders. Regulus had half a mind to read about it before throwing himself in a death cave, thank you very much. Now, a lot of research had to do with where the artefacts could be. Some research, though, focused heavily on their magical properties.
Apparently, all the Founders were a bit conceited.
(That didn’t surprise Regulus in the slightest. Look at his brother, or Pandora, or… Well, he didn’t know any Hufflepuffs, but he was sure not all of them were humble and diplomatic and good.)
It seems that all the Founders had charmed their respective relics to… react, so to speak, respond, only to real, worthy students of their Houses. As if the objects were imbued with the essence of each Founder, revealing themselves to those who truly embodied the House's virtues.
If that is anything to go by, Voldemort is utterly fucked.
Because, you see, upon discovering Voldemort’s real identity, Regulus felt… Well, betrayed, for starters, and a little stupid for buying into his bullshit. No other Black, except for Bella, had fallen for it. Regulus had, and the fact that, looking back, he can’t really tell why, or how, is baffling. It is all so obvious, and all so tedious. Unloved moron comes back from the shadows seeking some sinister revenge, and not even correctly targeted.
The more Regulus learned (and Regulus learned a lot), the more he realized the Lord was in fact just a man, a small man at that. When finding out about his family tree, the whole thing made even less sense. He had Gaunt blood. He had Slytherin blood. How could he be so small of a Slytherin, then?
He is great wizard; Regulus is no fool.
And yet. And yet. Such a small one at that.
Ironically enough, it ends up being Voldemort himself who makes Regulus realize how blood, in and of itself, means nothing.
It clearly does not matter where you are born, how you are born, who you are born from. It can’t matter, because if it did, why would Voldemort be such a failure?
And, frankly, how dares he taint Salazar Slytherin’s name and heirloom like that? He's a poor excuse of a Slytherin, really. There is nothing cunning about brutal terror and forceful domination. There is nothing truly ambitious in his quests – they are selfish, even a little childish, almost, with the whole fear of dying thing. There is no real loyalty there, and clearly no respect for tradition, or legacy.
Voldemort is powerful. He has to be, having been able to subdue the locket, to force his soul into it. But Regulus?
Regulus was a Black. And, perhaps above all, Regulus was a Slytherin.
And the locket would act accordingly.
He was sure of it.
All in all, Regulus is not a stupid man. So, before leaving Grimmauld Place with Kreacher, and albeit never having been the most dramatic of his family, he still has it in himself to give in to the theatrics. So he grabs a quill, and starts.
To the Dark Lord
I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who–
Notes:
hello hello!
how are we feeling?
A small psa before we dive into it: the first part of the chapter is by no means a criticism or bashing of any religion, abrahamic or otherwise. It's just a little rewrite I felt compelled to do, very much because of my own religious upbringing and complicated relationship with it. I understand if it's not your cup of tea, and that's perfectly fine!
If it is- hello, hi! What did you make of that?
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, even if it was a bit more challenging, especially the second part, because we get our first (only? Who knows!) change of pov. Welcome back, Regulus Arcturus Black!
This was a very indulgent chapter, so I'll tell you my favorite things to write for it:
- God gifting the sun and the moon to Abel and Cain while we're out here drawing parallels between them and Regulus/Sirius is so special to me. Literally, the Book of Genesis made it so easy to turn it into some Black siblings magic, you know?
- Speaking of it, there are soooo many parallels here. Tell me your faves if you catch them! Mine are Regulus' Creature (Kreacher), which he offers as a sacrifice to the Lord (very much like in canon, ha), and the whole sunseeker dynamic (very literal here), of course. The dying in the cave too, because UGH. That scene was really hard for me because I fully intended to make it as abstract as possible, and my heart was set on not having any fratricide here.
- Throughout this chapter, we do have some quotes/adaptations of quotes from the previous chapters too, especially in the second part. I was hoping to show how similar Regulus' and Sirius' line of thinking really is, despite them being so different, and the fact that they both look up to each other and have so many complicated feelings towards each other but love beating all the others by MILES. They're so special to me, please.
- MSH is and will remain a Wolfstar-centric fic. I truly do not care to write about any other pairing, not here at least, but yeah, it's Regulus' POV and his feelings towards James will be... relevant for us here. Jily is very much there, regardless, but you know.
This chapter was written shortly after finishing José Saramago's ''Cain'', so if you're interested in this sort of rewrite (this one holds a lot of criticism, so yea), i cannot recommend it enough.
Also, I spent the entire week listening to Tool's discography, and the majority of the writing was done while listening to this particular one: https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/2Dqg2mRbfIVKhBZleNrgmH?si=71768410fb05433d
Thank you for the lovely messages/comments on last week's chapter. I hope you enjoy this one as well. ❤️
L x
Chapter 6: What to Do When the Earth Swallows You Whole - Part II
Summary:
for your consideration: Remus John Lupin.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“ I made
this place for you. A place for to love me.
If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is.”
51.5304907, -0.1216553
It goes like this: Remus Lupin falls in love with Sirius Black. He doesn’t really notice it, so he doesn’t really plan it, either, and Remus Lupin is, by all definitions, someone who notices things and plans ahead, so, evidently, the ordeal pisses him off.
The truth is, there’s no ahead when it comes to Sirius Black. That much Remus had realized, and from the very get-go (“I’m going to have the bed by the window” “Why? I wanted the bed by the window!” “Too bad. I already started to unpack. See those books there? They’re mine. You can read them, of course, but on your own bed. Pick that one in front of mine.” “But I want the bed by the window!” “Whatever for?” “Why do you want it?” “I just do.”).
Be it the bed by the window or absolutely everything else, Sirius Black always gets there first, wherever there is, everywhere, probably, and everywhere Sirius Black goes, Sirius Black is.
Just, exists, takes up his space, everybody else’s, makes it all his, and everybody will love him for it. There’s nothing new, or special, or surprising, about loving Sirius Black. In fact, Remus is certain the defect comes when someone doesn’t.
At first, Remus doesn't particularly want to join the party. Partly because his resignation goes dormant, in a sense, sometimes, giving way to a unnerving will to… differentiate himself. He’s different, alright, he gets it, and it sucks sometimes to stand out, but does it feel fair to blend in, as well? Does it, when it comes to loving Sirius Black? Sirius Black, reckless bastard, Sirius Black, absolute idiot, Sirius Black, stubborn, annoying, stupid, beautiful mess? Does it?
And, also, partly because he is fucking frightened.
Now, Remus is no stranger to fear. He actually found it a bit surprising, being sorted into Gryffindor (he was confident he’d be either a Ravenclaw, like his father, maybe even a Hufflepuff, what with his whole diplomacy thing Hope used to boast about), because he was certain fear was the thing he was most familiar with. Remus was, in fact, scared shitless most of the time: of the monster he became every month, of the monster who turned him into one, of the monstrosities he knew himself capable of undertaking, whether human-Remus wanted to or not.
(But also: of heights, and the dark, and tight spaces, and dogs.)
With time, he outgrew some of his fears, and got used to almost all of them. He learned how to beat them, numb them, even, which he supposed was his own brand of bravery, one that felt much more like surrender. It wasn’t so much a conquest as it was a concession, but it worked for him.
It had been working for him.
But loving Sirius Black?
That's the catch, of course, because loving Sirius Black evidently fucks the whole act up.
It is terrifying in its intensity, in its inevitability, in its rightness. Always has been. It was terrifying from the moment Remus realized the weight of it all, how it clung inside him like a silent, permanent ache he vainly attempted to hide behind awkward smiles and forced jokes, afraid, always afraid, so afraid to lose him altogether, best friend, partner in mischief, companion for sleepless nights. It was terrifying when Sirius kissed him back, both of them drunk out of their minds, and later on when Sirius kissed him first, both of them probably too sober, and through days and days of endless kissing, it never once stopped being terrifying.
The war brought on new fears, and all of them, one way or another, only existed because Sirius existed. The war was brutal, and cruel, but Remus never once feared a curse aimed at him. Sirius couldn’t have so much as a nosebleed for Remus to completely lose his mind, something irrevocably primal gnawing at him, an incessant who did it? where are they? who let them out alive? to constantly remind him of his real fears: losing Sirius, and everything he would to do prevent it, and everything he could do if it were to happen.
And, above all, Sirius himself.
As is it, it did happen, and even then, Remus didn’t stop being afraid for any of those things.
It goes like this: Remus Lupin falls in love with Sirius Black. After coming to terms with that fact, Remus accepts he’s been falling in love with Sirius Black from the very first time he laid eyes on him. A childish love at first, sure, both innocent and playful in all the right ways, but love, indisputably, nevertheless. Remus also accepts that Sirius is the person he fears the most, no one else holding a candle to how petrified he renders him, because, well.
Remus knows he’s not all right. His own body is a testament to that, really, all jagged scars, dull skin, bony elbows. So much of him an atrocious creation shaped by someone else’s wickedness, so much of him so ugly, and bad, and wrong. So much of him fundamentally broken, only stitched back together by a stroke of luck that came in the form of three other eleven-year-old boys.
And yet, stitched back together regardless. As if whoever he was meant to be was lost long ago, replaced by this distorted, perpetually wounded collage of a person, whose stiches, for all their sweetness, held no promise of permanence.
With time, Remus made peace with the knowledge that some people are capable of at least accepting his existence, no matter how cursed it feels to him. Somehow, and impossibly, they see beyond the scars, the uneven edges, the monstrous parts, and they accept him anyway, like he might not be beyond fixing. Broken, yes, but not irreparably so.
That brought him solace. It felt like an armistice, of sorts.
Then, of course, it’s Sirius, because of course it’s Sirius, not really meaning to, he’s sure of it, who ends up showing him how precarious, how fragile, those stitches can be. Sirius, who showed him that being accepted was possible (and did it by accepting him, no less), also taught him just how easily it could all be undone.
Because the moment Remus realized how much he loved Sirius, he understood that Sirius could, and most likely would, be the one to break him completely.
For good.
Stitches and collages be damned.
He would never come back from being broken by Sirius. Greyback might have turned him into a monster, but Sirius would turn him into… nothing. Just, gone. Imagine fine china being dropped from the astronomy tower? Yes. That. Worse, even. No one would ever be able to find all the missing pieces. Everyone would accept it for what it inevitably would be: a lost case. Garbage. Gone. Gone.
And Remus wishes he could word it better. He wishes he could sit with someone, Lily, maybe, and ask: Can you imagine feeling something like this? Is this what it feels like for you, too? Could you live your life knowing someone has this sort of power over it? What does it say about me? What does it say about them? What does it say about my life? Is it worth more because of that? Less? What do you even do with this knowledge? What do you do with this fear? What do you do with a love like this? Are there big enough vaults to hold this? My body is not big enough. My body is all broken as it is. It will spill. It is spilling. What if he knows? What will he do? What if he cares? What if he doesn’t? What if it kills me? What if he does?
He never once sits with someone and asks those things. There would be no point, really, because, as it turns out, he would love him either way. He would endure his own weakness. He would take his own fear and wrap it up and put a pretty bow on it and eat it whole and chew it up and let it settle wherever it wanted inside of him.
He would, and he did, and he does.
☾ ✹ ☽
Something’s not right, he thinks, hazily, and no, no it is not right. For starters, he feels warm. It reminds him of the common room, impossibly, and sharing ratted sweaters, and drinking just the right amount of firewhiskey, and Sirius, and –
Sirius?
I’m losing my mind. That’s it. I’m on that fucking chamber and that mental bitch tortured me into insanity and now I’m stuck here with my– with my–
Well. Remus is not quite sure where he is now. He’s not quite sure what’s going on. But wherever he is, torture chamber or common room, whenever he is, really, because it doesn’t feel really like… the present, he’s sure of this: Sirius Black is here, because of course he is, because he always gets somewhere first.
He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’sherehe’sherehe’shereHE’SHere–
Oh love. Oh love. I missed you so much. Get back here. Show yourself. Where are you? Where are we? Wh–
And then it clicks.
Well, sort of clicks.
He supposes he's having some sort of out of body experience – maybe I am in the fucking torture chamber but maybe this is a good way to go –, some sort of time traveling event – how the fuck did I do that –, because suddenly he’s sitting in an empty carriage and he knows, with unshakable certainty, that the door will open any second now, and he knows he can’t be twenty-three still, or yet, and even if he didn’t a moment ago, he sure as hell knows it now, because Sirius Black is pushing the stupid door, and oh god, he was already so beautiful then, what the h–
“Moony? Can I come in?”
“No one’s stopping you,” Remus sees himself reply, voice flat.
“Oh. James is still saying bye to Effie. If you want I’ll go f–”
“You can stay.”
“Are you sure?” Sirius presses, uncertainty palpable in his voice. God, he sounds so young.
“I just said yes, Black, stop standing and close that fucking door.”
“Okay, Moony.”
They're riding in painfully uncomfortable, familiar silence. This is a memory. Why am I here? I don’t want it. I don’t need it. Not this part. Not right now. Is this part of their torture? Oh lord, it is. Genius, frankly, way to g–
And, of course, is Sirius that breaks said silence, voice all tentative, all sweet. “Moony?”
“Don’t call me that,” he all but snarls. He's so angry. How could he not be?
“Alright. Remus?” Sirius tries.
“What?”
A beat. “I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers, eyes downcast.
“Whatever for, Sirius? You didn’t mean it, it was a joke, no one got harmed. No reason to apologize, right?”
“Don’t do that, M– Remus,” he pleads.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not. I mean, I am, I’m just… Look. Remus. I know, alright? There’s no excuse. It wasn’t a joke. I don’t–” pause. “I don’t know what that was. I know I hurt you. I harmed you. Us. There’s no… There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to change it. That night. I was so fucking stupid. I ruined everyt–”
“You did,” he cut, and his voice is so trembling, so broken. “What was that, Sirius? And you know what’s worse? I’m sure you would think about it twice if it was James. Or Regulus. I thought… We–” He felt the words catching in his throat. “I thought we were friends. I would never do that to you. It would never cross my mind. Do you understand that? How did it ever cross yours?”
“Remus. We were friends. I am your friend. I lov– I–” Sirius falters then, his own voice also cracking. “I love all of us. I miss us. I broke it, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m rotten work, Moony, and I–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Moony, please, I am so sor–”
“Don’t call me that!” Remus snaps, because, Merlin, it hurts. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “And stop apologizing. I'm not– I– Look, Sirius,” Here it goes. You weak, weak boy. “I… You need to understand. Alright? I need you to listen to me. To listen to me until the very end. Can you do that for me?”
“Anything you say, Remus.”
“Remember the day we met?” he asks, in a distant tone that made present-Remus smile despite himself. We were such fools back then. I was such a fool for you, Sirius Black. When I was eleven, and then when I was fifteen, and now that I am however old I might be now.
“Uh? Yes?” and good, because Sirius is visibly confused now, and a confused Sirius is usually a quieter one. Remus remembers needing that.
“That was the first time in a while I met… well, anyone, really. My parents never let me go to school with the other kids, of course, should they be able to tell something was… not right. They did the best they could at home, but I was always so… lonely, you know?”
“I know.”
“I know you know. It doesn’t really help, now, does it?” he snaps. “I was a very lonely kid. Got a bit rough around the edges because of that, too. A little stupid, a little rude. James hated the living shit out of me.”
Here it comes. “He didn’t!” Sirius protests, as he does. Remus feels his all too familiar kick of jealousy because Merlin forbid someone puts James Potter under bad lighting. And he doesn't even mean to, because Remus loves James, but it doesn't mean it ever stops stinging, watching Sirius’ canine loyalty so firmly rooted on someone else. “He did, and that’s fine. I disliked him too. And you, all posh and entitled,” he adds with a faint smirk.
“I was a prat.”
“You were. I was a prat, too. That didn’t matter in the end, though, did it? You still chose me. More so than Peter or James. Despite of them, even, which is a tough thing for an eleven-year-old to do.”
“Caring about you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done, Moony.”
“It couldn’t have been easy, Sirius. I’m letting you off the hook here. I was a prat. When I wasn’t being quiet and awkward, I was ready to bite your head off. Do you know when I decided to give in?” Remus asks, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Humor me.”
The smile widens then. I never really stood a fucking chance, did I? “When you came up to me, months after settling in, and asked me if I hated you because you took the bed by the window. I barely remembered that at all. I never cared much for the bed, and I told you that, and yet, when I came back to the dormitory–”
“I had moved our stuff. I remember,” Sirius cuts, nodding and smiling shyly himself.
“You never said anything. You left a stupid chocolate frog on your bed, that was now my bed, and wrote “I’m sorry” on a piece of parchment, and went about the rest of the day like it was nothing.”
“I was sorry. It is your bed, Moony.”
“It is,” Remus agrees. “I thought you were too arrogant to apologize, let alone for something so small, you know? It moved me a bit, I think. After that…”
“You started to hang out with us more. You were–”
“Comfortable,” he says, cutting him off. “I was comfortable. I’ve never not been comfortable ever since, even with… the moons, and the injuries, and all of that. You understand what I’m saying, Sirius? I was comfortable, and you took that from me. And I can’t stop blaming myself for allowing you.”
“It’s not your fault I’m such a fuck up, Remus. You should be comfortable. You should allow yourself to be comfortable. And to… And to be comforted, you know? You’re allowed. You deserve it. Everybody does, but you more so than everyone else. To me, at least. You–”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?”
Because I love you, you twat.
Sirius?!
Hello, Moony. Fancy meeting you here.
What the hell are you doing here? Is this – are we– where am I?
Oh love. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.
Are you real?
I told you I am.
Is this all real?
You know it is. We’ve been here before.
So we have. Wait. You just s–
I know. I do. I did back then. I just didn’t know how to tell you. Hear this:
“Because I care about you, you twat.”
See?
“That’s a fine way of showing it, Pads,” he hears himself reply, through a hint of a stubborn grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll do better. I’ll care better. And show you better. Please, Moony. I am so sorry. You don’t have to forgive me, just let me prove it to you, how s–” Sirius starts, words tumbling out in a rush.
“You’re forgiven, Padfoot,” Remus interrupts, with a calmness and certainty that present-day Remus doesn't recall possessing, yet finds almost annoyingly unsurprising. Although, given the state of Sirius’ expression, Remus gets the feeling that he's the only unsurprised one there. This silly boy never got it, did he?
“…Moony?!” Sirius gasps.
“Yes?”
“Are you serious?” he asks, grey eyes so, so wide.
“I thought you were Sir–” Remus begins, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up,” Sirius cuts him off, voice shaking. “Are you for real? You forgive me?” He paused, shaking his head as if trying to clear it, as if Remus was speaking parseltongue, and god, he really didn’t get it. “Don’t be an idiot. Why the fuck would you forgive me? I have done nothing to earn it! Let me earn it first, Moony. Don’t be so quick to forgive me. Why are you such an idiot, I swear to God, you and that self-sacrificing bullshit, you can’t just go around forgiving p–”
“Pads?” Remus interjects softly.
“What?!” Sirius snaps, sounding downright pissed off.
“I forgive you. I always forgive you.”
“Whyever the fuck, Remus?”
“Because I care about you too, you twat.”
This is one of my favorites.
Favorites?
Memories. Of you. Of us. It sounded a lot like love. You had never said something like that.
Not in so many words, no.
Was it? Love?
What do you think?
Why did you say it then? In that moment, that is?
Shit timing? Great timing? Who knows. Why did you tell me then? It sounded a lot like love, too.
Oh, Moons. I told you because I wanted to.
You know, I thought this was… something else. Torture, or something. But I feel happy. I felt so happy then. Sad, too. But mostly happy.
I did, too. Took us a while to get there.
It did. It was worth it, though, wasn’t it?
It was. It still is. And Moons?
What?
You know what? I am happy, too.
☾ ✹ ☽
51.5099685, -0.1304395
“Remus?”
“Sirius. Hi. I thought you were–” Remus begins, turning to face him as he walks into the room.
“Out, I know, false alarm, turns out. Was about to go and meet Fab and Gid, they got the night off, too. I thought you’d be–”
“Only back tomorrow, yeah.” Remus interrupts. “Turns out the new pack is just as interested in spending time with Remus as they were with Moony. Kicked me out and told me not to come back, so here I am.”
“How was the moon?”
“You know.”
“I don’t, actually,” Sirius says, with a little more sharpness, his eyes searching Remus’ face.
“Well, I’m alive. No major injuries,” he replies, going for nonchalance. “They were wary at first but that’s to be expected. Mostly just let me be, and the forest was wide enough for Moony to go about his thing. He missed you.”
“Oh. Right. We all mis–” Sirius begins, obviously attempting the same casualness.
“You, Sirius.”
Sirius blushes, uncharacteristically flustered. “I missed you too,” he admits. “Want to stay in? I can go and grab some dinner. And you should lie down.”
“I’m fine,” Remus says, waving him off. “You should go meet them.”
“Don’t be daft, Moons. I was going to meet them because I didn’t want to spend the entire night agonizing over you. I will be spending the entire night agonizing over you if I leave now.”
“You don’t need to worry, Pads. I’m fine. Just exhausted, so you know I’ll be shit company, probably going to fall asleep before you can say hippogriff–”
“That’s fine by me,” Sirius interrupts with a grin. “You look cute when you sleep. Even if you drool a little.”
“You’re the drooler, Padfoot,” Remus retorts, a small grin of his own tugging at his lips.
“Whatever you say, Moonbeam. I’ll make us a sandwich?”
“… Fine. I’ll help you.”
They make their way to the kitchen, with Sirius deliberately slowing his pace, ensuring Remus doesn't feel rushed. It makes him giddy, even now, because Sirius Black could be many things – gorgeous, brilliant, hilarious, giving… But thoughtful? Oh, Sirius Black was rarely thoughtful, not with most people, not unless it was Remus. He is also fucking pushy, though, and so he presses, attempting a somewhat relaxed approach. “So. The moon.”
“What about it?”
“You’re being awfully vague,” Sirius glances at him then. “You are alive, no injuries, all things I can tell by myself, thank you. What else?”
“Pads, please,” he sighs. “There is not much else to tell and, even so, you know we are not supposed to discuss the missions.”
“James and Lily do.”
We are not James and Lily, he thinks, a bit bitterly, a bit resignedly. I love you more than they love each other, he thinks, almost childishly, as well. They wouldn’t hurt each other this much, he thinks, that’s how much I love you. I love you so much I will ruin us so I can save you. I love you so much I will ruin us so you don’t die on me. I’d much rather die on you, and that will break you, but you will come out of it alive. I wouldn’t come out of it alive if you died on me. I am selfish like that but I am protecting you. I promise I am protecting you. There’s so much life for you left to live. There’s so much of you to give out to others. I want to keep you for myself. I can’t keep you for myself. I hate myself. I hate this war. I hate you. I want to hide you away until this is all over. This will not be over unless someone stops it. I can’t have you stopping it. It will kill you. It will kill you. It will kill you. It will kill you. I wish I could tell you all this. It’s eating me alive. I wish, I wish, I wish,
“I’m just trying to earn their confidence,” he says, instead. “They’re wary of wizards, you know this. Voldemort’s promises are much more appealing than whatever laws we have going on now regarding lycanthropy.”
“Thank you,” Sirius whispers softly, and after a moment, and was he always this tender? I don’t remember it like this. Or do I? I must remember it like this. Is this real? Is he? Oh god I’m losing my f–
“Whatever for?” he hears himself asking.
“Letting me in a bit, I suppose.”
“Ta.”
“Moony?”
“Yes?”
“When this is all over… We’ll make so much change. We’ll do so much. We’ll make it out alive and we’ll help. We will not be making the same mistakes.” and yes, that’s him, that’s how I remember him. A voice charged with determination, as if he was daring the future, or fate, to try to stop him.
“Oh, Pads,” Remus sighs. “They will still see me… people like me… as the mistake. That’s what scares me, you know? My heart is in all of this, it is, because Voldemort won’t do shit to help people like me. It’s all a façade, and I know it, and some others know it too, but… But we can’t be as naïve as so believe Dumbledore, or the Ministry, or whoever else, will make any significant change. They’ll still want to chain us up. They’ll still keep us from jobs. They’ll still chose to see us as… less. Even if we win the war–”
“When,” Sirius interrupts.
“What?”
“When we win the war,” he explains, firmly, still daring.
“Well, even when we win the war, it won’t end prejudice. It was here way before Voldemort ever even existed.”
“I know that. But people can change. You can unlearn prejudice. I did it. It’s actually pretty easy,” he muses.
“It isn’t, Pads,” Remus replies, shaking his head. “You’re just an exception, I suppose. But things don’t usually go like that. You saw the way Marls acted when she learned about my… furry little problem. She could barely look me in the eye for months–”
“Yes, and then she called bullshit. She’s one of your closest friends, Moons,” Sirius counters.
“She is,” and she was. She was. “She’s my friend. And yet, that’s probably the only reason she forgave the lycanthropy thing.”
“Moony?”
“Hm?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. She didn’t forgive anything, because there is nothing to forgive. You hear me?”
“People don’t think like you do.”
“Sometimes I think you don’t think like I do,” Sirius says, a hint of a smile on his lips, even if a little sad.
“You know what? You might be right,” Remus admits, a faint smile of his own forming.
“I was thinking…” Sirius begin, after another moment. “I might try becoming a Healer. After… When we win the war, that is.”
“Really? I thought you were over that idea.”
Sirius shakes his head. “No, not really. If anything, I’m more into it. I want to help, Moony. I was considering… Well, the Serious Bites Ward. People don’t deserve to… be pushed to the corner, you know? There are so many people… so many kids out there. Kids like you were, Moony, and they deserve proper care, and I want to… I want to be a part of that. It always broke my heart to see you after the moons, before we joined you… If I can… If I can help, even a little–”
“Pads. You will be brilliant. You’re always brilliant. You’ll be a great Healer.”
“Ta.”
“And, you know. Thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
“Oh, just. Caring, I suppose.”
“Caring about you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” Remus smiles. I did that a lot more than I thought I did. “So you’ve said. Thank you for caring about the others. You’re much softer than people would take you for.”
“Oh, Moony, Moony,” Sirius replies with a grin. “There’s nothing soft about me. I’ll take that hospital by storm. I’ll hex whoever dares to spit nonsense in my direction, or yours, or anyone else’s.”
“I’m sure you can’t go around hexing people as a Healer,” Remus teases, his smile growing.
“Watch me,” Sirius shoots back, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Oh, Padfoot. I hope I will.”
“You will.”
“How do you know?”
He flashes him another grin, all toothy and heavy with resolve. “I’ll die before I let you die on me. This war’s got nothing on us. You’ll watch me, and I’ll watch you. We will never take our eyes off each other when this is over.”
I’m so sorry.
Hello, Moony.
Hello, Padfoot.
You didn’t believe me then, did you?
… No, love. I didn’t. I never thought I would see you again, after all…all of this. Can I see you now?
Not yet, darling. I’m still a bit far. You already saw me, though.
I don’t remember. I miss your face. I wish I could see it now. I bet you have no wrinkles on you.
I have some wrinkles on me. Some you put there.
Didn’t mean to.
Where were you, Remus? They told me you were dead. I mourned you. I couldn’t… You wouldn’t… Where were you? Were you there the whole time? In that chamber?
No, not the whole time. I’m sorry.
Did you–
Yes, Padfoot. I did. I do.
God. I wish you would tell me.
Not yet, love.
Why not?
There’s more you need to see. I’ll tell you then.
I am so mad at you.
I know. You are right to. But you made it. You are alive. Are you a Healer?
I am a Healer. And I am alive. That’s beside the point.
I’m so proud of you, Pads. I knew you’d make it. Am I dead?
No, twat. And you won’t be.
Where am I?
St. Mungo’s. Our flat. Does it matter? We are here.
We are. Am I your patient?
Yes.
Good. I can’t wait to see you again.
“You know what, Pads? You might be right.”
“Here’s your sandwich.”
“Thank you.”
Remus sees the two of them eating in comfortable silence, the kind that always used to settle around like a familiar blanket, an undeniable sense of home. It's overwhelming, really, his heart clenching at the memory, not only because it's so vivid – too vivid – but because it feels, simultaneously, so fucking out of reach: them in their kitchen, Sirius oh so attentively wiping the breadcrumbs with his hand, Sirius oh so teasingly licking sauce off his mouth, Sirius smiling with food stuck on his teeth, Sirius getting them tea, Sirius burning his tongue, Sirius complaining about it, Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.
“It’s his birthday today, you know?” Sirius says suddenly, breaking the silence.
It takes Remus a second to catch up. “Is it? Funny, that. Summer doesn’t suit him.”
“You think? I think it does. He’s always loved warm days. Very prone to the sun, even if he always got the worst sunburns.”
“I can’t imagine Regulus enjoying a sunny day at all,” he muses.
“He does. Or, he did? I’m not sure anymore, honestly. Maybe he’s grown out of it.”
“Grown out of… the sun?” Remus asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, yes. Out of warmth. Comfort. I don’t know. I wish I had heard from him, you know? Do you… Does it make me a terrible person?” Sirius asks.
“Wanting to hear from your brother does not make you a terrible person, Padfoot. I’m sure he misses you.”
“I’m not so sure. He’s so… I don’t know. I don’t think he misses me, just like I’m not sure I miss him. I miss missing him. It’s a bit more complicated now, I think.”
“So you don’t miss him?”
“I do. Maybe just not the person I believe him to be these days.”
“Do you think he really is that person? The one you believe him to be?”
“Well, he always loved proving me wrong. But it’s not like he’s trying to, now, is it?” Sirius retorts, tone now carrying a hint of hostility.
“Maybe he is. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to show you,” Remus suggests.
“Joining a death cult is a shit way of trying to prove me wrong, Moons.”
“No one has seen him in a while, Pads. There are attacks every week and no one sees him there. Maybe he’s, I don’t know, over it, gone, hiding–” Remus begins, but Sirius cuts him off. “Blacks don’t hide.”
“Some Blacks might,” he counters back. Sirius ignores it. He would, of course. “He’s probably too soft for battles. Maybe their Dark Lord is having him do something else. Maybe he’s been deemed as useless. I can only wish. Moony what if… What if he dies?”
“He won’t die. He’s a Black. He’ll live just to spite us all.”
“I hope so. I hope he lives. But what then? Best case scenario we win this bloody war and then what? They’ll throw him into fucking Azkaban… Might as well be dead and… And then again maybe he’ll deserve it. What if he deserves it, Moony? What if he did something terrible and what if he deserves it? What then? I can’t let him rot there. And either way I’ll always be useless myself, to him, at least. I always fail to protect him.”
“You did what you could. Who knows, maybe he’s gone somewhere trying to protect you.”
“Fat chance,” Sirius mutters.
“You could write to him.”
“And say what? Happy birthday I’m sorry you’re a death eater I love you please don’t tell mum?” he retorts, sarcasm veiling his pain only ever so slightly.
“…Something like that.”
“I don’t think we’ll speak again,” he confesses, his voice barely audible.
“And I don’t think that’s true. You’ll have time. When this is all over, yeah? Plenty of time to make up for all these years. He’ll come to his senses.”
“Look at you, all positive.”
“That’s me. Always a ray of sunshine.”
“Of course, Moonbeam,” Sirius says, his smile growing. “Do you want to go rest for a bit?”
“’m not sleepy. We could go to bed, though,” Remus suggests, with a touch of mischief in his voice. “Why, Moons! You filthy animal! Such shocking propositions!” Sirius exclaims, feigning scandal.
Remus rolls his eyes at this.“Way to ruin it, Pads.”
“Is it?” Sirius asks, playfully.
“What?”
“Ruined,” Sirius clarifies, and oh. Those bloody eyes. I really, really, never stood a chance.
“Oh. No, not really,” Remus admits with a soft smile.
“So, bed? I can do a more thorough inspection on potential wounds…” Sirius suggests as his voice drops into a teasing lilt.
“Ah, of course. Take me to bed, Healer Black.”
☾ ✹ ☽
57.4590151, -4.2912263
Remus distinctly doesn’t remember how he got here. Or, rather, he does, sort of, but not how he got here now.
He’s been here before, he’s not quite sure he’s not here still.
Sirius (or whatever version of Sirius his defective mind made up) assured him he’s not, not really, not anymore. And, well, there is a part of Remus’ brain that believes him, evidently, and Remus is sure that, if he still possessed some semblance of awareness of his physical existence, his body would believe it too, would just – trust the safety being there. Trust the comfort. It’s primal to him, at this point: Sirius assures him he’s deserving of comfort, Sirius ensures he’s granted that comfort, and Remus (or big, important parts of Remus) believes it blindly.
And yet, he’s here. Somehow, at some capacity, he is, and that means he’s not all safe. He’s positive Sirius has been wandering around his mind, retrieving memories, making both relive them, and even if he’s not sure as to why he’s doing that, he’s almost sure Sirius got them there, or his mind got them there to guarantee Sirius sees it all.
Which is, whichever way you see it, really fucking ironic.
Because Remus wanted, with a fierceness that only protecting Sirius brought out of him, for Sirius to never find out about any of this. Firstly, he didn’t believe he would survive. He had made peace with that fact, somehow, and he supposed it would be easier for Sirius to believe him dead. Gone. Whatever, just not in his orbit, not in a way that could hurt him, not if he could prevent it, and apparently, he could prevent it.
Regulus knew this, of course. Used that knowledge, really, to bend Remus to his will, and not in an ill-hearted way, Remus supposes. Regulus had somehow figured out how to beat Voldemort – an insane statement if Remus ever heard one –, had somehow decided to take on the task of beating Voldemort – truly, the kid was mental –, and had somehow determined Remus was the only person he could trust to help him.
Now, Remus was under no illusion of recognition from one Regulus Black. He knew Regulus didn’t call for him because of his undisputable dueling skills, or for his brilliant mind. Remus could accept, albeit reluctantly, that he was no match for a Black, and so there were no presumptions on his part. Regulus didn’t need him for his abilities: he needed him for his commitment.
Not to the Order, nor to Dumbledore, although it took a bit of arguing for Remus to agree to keep Dumbledore out of the whole thing.
But to Sirius, and Sirius’ safety.
And, you see, they got each other. They did. Remus never truly cared for Regulus, thought of him sparsely and with some sort of second-hand resentment, and nurtured no particular sympathy for the kid. Any trace of caring existed only because of Sirius, especially because, being an only child, he could understand that, rationally, there were some things regarding their dynamics as brothers that he wouldn’t comprehend, not completely.
It didn’t help that they weren’t just brothers, but Blacks.
Sirius would sometimes claim them to be somewhat similar, Regulus and Remus.
After a couple of months working with Regulus, Remus had begun to wonder if Sirius knew him at all – or his brother, for that matter. They were nothing alike, frankly: Regulus was far too neat, far too swotty. Remus could be perceived as both, sure, but he was a downright mess and only cared to study whatever tickled his fancy. Regulus loved sunny days (so he supposed Sirius was right, after all) and preferred to meet in the mornings. Remus, by all means a night owl, felt murderous whenever he had to leave his perfectly warm bed, with his perfectly warm b–, friend?– with Sirius lying next to him, to go and meet the younger Black. Regulus was a menace, truly, exactly how Remus would assume a younger brother could be, and Remus… well, suffice it to say, Regulus had no qualms telling him, time and time again, how much of an only child he acted like.
In fact, the only thing they had in common was Sirius, and their willingness to go to unimaginable lengths to protect him.
Unimaginable being the key word here, because, Horcruxes? Oh, it took a moment for Remus to gather his thoughts upon learning about them. Foul, tainted magic.
It had been a bit upsetting how Regulus kept talking about it with a fucking grin on his face. He supposes it was the Black madness Sirius kept blabbing about – “Moony, we are all insane! It’s the inbreeding I swear! Merlin, I hope I don’t end up like them, you know?” –, because who the fuck grins at this, right? Regulus was cautious, and Remus knew he was taking the issue seriously, but there was a constant… amusement to his tone that Remus couldn’t quite figure out. As if he found the Horcruxes terrifying, but somehow… funny? Ridiculous?
Well it wasn’t funny to Remus. It wasn’t funny at all, because, you see, all his friends – his family, the one he built for himself, and Sirius, his Sirius, his reckless, idiotic Sirius, they were all throwing themselves into a war they couldn’t possibly win. Not against someone apparently fucking immortal.
“He’s not immortal, Lupin, keep up. We are killing him,” Regulus had said, and, well. It actually took Remus just a moment to gather his thoughts, because once the initial fright was gone, it gave way to a much denser sense of mission. An definite resolve he also didn’t remember possessing, but once again, altogether unsurprising. He wouldn’t let Sirius die fighting a pointless war. It wasn’t even fair. He barely had it in him to let Sirius die fighting in any way, but the cowardice of it all twisted his insides, pissed him right the fuck off. Oh, we are killing him, alright. Even if I die trying, and Remus is certain Regulus knew that, too. There was little Remus wouldn’t do to protect his people, and nothing he wouldn’t do to protect Sirius.
Regulus, as it turned out, was the same.
“Why not James?” Remus once asked.
“None of your business,” Regulus had replied, quietly adding: “He can’t die.”
“And I can?”
“No. But I’m not stupid when it comes to you. You are my brother’s… well, you are my brother’s. I would die before letting you be dead, and that’s how I know you won’t die.”
“Uh, okay? Why couldn’t you do that with James? Are you stupid when it comes to him?”
“James is not my brother’s.”
“He’s your brother’s, alright.”
“Oh, yes, you know. But not really. And he wouldn’t let me die, anyway.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Of course. He’d die before that happens. I can’t have that.”
“Since when do you give a fuck about James Potter?”
“I thought you were the smart one, Lupin.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s you and me, anyway. And we’ll make it out alive. And we’ll kill the bastard. As many times as we need.”
And that was that.
The sentiment was great, of course, and Regulus was nothing if not committed – in that regard, as it was in many others, he was painfully like Sirius. Headstrong, unstoppable. A little mad. More than a little mad. Honestly, way more than a little mad, Remus had come to realize, especially after having him explaining his little crusade to a death cave filled with inferi (what the fuck) to retrieve a piece of Voldemort’s soul (seriously, what the fuck) by drinking a fucked up potion that most definitely almost killed him (what.the.fuck.).
They split the work, once Remus was up to date. Regulus spent hours roaming about the Grimmauld library, reading all sorts of books on all sorts of magic, trying to figure out what could potentially be strong enough to destroy the Horcruxes. They had tried everything with the locket: blasting curses, incendios, house-elf magic, even, with Kreacher. Regulus was certain the library would provide answers (“there’s nothing that half-blood knows that the Blacks wouldn’t have known before, and better”, “that’s a bit conceited, don’t you think?”, “…no, I don’t.”), and since the library detested Remus’ presence (seriously, the house was even ruder than Regulus), he usually left Regulus to go about it, really.
Remus would take his time doing his own research, locked up in Sirius’ old bedroom (the only division in that house that wouldn’t hiss at him or weaken his magic on fucking purpose, and, either way, the only division that made him feel closer to Sirius). He often read History books (the locket had been a good hint as to the kind of thing the vain Dark Lord would consider worthy of holding a piece of himself) and wondered, just as often, how the fuck he ended up there.
I should be home with him. I should be wherever with him. I’m sitting here with just a memory, and it’s not enough. He’ll resent me eventually. He’ll hate me for it. He’ll hate me for all of this even before I get a chance to go and die on a stupid Horcrux hunting mission. He’ll hate me for the distance even before having to hate me for the absence.
That entire year hadn’t been easy. The year that followed hadn’t, either.
It was August when they destroyed the last one. What they presumed to be the last one, at least.
Regulus had been long pronounced dead by then, and Remus had his relationship most likely shattered beyond repair. Sirius and Remus still lived together, and, still, there was love there. Unmistakable love, even if they never said it in so many words. But resentment had also settled between them, and bitterness, and impossible anger, and overwhelming silences. Suffice to say that many things were destroyed alongside the fucking Horcruxes, some, in many ways, much more important. Remus often wondered, then, if maybe that was what Dumbledore meant when talking about the greater good. Remus still joined some werewolf packs on occasion, as a cover for his absences, and it suited him that Dumbledore truly did not give a fuck about werewolves, in the end. Remus could simply lie to him about the progress he was making, and Dumbledore would simply sit there, pretending to believe him. Maybe he thought Remus was a spy – there had been some talk about that, within the Order. Maybe he didn’t think of him at all. Maybe Remus would sometimes turn up at his office and not just imagine the look of surprise on Dumbledore’s face – a look that said: Oh. There you are. I had almost forgotten. A look that said: How are you not dead yet? Did they not mourn you yet?
And, perhaps, yes, yes they did.
As much as you can mourn the living, that is.
Speaking of living. The Horcruxes were gone, and by then Voldemort must have figured that one out, of course, because while they both believed him broken enough to miss one piece of his soul being destroyed, they were certain five pieces of his soul would definitely tip the man off.
The fact that everyone around them kept dying was, honestly, proof enough. Those days were ruthless, and sorrowful, and never-fucking-ending. Fab and Gideon. Benjy. The McKinnons, and oh, that one had hurt. He thought of Marlene often, her brash laughter, her bold manners, how she fought and loved with equal vibrance. He thought of how she had been one of the few who actually believed Voldemort could be beaten, how hopeful she always remained, how daring. He thought of Dorcas, too, and how she could possibly be holding up. How she most likely wasn’t.
He thought, then, of how futile their efforts, his and Regulus’, felt sometimes: how, even with a butchered soul, Voldemort was still so powerful. How, even as a weaker man, because he had to be weaker, Voldemort was an idea, strong as ever, probably still growing stronger. How scary it was to think that even if they did kill him, the damage he had done would take decades to heal completely, if it ever would at all.
That’s what Voldemort was, and what Voldemort truly knew himself to be: an idea, and a terrifying one at that, a concept that had seeped into the very fabric of a wizarding world already shaky with intolerance. He was a symbol, and the hypocrisy of it all didn’t seem to matter one bit. Half-blood or not, his ideals spoke sultrily to the heart of the prejudiced, whispering to them short, effective chants: Yes, yes. You are worthy. They are not.
In those moments, Remus would question whether their fight against the Dark Lord mattered at all, when his shadows loomed so large regardless, and would probably continue to do so even after he was gone.
But oh. He would be gone. Five parts of him had, already. And he could be an idea, but he was, before that, a man.
Just a man.
With a shattered, reduced soul.
Magic, however dark, doesn’t like that. It needs wholeness to succeed. Hell, it needs it to survive.
And they had a fucking plan. They did, although Remus can’t remember it now, what with how fucked up his mind is. They were going to kill Voldemort. They were going to save James and Lily, and baby Harry, and maybe then Remus would still be granted the chance of knowing him properly, apologize to him for not being around more often, be forgiven because a baby couldn’t exactly hold a grudge. They were going to kill him, and Remus would finally be able to come home, tell Sirius all about it, have Sirius yell at him, telling him he hates him, biting his head off, kissing him senseless. Remus would come home, and he would talk, and talk, and talk, because he missed talking to Sirius, telling him things, and he would be brave, and he would be so brave, and he would tell him: I am sorry. I love you. I love you so much. Please forgive me. Can’t you see I did it for you? I did it for everybody, but it was all for you either way. You are the only measure to my courage. Can’t you see how brave I am now? I love you, I love you, I love you.
And maybe, hopefully, he would forgive him. Maybe, hopefully, he would tell him he loved him, too.
Life, of course, ends up not granting any of them such kindness.
Which is why he finds himself locked in a cold, remote chamber, god-knows-where.
His memory is still a bit of a blur, but he remembers. He remembers he was on his way to meet Regulus. He remembers, somehow impossibly, he was outside, he remembers the moon, waxing, he remembers the heat, he remembers feeling sweaty, he remembers the silence, overbearing and suffocating, he remembers.
He also remembers stepping on a fucking tree branch, feeling a little startled by the sound, how noisy and imposing it felt as it cut loudly through the night, so loud it could have been heard all the way in fucking Wales.
He remembers a voice, melodic, victorious, a little mean – “Confundus.”
He remembers feeling so stupid, and for a second, he’s sure he remembers laughing, and then he remembers nothing at all.
☾ ✹ ☽
He’s been here before. And he’s convinced he’s been here for a long time, although he can’t be sure how long of a time. A couple of months? A year? A decade?
Anyway.
It's been a long stay.
It takes the Death Eaters a while to get tired of Remus, that much is evident. By the time they do, they have effectively fucked him up. Fucked him up good.
Pain is a constant. Brutal. Except, Remus knows pain, and he supposes there is no way for the them to understand that. How familiar it feels. How much of an anchor it can be, how it keeps him tethered to reality. Pain is there, but pain has always been there, even if to a smaller extent, and because it remains there, Remus remains there, too. But he isn't immune to it. As the Cruciatus Curse tears through his body over and over again, and other curses equally vicious along with it, Remus is going through it, alright. No transformation has ever been so painful.
It is, however, the talking that unravels his mind.
Bellatrix does most of it, and it's more than a little unnerving.
She looks so much like him, he thinks, stupidly. And she really does. The eyes, of course, are the same – grey, piercing, and unmistakably Black. The cruelty is there too. Sirius had never inflicted pain on Remus with words, not intentionally, at least, but Remus has seen his way with words toward those he wanted to hurt. He can be lethal. Unforgiving. Mean, in the simplest, most effective way one can be.
Bellatrix is the same. Only meaner.
She tells him about James and Lily. Tells him they were dead, describes with excruciating detail their limp, lifeless bodies. Tells him how Voldemort murdered them, and how the kid is nowhere to be found, probably just about as dead. Tells him about Sirius, how he is drowning in grief and alcohol, how that will end up killing him, too.
You’re the only one left, really, and there’s not much left of you to begin with, beast.
She is laughing the whole time. It is joyful. It is terrible.
And yet. The worst part is that Remus can't tell if any of that is real. Can’t tell if the torture is simply bringing out all of his worst fears and convincing him they happened, or if Bellatrix actually is saying those things. Can't tell if those things are true, or twisted lies to deepen his agony.
Eventually, he can't even tell if he is alive or dead. His thoughts are blurry and frayed at the edges, and slip away from him like sand through his fingers, and that's the real pain, right there: the not knowing. I don't know anything. I can't tell anything apart. I don't recognize myself.
The full moon... well, the full moon grounds him, astonishingly, since it used to be one of the things he dreaded most, this looming fright that haunted every moment of his life. It always, always meant ruin, destruction. Unfathomable pain. Even with Padfoot, and Prongs, and Wormy, even when they all began to join him, it remained there. In fact, it morphed into an uglier version of itself, becoming then a pain that was not solely his, and rather something he was forced to share, all the while trying to shield his friends from any hurt he might bring upon them.
Remus hates the full moon, always did. But there? There, it ends up being his only refuge.
The transformations remain brutal, more so than he ever remembers them being, but there is, also, an undisputable escape within the wolf.
At first, Moony simply existed, driven by instinct alone, and that, more than anything, brought Remus a sick sense of peace. With time, it's Moony who ends up allowing him to retreat into the depths of his human mind, something he never thought to be possible at all, and, well. After all those years, it's the stupid wolf.
The stupid wolf keeps him sane.
Bitterly, he wishes he wouldn't.
(I will die here. It was all for nothing. We were so close. We were so close. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.)
So, the Death Eaters forget about him. They still keep him fed, poorly and barely, but the novelty of a chained werewolf that absolutely refused to talk eventually wore out.
Distantly, he thinks that maybe they are frightened, too. They know about the Horcruxes, however apparently unaware that they had been destroyed. They know about Regulus – or suspect him to be alive, after all – but that's about the extent of it. It doesn't seem like they presume he has anything to do with Voldemort’s disappearance. And, well, apparently, Voldemort is gone. That much is evident because there is an unquestionable edge to their voices ever since they began asking him about their Lord. Could he be dead? But then again, how? Could Regulus have… Could James? Lily?
Sirius?
Either way, they grow tired of him.
Remus wonders, often, why they don't just kill him, or dispose of him in some way. Sometimes he believes it has something to do with some unreachable tenderness toward Sirius on Bellatrix’s end. Maybe she can't bring herself to kill him. Then again, maybe they just believe him not to be worth the trouble. Perhaps they are trying to wear him out, leaving him there to rot and wither until he's had enough.
Two years.
Sirius.
Hello, Moony. Two years. You spent two years here.
How do you know?
I’ve been looking around. Putting things together. You know me. Always loved a riddle.
Two years? How am I not dead? Am I not dead?
You are not dead, Moons.
H– How?
Werewolf magic, for one. You’ve always been stronger than you gave yourself credit for.
I think I lost myself there. I’m not whole anymore. I told you. Can’t you see? I’m not all there. I told you even before actually losing myself, I’m–
Remus?
Sirius.
You are whole. You are here. You are safe. And I… I see you. I recognize you. Piece by piece, lost or found, wounded and bloodied.
Sirius.
Yes?
I miss you so fucking much.
I miss you too, Moony. I am so mad at you.
I know. You should. I was such a fool.
You were. But I need you back so we can talk about it. I miss… I miss talking to you.
I miss talking to you, too. Bring me back, okay? I want to talk to you. I want to see you. You won’t feel real unless I do.
We are almost done, Moons. I’ll be bringing you back. I’ll be bringing you home.
And oh, wasn’t that the warmest Remus had felt in a while.
Of course. Take me home, Healer Black.
Notes:
hello hello!
belated chapter, but a bit longer than usual, so there's that?
i had so much going on last week that updating was absolutely impossible but i'm so glad to be back ❤️as per always, thank you so much for the kind words in the last chapter & kudos & bookmarks & all that jazz. it truly warms my heart so much to see people caring about this little thing. thank you thank you.
andddd - it's my birthday today, actually! so i'm all full of fluffy feelings and so happy to share this day with you in a way.
so this chapter... god i have so many thoughts. i loved writing it because Remus is- well, one of my favorite characters of all time, actually. even in canon there's so much about his character worth exploring etc, both in regards to his relationship with sirius & with everyone else & fundamentally with himself, too, really. there's just so much hurt in him, all in all.
now i knew i wanted to have a remus' pov for this fic and i got a bit carried away but it's here. it's here! we'll be switching to sirius' pov again soon tho i MISS HIM.a couple of things:
keeping with the coordinates theme, the ones we get in this chapter are also actual real places: the first memory takes place in the hogwarts express so we got the coordinates for king's cross; the second memory happens at their flat, and the coordinates are for leicester square (this is a tiny tiny homage to MsKingBean89's All the Young Dudes, one of my all time fav fics, where their flat ''was off Leicester Square, in Chinatown''); the third memory happens in the chamber, again, so they're the same set i mentioned on its sister chapter (4).
i know i didn't go into much detail regarding the horcrux hunt but this is not the fic where i want to dwell on that. i might, eventually, especially because i have some other things planned regarding the MSHverse, but it is very much not the point of this fic, so we won't go, very intentionally so, into much detail with the horcrux hunting (although there will be more horcrux talking and maybe the updated tags might give some sort of hint to that!).
also and as i've mentioned before i am a bigggg fan of repetition (i write poetry, primarily, and it's usually what works best for me in terms of rythm, something incredibly important for me, and it makes me so happy to see it working the way i want it to in prose/ff as well!), so we have a lot of ''references''/paralels to most of the previous chapters. i did it on the last ch too because it made sense to me to show the similarities between regulus & sirius, and it felt essencial to do so with remus & sirius, too. it's just, they love each other so much but they have soooooo much work to do in regards to loving and accepting themselves. like their love is like no other, but they stop themselves from properly experiencing it to the fullest because they believe to be both fundamentally undeserving ot it. it just breaks my heart so much!!
i have a very solid idea for the next chapter and i believe will finally start to see some happy moments for everyone. i also updated the chapter count so we're getting closer to the end. or are we. ha.
just hang in there <3
as this chapter was also titled after the same album i mentioned in chapter 4, here's another shout-out to roadkill. i listened to this song on loop while writing this: https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/2OkZm0lnY7ezErKM3VQCfz?si=0e1a3ecaa44a4618
the poem at the begining is snow and dirty rain by richard siken, because of course it is.
thank you for sticking around!
L x
Chapter Text
It has been a trying week.
Remus is not improving. The Minister is a pain in the ass. Smethwick is… hovering, essentially, most likely making sure Sirius won’t crack, trying to distract him with academic discussions and clinical jargon, trying not to give him too much space to lose his mind, all while still taking on random cases that come up on the Dai Llewellyn Ward.
Sirius… Sirius is fucking exhausted.
The Legilimency has been helpful, for the most part. Sirius is positively overwhelmed by the whole thing, not just by the sudden shift from knowing nothing to knowing (perhaps) far too much, but also because he’s determined not to share everything he’s learning with the Ministry, not until he has Remus back, properly back, speaking for himself.
And oh he will have to speak. Sirius is actually obsessing a bit over it. Sirius has always obsessed a bit over Remus, generally – it’s instinctive, and a little silly, and overall inevitable, so that comes as no surprise. What’s surprising though is... well, everything he has been learning. Not only about Remus whereabouts, which, what the actual fuck, right, but about Remus. Sirius is angry. Sirius is furious. Sirius is so very furious he’s had to pop a couple Calming Draughts every night to stop him from burning down his own apartment or, Merlin forbids, the entire Hospital. Sirius is angry at Remus. Sirius is angry at Dumbledore. Sirius is angry at himself. Sirius is angry at Regulus.
There’s a lot of anger going on, all in all.
He’s also, undeniably, more than a little relieved, almost selfishly so, because despite everything that’s been happening, Sirius finally gets to catch a fucking break. He’s aware of the irony of that, but that makes it no less true. The desperate, starving creature inside him that has longed for Remus is more satisfied than it’s been in a long, long time. Remus’ name has always echoed within him like a mantra, but in recent years, it carried but a mournful cadence. Now, this new chant sounds a lot more like hope, and holds a sweetness Sirius didn’t know he could still sustain, which scares him, but relieves him all the same. It repeats in his mind, reassuring him over and over: I was right. He is alive. He is alive. He is still here. I am not insane. I am not insane. Remus is alive. Remus is here, and that’s the only reason the world kept turning.
So.
The good part is that Sirius has been grieving, even if terribly so, someone who is very much alive.
The bad part is that Sirius has been grieving, terribly so, someone who is very much alive.
Potentially, not only Remus. Regulus, too.
It does weird things to his heart, thinking about his little brother, so he has been very adamant about ignoring that particular beast. That cadence hasn’t changed, and he intends to keep it like that for the time being – all mourn, no hope. Hoping is dangerous even with Remus lying safely in that hospital bed, so he’s not about to be more reckless than he’s already being. He will have to come back to this, and he knows there’s no way out of this mess without addressing the issue, but firstly, above all else, he needs Remus to wake the fuck up. To come back. Fully.
Remus… Merlin, he’s unbelievably strong. It would turn Sirius on, since it always did, back then, it would, if the state of his mind didn’t still feel so fucking precarious, so fucking fragile. He’s lucid, but only sometimes, and he’s still… scattered, his thoughts all over the place. Some memories are terribly vivid, but others… They are like this strange mixture of plots, stories, dreams, times – nothing that makes all that much sense to Sirius, not entirely. They talk sometimes, and that, in itself, is a relief he never thought to feel again, but Sirius isn’t sure of how aware Remus is of these conversations, even though he sounds unmistakably like his Remus. Hell, he feels like his Remus: articulate, brilliant, a little sad, beautiful. He feels beautiful. Sirius wants to kiss the life out of him, to bite his neck until it bleeds – anything to ground him, to prove he’s not losing his mind, to show him, without a doubt, that Remus isn’t going anywhere anymore. Sirius wonders if Remus even… perceives him as a real person, or if he’s still convinced he’s trapped in some hallucinatory torture, a thought makes Sirius’ heart clench so tightly it’s dizzying. To think of what Remus has endured, for so long… For him to even be able to breathe, let alone think, is a triumph – it’s not like it’s in Bellatrix’s nature to show mercy. And that, right there, was Bella at her most merciful. If it didn’t twist his insides so completely, Sirius might have been moved, because sparing Remus was, by every definition in the book of Black, an act of love. Of devotion, too. It shows that her loyalty to the family runs just as deep as her loyalty to her Lord.
And her Lord… He supposes he should have gone to the Minister as soon as he learned about the Horcruxes. He’s not entirely sure how is it possible that the man did more than one, just like he’s not entirely convinced how it could be possible for two fucking kids to destroy them all.
He also has a hard time believing the Ministry doesn’t know about it, either way, but then again, it’s the Ministry. They wouldn’t want to believe it, not really. Dumbledore… Dumbledore is a different matter. Looking back at it, there is absolutely no way Dumbledore, all-knowing, wiseass Dumbledore, didn’t know about it. Moody, too, perhaps, or at least they had some strong suspicions. They had to. Right? Right?
In hindsight, Sirius is pretty fucking pissed off that he didn’t figure it out sooner. First. It’s so… so obvious. It’s so… mundane. It’s coward, it’s spineless, and it’s exactly what Voldemort would do: so convinced he bends magic to his will, only to see himself become a slave to magic itself.
It’s as if he never truly understood magic at all. As if he never truly got it. Sirius almost finds himself buying into his parents’ nonsense about how Muggle-borns and half-bloods struggle to grasp the deeper aspects of magic, because no true pureblood would ever dabble in something so reckless. It’s almost… well, ignorant, honestly. And it just shows, above all, how little Voldemort valued magic, that he would risk corrupting it so completely just to… just to what? Become immortal? And not even that, it turns out? He was ultimately destroyed by children, sure, which is almost laughable, sure, but it happened so because his greed got the better of him. That’s the crux of it and, hey, Sirius must acknowledge, however reluctantly, Voldemort needed an enormous knowledge to perform such magic. But in doing so he weakened his own power. Which, you know, would happen, what with the whole business of splitting his own soul. Magic needs soul. It feeds off it, it blends with it. It becomes it, it is it. How could someone so powerful not know it? How could he not get it?
It’s just ironic to Sirius, that Voldemort, in his quest for power and immortality, ended up fundamentally diminishing himself. The Dark Lord, fancying himself invincible, was ultimately undone by his own ignorance.
What a fucking loser.
Regulus must have lost it a bit when he found out, actually. Must have gotten a good laugh at it. How powerful his Lord… How small, nevertheless.
Except, it is no laughing matter, for all its ridiculousness, not for Sirius, at least. If anything, it makes everything more revolting.
It’s just… from what he could gather, Remus and Regulus had been so close, so agonizingly close. If they did it, and it looks like they did it, if they destroyed the Horcruxes… all that was left was to do was kill the man himself. And yet. And yet. For all its unfairness, what with battling against a supposedly immortal wizard, they almost had it. They almost won.
Well, all in all, they did.
But at what cost?
James is dead. Lily is dead. James is dead, his James, dead, and Harry, oh, fuck, Harry–
Whatever happened in Godric’s Hollow two years ago apparently killed Voldemort for good. Remus, and his brother, both ensured he wouldn’t come back. Sirius should be grateful. Sirius is grateful. Sirius is oh so fucking grateful.
It’s just. None of it changes the simple, brutal truth: The Potters are dead. James is dead. James is dead. It still sounds so foreign, so unreal. The Potters are dead, and they didn’t die for some grand victory, at the end of the day. They died because they were fighting someone, not only mortal, but someone who could have already been defeated.
Sirius… can’t go there. Tries not to, because he needs to fucking focus, because Remus is not dead. And for that Sirius is, in fact, grateful. Relieved, too. But this past week has been… rough. He knows he’s not doing okay; he knows he’s hanging by a fucking thread. He wants to drink himself stupid and go for whichever hyped drug is in right now with the Muggles. He wants to turn into Padfoot and rip apart every rat he encounters. He wants to punch walls until he breaks every knuckle. He wants to drink some more, anything to stop the idiotic rhythm he finds himself stuck in, these days.
Remus being alive brought Sirius a measure of peace, but only for that reason and that reason alone. Everything else he’s uncovering through Remus, though… It’s effectively dragging him into a massive setback.
For one, he can’t stop thinking about James.
James is a special wound of its own, a very particular, twisted damage that Sirius learned to live with, a pain that strikes supposedly only on occasion and for which he never truly is prepared, because it hurts, it hurts as much as it did two years ago, it hurts as much as it did even when it was but a possibility Sirius would do anything to prevent. Sirius… is trying really hard no to resent Remus, honestly. He doesn’t understand why he would keep him in the dark with something like this. He doesn’t understand why he would side with his fucking brother instead, why he would lie to his face for years and not ask him for help, and Sirius doesn’t understand how Remus could ever believe Sirius could truly ever forgive him, even if it all played out as they planned.
And the truth remains that it didn’t, and now James is dead, and Sirius feels it all over again: the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, now enhanced by the knowledge that he could have done something. That he could have helped. That maybe James would be alive if he did. That Remus kept him in the dark, and now James is dead, and Sirius can’t forgive James for dying, can’t forgive himself for not stopping it, and can’t forgive Remus for the two things.
He loves him. He loves him so much. He never stopped, could never stop even if he tried to, and Merlin knows he didn’t bother to actually try. He loves him.
But he doesn’t forgive him. He can’t. He thinks, stupidly, that he could forgive him for leaving. I wish you would have cheated, instead. I wish you would have gone and left me for a cute Muggle lad. I wish you would have stopped loving me. I wish you would have left out of hatred. I wish you would have been done with me, instead. He could forgive that. He’d do Remus one better – he could understand that.
But to keep him from saving James? And Lily? And Harry?
To let him live, like a fucking punishment, and then to let him know how… how deliberate it all was? To let him live, in a world where James doesn’t, to let him breathe out there, and then showing him how maybe things could have been different if he had known all along?
Sirius is trying. Really hard. He doesn’t think he has what it takes to forgive Remus, though. He wishes he had, and for that, he resents him, too.
And then Regulus… Sirius simply doesn’t have the fucking time to unpack all that. Doesn’t attempt to, at all, just blocks his brother’s name altogether, because he has to, because there is no other way he will survive the next times, because. Because.
Regulus has been the one Sirius mourned the longest.
How does he get rid of that?
Should he get rid of that?
For all he knows, he might have died. Again. For real, this time. And he can’t bring himself to stop mourning him, nor can he bring himself to mourn him again. So he lets him sit there, petrified and dusty and still, like a muggle photograph, like a fucking tombstone.
The Minister is not happy. She knows Sirius is hiding… Well, something. She knows, of course she does, being a Ravenclaw herself and an insufferable know-it-all from what Sirius could gather of their previous meetings. And there have been a couple of those. Sirius hated them all. They are draining and pointless and the sort of emotional labor he very adamantly tried to stay away from ever since the war ended.
To her credit, Sirius is thankful she pushed him to do it; take on the case, and all that, which was, at the end of the day, an inevitable task, but one Sirius could, arguably, deny taking on. He’s not a Mind Healer. Never spared that area much interest, given how easily muddy things could get, regardless of the patient. And to be fair, he was really fucking good at his actual job. It was almost second nature, at this point, tending to magical injuries, casting (sometimes wandlessly, something he knew Remus would be proud of, which, seriously, Black, get it together) complex healing spells, or using innovative techniques with the scarring, both physical and psychological. He was proud of it. It was his element, because it had been his element long before he even graduated. Poppy would boast about it (“Mr. Black, if you ever consider it, you will make a fine Healer someday. The spell was performed flawlessly!”), James would be a little jealous of it (“How the fuck did you do that, he was bleeding out a second ago”), Lily would be wholeheartedly excited about it (“You need to show me how you combined those two, the bones are mended perfectly, hear his breathing now!”).
Remus… Remus never quite understood why Sirius cared so much about that type of thing, the idiot, but acknowledged his skills either way, with a somewhat stunned gratitude that only comes from stupid amounts of sheer oblivion (“You didn’t have to do all this, Pads, we’ve got class in an hour and you’re dead on your feet”, “Shut up, Moony, let me work”, “Why the fuck are you doing this you stub–”, “Moony. Shut the fuck up.”).
For all of Sirius’ tolerance for pain, and life had proven he had quite a bit of it, he never managed to sit still and accept it, especially when it came to… Well, to Moony, really. Although he was steadily committed to fighting against anyone or anything that would cause pain to those he loved, his dedication to Moony had always been… heightened, so to speak. He couldn’t stand seeing him hurt. It had driven him crazy ever since he was a spoiled child (“Sirius, why the fuck does it look like you haven’t slept in five years?” “I’ll sleep when I die, James. Have you noticed Remus flinching this morning?” “Don’t be a creep, Black. Where have you been? Is it Mary again?” “Don’t be a creep, Potter. I’ll have you know I’ve been in the library. I have–” “The whole night?!” “Shut up, James. I have an idea. We can help Moons with the transformations. I’ve been researching and I think I got it”).
It drove him crazy throughout the war (“Where the hell is he, Alastor?!” “Watch your tone, Black. I’m not his guard dog. And neither are you.” “He was fucking busted last month. He has not returned this month. So where the hell is he?!” “Scream at my face again and I’ll make you beg for your mother, child!” “I will fucking kill you if I go back and he’s not there. You hear me? I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you before fucking Voldemort has a chance to, you bastard!”).
It still drives him absolutely insane to this very day (“The arm is not healing right. Who was on the night shift, today? Smethwick, I swear to Merlin we cannot keep accepting every mediocre wizard that dreams of being a He–” “Healer Black, you will need to calm down. The arm is just fine. See? No bleeding. We’ll tend to the scars lat–” “There’s no later. We’ll tend to the scars now. Just because he’s not complaining doesn’t mean he’s not in pain!”).
Sirius knows that, by everyone else’s definition, he’s always been a bit too committed. Like he is a bit too committed now. For his standards, though, he has never managed to do enough (“What would be enough, Pads?” “I wish I could eat his pain and take it upon me and carry it around and have him be light and free and happy for once. You know?” “I think I do.” “Evans?” “Er, yes. Her, too.” “Who else, Prongs?” “Oh love. You, for starters.” “Sap.” “Twat.”), and even accepting his standards to be slightly deranged, they are his standards all the same, and so. And so it’s safe to say that Sirius Black has been carrying a bitter taste on his fucking mouth for over a decade.
You see, it was too easy, figuring out Remus was a werewolf. Too damn easy, which made Sirius wonder, over and over, how everyone else around them could just… miss it. The scars, the absences, the bloody moods. Anyone who’d grown up around magic would have known the signs. But after he discovered that even Muggle-borns had their own bedtime stories and children's books featuring werewolves, Sirius was left all but baffled by the general obliviousness regarding Remus. Surprisingly, knowing Remus was a werewolf didn’t change the way Sirius perceived Remus. At all. He kept waiting for the fear to settle in, for the other shoe to drop, for Remus to suddenly become this terrifying, bloodthirsty beast. He expected something, anything, to prove what he’d heard or read about werewolves was true. It just never happened.
His fears, as it turns out, never once centered on Remus’ condition. Remus was frightening, for sure, but not because of the wolf. Much more so because of this stupid, unshakeable pull Sirius had felt toward him since… forever, really.
His friendship with Remus remained very much the same – a little weird, a little thrilling – after figuring out his secret, but something new surfaced, for Sirius, this undeniable, uncontrollable need to protect him, alleviate him, help him in any way possible. He began to obsess over it, because, oh, there were ways to help Remus.
Months upon months of poring over books in the library (“I thought you didn’t need to study to beat Evans at Potions, mate.” “I don’t. I’m studying something else.” “Remus is getting to you, Black.” “’Suppose he is, Potter.”). Endless talks to ease one oblivious Potter and one fidgety Pettigrew into the… sensitive subject (“But is it safe to share the dorm then?” “Pete, if you open your mouth one more time to ask stupid questions, I will hex your underwear for the next five years”). Countless attempts to carry that stupid Mandrake leaf in his mouth (“Do you think we’ll taste food properly ever again?” “Black, stop whining, this was your idea!”). And then, finally, Padfoot came into play, so Moony wouldn’t have to suffer through the full moon alone, and Moony loved it, and Padfoot loved it, and it was good. It was good.
He still felt fucking restless, so he just kept pushing. Himself, and his magic. He committed to memorizing every healing spell he could find, spent sleepless nights blending magic and working up new charms, and uncovered every Muggle home remedy Evans knew about (“Why do you care about all this? Is this for one of your pranks? You need to stop acting like a child, Black.” “Evans, you wound me! Now, tell me about that salve again?”).
He also decided, pretty early on, that he wanted to become a Healer. It wasn’t necessarily a sudden epiphany, but a choice that took shape through the years of watching Remus suffer. And it wasn’t just the physical pain that did it, for him. The internalized shame, the self-loathing, the weight of a stigma that the magical community had never hesitated to voice… all of that made his skin burn and his blood boil and his heart want to fucking riot.
And so, yes, he became a Healer. And, yes, it was for Remus. Of course it was. How could it not be? But it was also for himself. Being a Healer offered him a way to make use of his name without shame. Without remorse. Many hated the Blacks, with or without war, but everyone respected them. Sirius wanted to make sure to earn that respect out of merit, not fear. Well, mostly, at least. He wasn’t abject to fear if it helped him to make a difference. And he wanted to make a difference. He wanted it to be palpable. He wanted it to be real. And he would make it happen, because of course he would, because it was one thing to be some random nobody shouting about werewolf rights, and something else entirely to be a Black doing it. And Sirius was vocal. He was insufferable during the war, but much more so after it. Despite everything, he was.
He took his father’s seat in Wizengamot and used it to write endless parchments about obsolete legislation, and to push for better legislation. He raised hell about funding for Wolfsbane and demanded the bloody Werewolf Registry be reevaluated. He wrote articles and opinion pieces for The Quibbler and even the Daily Prophet when they were feeling generous enough to publish him (or, rather, was Sirius was feeling generous enough to buy them out). He penned academic parchments for London and beyond, detailing the healing spells, blended magic, and Muggle home remedies he’d been learning and developing since he was a kid.
So, Sirius knows he’s done a lot. Sirius also knows he hasn’t done enough. For instance, he could have learned more about Mind Healing, he could have also decided to become the best specialist there is out there in that regards, he could, and he should have, because now Remus needs him, and every fucking spell he’s ever mastered is evidently not helping.
He’s grateful he’s taken on the case. But it’s making the restlessness come back in full force, aggravated by the rash guilt of not having been present for Remus when he most needed him. And if his inner voice told him: He pushed you away. You haven’t been there because he ran away. He disappeared on you.
Well, he could do nothing but reply: Shut the fuck up.
☾ ✹ ☽
Now, Sirius knows he’s being a… nuisance of sorts. Smethwyck, Sirius has to give it to him, is handling everything brilliantly: the stress, the burst outs, the insufferable mood swings. Sirius is certain his patience will soon run out, though, the same way Sirius is certain it is just about to, with Smethwyck entering his office with an expression more somber than he had pulled since they started working on the case. “We need to talk.”
“We do. The full moon is in two days.”
“Knowledgeable as always. We have a batch of Wolfsbane, of course, and there are rooms available for the transformation, but maybe we should run some diagnostic spells to make sure it goes as smoothly as we hope.”
“Yes, we’ll do that. I, uh, I need to talk to you about something”, and, okay, here goes nothing, right?
“Oh?”
“Yes, and it will sound like a crazy request, but I will need you to hear me out, and to promise me not to tell the Ministry about this.”
“Healer Black, I’m sure you can underst–”
“This will help, Healer Smethwyck, sir. I assure you. But there are certain… implications that would… Well, put me in a… complicated position. Legally, that is.”
Smethwyck does a little eye twist and, yes. Yes, he is running out of patience. Too bad, really, since Sirius will do what needs to be done regardless, but he feels like he owes him something, somehow, some sort of explanation, some sort of appreciation. Smethwyck is nervous, Sirius can tell, and it would be comical, almost, if Sirius was not about to share one of his biggest secrets with him.
“Healer Black?”
“Sir.”
“… Go on.”
“I have your word?”
“…You have my word. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I’m spending the moon with Remus”, Sirius starts, evidently confident that the blunt approach might work best.
It doesn’t. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m spending the moon with Remus”, he continues, and takes a deep breath before adding: “And we won’t be giving him the Wolfsbane.”
“… Healer Black. I believe a Healer such as yourself doesn’t need me to explain the basics of lycanthr–”
“You don’t, sir.”
“… How exactly do you plan to spend a night with a werewolf in such conditions? Listen… Sirius. I know you care about him–”
“I don’t”, he cuts, petulantly, because he does care, but it’s nobody else’s business, nor something he needs to advertise right now, since everyone in the Ward is positively convinced Sirius has lost his mind as is.“I know you care about him”, Smethwyck continues anyway, the bastard. “But surely you understand that even with the Wolfsbane it could be potentially dangerous, since his human mind is still a wreck. He will.. He will kill you. Surely you know this?”
Sirius tries not to laugh, he does, because the thought of Remus mauling him never once crossed his mind, not when he was eleven, not now, and it’s sort of hilarious how it crosses everyone else’s. “He won’t. And I think it best that he doesn’t preserve his human mind for this, actually. I’d like to try something out, and perhaps the wolf will be helpful. Kind of like Legili–”
“Legilimency on a werewolf? And to what avail? You know what, it doesn’t matter, you will not be kept with this patient for the moon, this is not even a conversation I should keep entertain–”
“Sir–”
“Frankly, I warned the Minister about this. I warned you about this. We should have given the case to a Mind Healer. We sh–”
“Sir, I–”
“We should and we will. I’m giving you some days off, Healer Black. Have you been sleeping? You know the mediwitches talk and there has been some talk, of course, an–”
“Sir!”
“Yes?!”
“Sir. Remus will not hurt me.”
Something strange happens to Smethwyck’s face, a softening with some pity undertones that boils Sirius’ blood again. “Of course, son. And how are you so certain? Are you a werewolf yourself, by any chance?”
“Er, no. Not really. Not exactly. Close enough, though.”
“… What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m a,” and, fuck, how the hell does one say it? Sirius never had to. Maybe he could demonstrate. Maybe he shouldn’t. He doesn’t, continuing, instead: “I’m a dog, sir. Not like, a dog-dog. An Animagus. Unregistered, that is”, he adds, for good measure. “So you see how I need your… utmost discretion.”
“You are an unregistered Animagus.”
“Yes. A dog. I have been for years, actually, did it when we were all fifteen–”
“All?!”
“Oh. Yes, sir. Me, and James, and P–. Well. Me and James. Potter, sir. He was a stag.”
“You and James Potter became Animagi by fifteen? You expect me to–”
“Yes, and Peter Pettigrew too.”
“Well, that’s common knowledge. It was stated on his trial, I remember. I thought he did it during… During the war. It never made sense, truly, it’s really advanced magic and Mr. Pettigrew never did strike me as the most brilliant of wizards”, Smethwyck muses, and oh, Sirius needs to change the fucking topic. It still fazes him a bit, the fact that Peter never said anything about Sirius being an Animagus, or even bringing up Remus’ lycanthropy, but he supposes it was the last drop of loyalty he could muster. He very certainly doesn’t want to think about it now, not on top of everything, so he tries a different tactic.
“I could maybe show you?”, and this gets Smethwyck.
“… You are serious.”
“I am always–”
“Honestly, Healer Black, timing, please. Why would three teenagers do such a thing? You could have died. Or, or worse. Merlin’s beards. Why?!”
“Oh. Well, sir. For Remus. We spent the nights with him for years, you see, werewolves,”
“Are only a danger to humans. I know”, his eyes wide at the epiphany. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”
“Thanks. I thought so too.”
“You came up with the idea?”
“Yes. But it was a team effort. It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m… really not sure what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. To anyone, actually. Just let me be there. I’m trying to figure out a way to access his mind before turning, myself, but I would like to. Um. Meet the wolf, as I said. I think it can be helpful. Just let me try it out. Okay? I will be careful.”
“… Don’t make me regret his, Healer Black.” And then: “I am really proud of you. Most people, especially kids, wouldn’t go to such lengths to help a friend out.”
“Not a friend”, Sirius cuts, again, because he’s really not his friend, and because he’s still peeved that everyone thinks they understand the intricacies of their relationship.
“Of course. Now, what’s the plan? Animagus or not, I’m sure Legilimency won’t work on a werewolf who’s not on Wolfsbane.”
“I don’t think it will, either. Tell me something, would the Hospital be interested in some donations? Books, mostly.”
“Healer Sirius?”
“You see, sir, I paid a visit to Grimmauld Place. I grew up there, you see, and there are too many books getting dusty over nothing, there. I thought of donating them to Hogwarts, and some will be sent there, for sure, but there are quite a lot of information about Healing Magic, in general, and specifically regarding Mind Spells and Mind Healing… Well, frankly, the healing part requires a bit of cross-referencing, since my folks evidently did not care so much about that, but either way, I found a spell.”
“You found a spell.”
“Yes, sir. Supposedly it’ll allow one to read or navigate another’s… magic, in a way that is akin to Legilimency, but more focused on the essence of their magical being rather than their thoughts. The mind somehow plays a part in it, but it’s… secondary, if it makes sense?”
“… Sort of. Go on.”
Sirius… Does his best to explain but, frankly, he has no idea how the spell really works, since there is not much evidence it has been used at all, at least recently, nor information on how people react to it, let alone werewolves. Here’s what Sirius knows, though: the mind is a tricky matter. It exists as a fortress, of sorts, and often more impenetrable than the most sophisticated wards, more powerful in its own way than magic itself. And magic helps, of course. It offers protection, a safeguard for its bearer, but Remus’ magic is intact, every diagnostic spell tells them that, and Sirius is too overwhelmed by everything else to dwell on that. His mind, though… that’s another story. It’s there, that much is clear, but it’s locked tight, closed off in a way that’s as infuriating as it is heartbreakingly human. The thought tugs at Sirius’ heart. Remus, his Remus… He’s just a boy, and he’s just a man, and he’s just a person, and he’s been through so much that his mind is simply doing everything it can to keep the wounds from bleeding him dry. Magic… yes, magic helps, but it doesn’t. Sirius is certain there are some wards there, some magic reinforcing the mind’s efforts. Remus is safe, physically, but his mind doesn’t believe it, and neither does his magic, not completely. Remus doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t trust Sirius to be there, to be real. There’s a part of him that’s beginning to give in, which is a start, but his mind feels essentially like a cornered animal, too injured to come out and greet him with anything but suspicion, because it simply doesn’t trust that anything good will come from letting its guard down, and how could it?
So, Sirius desperately needs the full moon. It’s a reach, and he knows that, because without Wolfsbane Remus will not be present.
Well. Not his mind, at least. Not completely.
But his magic will be there, raw and unfiltered, and that… that could be an opening. Especially if Remus’ conscience will be, for the most part, dormant. Magic, for all its intricacies, is simpler than the mind. It either thrives, or it withers. It’s primal, instinctual, and it responds to trust. It knows, quicker than the mind, whether it’s safe to let go. Right now, Remus’ magic is still there, strong as ever, but muted, focused solely on survival. It’s not reaching out, not touching Sirius’ magic the way it used to.
Maybe the wolf will trust him more.
Maybe his magic will trust him, too, once the wolf does.
Maybe it’ll be like it always was: Moony and Padfoot figuring their shit out since Remus and Sirius never could.
It breaks his heart all over again, although he’s not quite sure why. It also quickens Padfoot’s heartbeat. He’s buzzing with excitement, and playfulness, and yearning, the silly dog. It’s just been so long. Merlin, it’s been too long.
He tries his best to explain the logistics of it all to Smethwyck who, albeit reluctantly, agrees with Sirius’ plan, under the condition that Sirius tries Legilimency first on Remus before they move him to the Lycanthropy Unit, where he’ll spend the moon.
Sirius accepts it, of course, and he gets to work.
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius Black loves the same way a dog loves: with faith, joy, devotion, radiance. He loves with his entire body: all four paws, all sharp teeth, open mouth salivating, throaty barks. He guards, he serves, he bites, he draws blood, he growls, he whines. He loves with stubbornness and wonder. He loves like it’s a simple thing, and he loves like it’s a thing that’ll eat him from the inside out. He’s paralyzed by it, he can’t sit still with it. He plays with it and ignores it for days. He buries it somewhere and digs it out when he feels like it, always surprised by finding it unmoved, untouched, and throbbing, still.
Sirius Black loves the same way a dog loves. Fiercely, loudly. Which is why, at the thought of transforming into Padfoot, he positively beams. After… after the Halloween, two years ago, after the loss, after the grief, after his Mind Healer advised him not to become Padfoot just to avoid the pain, Sirius never tried again. There was no one left to play with, no warmth to seek out, anyway. No love to unearth. So he kept Padfoot locked. Inaccessible. Padfoot grew tired of pushing, too. Maybe he felt old, maybe he, too, felt tired. Maybe he felt Sirius’ weariness. He still wanted to come out, especially for the moons, but Sirius learned how to silent those pleas, how to quiet that part of him than longed, and longed, and longed. And, eventually, Padfoot learned not to ask.
That is, until last week. Oh, Padfoot had completely lost it at the sight of Remus. Sirius half believed he would have a heart attack any moment, courtesy of the stupid dog. Because the dog didn’t know better. The dog knew no resentment, no bitterness. The dog did know his Moony, smelled him, sensed him, wiggled his stupid tail at the thought of having him scratching his ears after all this time. The dog knew longing, and the dog knew love, and Sirius hated the dog for only knowing the good parts of having Remus back. He wished it could be as simple, for him.
Now, Remus is still on the bed, and still very out of it, but he’s clearly agitated, too. Sirius has no idea if he anticipates a different moon from the previous dozen ones, and he fights off every little instinct of reaching for his hand – calloused, scarred, beautiful hand – and whisper some reassurance to him. There’s work to be done, and so Sirius actually focus on that instead. His team of mediwizards will come in any second to escort him to the Unit, so Sirius has to work fast, too.
Remus?
And, sure, okay.
Remus? Moons? Moony?
Sirius?
Hello, Moony. How are you?
I feel like shit.
Figures. The moon.
Yes. I miss spending the moons with you.
Good thing I’m spending this one with you.
Ah, right. Of course, love.
Moony? I’m spending the moon with you.
Are you serious?
I mean–
Merlin, you’re annoying. I can’t believe I made you up and you sound exactly like yourself with those stupid puns. Uncanny, really.
How were the other moons?
How do you think, Sirius?
Not good. But I thought… I felt… A while back, on some memory… They felt – good?
Oh, well. Sometimes they helped, you know? Now you’re helping. But, before you, the moons helped. I felt – grounded. Real. Still missed you. Sometimes I’d remember you.
As a wolf?
As everything. I am never not missing you. Moony’s no different.
Does he… Will he recognize me?
Oh, love. Of course.
I’m meeting him today. As a person, that is.
Don’t be daft.
It’ll be for just a second. I need to do this spell, and then I’ll turn into Padfoot. I wanted to let you know, should you… remember it. Maybe Moony will remember it, too.
Maybe. Moony’s been… closer to surface, as of late.
I figured.
Come as Padfoot. I can’t kill you. Even if you’re just here, in my head. I’ve… They’ve done so much, Pads. I can’t have you die on me, too. They’ll make me relive it. I can’t have you dead. I can’–
Remus. You won’t kill me. They can’t hurt you anymore. And Moony won’t hurt me either. Alright? Can you… Can you tell him that?
Tell… Moony?
Yeah. He’ll understand.
This is stupid.
Could be.
And dangerous. And risky.
Oh, well. What’s life without a little risk?
What kind of spell is it?
Kind of like this one I’m doing now.
Legilimency? I won’t–
Legilianimus. Found it on my parent’s library.
Why the fuck would you go to that house again?
That house is a carcass, Remus. It can’t hurt me anymore.
Don’t lie.
And it has loads of things nobody teaches anywhere else. As you would know, I assume.
… Well, I did make you out to be a perfect copy of the real Sirius.
I’m the real Sirius. And anyway, I’ll be trying to be in touch with your magic, instead.
My… magic?
Yes. But, you see, I have a bit of a conundrum, since I need to be human to perform this spell.
Don’t do anything. Come as Padfoot, or don’t come at all. I can’t lose you.
Tell Moony for me, please?
No.
Moons, it’ll be fine. I’ll turn into Padfoot. Okay?
Remus?
Moons?
Fuck.
☾ ✹ ☽
The isolation room is fucking cold. Sirius has been trying to get the Ministry to approve his funding requests for the Unit for ages, but to no avail. Obviously. He hates the place: the door is reinforced with silver protections, and there’s this scent of some sort of calming draught in the air, and it is overall incredibly uncomfortable. He flirts with the idea of apparating them somewhere, but quickly gives up. Remus is not strong enough, and he’s not taking any more risks than necessary.
Remus is looking at him, not speaking a word, but appearing more aware than he’s ever been.
“How are you feeling, Moony?” Sirius tries. Remus, of course, doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at him, and looking around like he’s trying to determine where he is. Sirius thinks it might remind him of the chamber: cold, a little wet, echoing and lonely. He shivers at the thought, and tries again: “Yeah, I’m not feeling great, either. Reckon it’ll get better in a moment, right? We’ll play again like we used to.”
More silence, but this time Sirius is certain he catches an amused eyebrow lifting just the slightest bit. It almost brings him to tears, but it doesn’t, because the moon is fully out, and Remus’ scream cuts through the night – something so raw, so visceral, that Sirius freezes in place immediately. He’s never witnessed Remus’ transformation with his own eyes. He would be Padfoot by now, of course, and Remus seems to understand this, because amid the agonizing cracking of bones and the sprouting of claws, he manages to utter through gritted teeth: “Change. Please. Change.”
“In a second, Moons. I’ll be fine”, Sirius lies, because it feels like a lie, now. Moony is familiar to Padfoot, not Sirius. He feels very much like a prey, and once Moony is full there, Sirius has but a second to take the vision in, to admire his presence. Oh love. You are so beautiful, he wants to say. I’m sorry you’re hurting. You’re beautiful even when you hurt, he wants to say. As it is, there’s not much time, because Moony is eyeing him like he might devour him at any moment. So instead, Sirius whispers, “Legilianimus.”
For a second, he thinks nothing has happened. For another second, he accepts that he will die. By his hand, by his mouth, no less, and what a brilliant way to go. But Moony… Moony is quiet. Just. Looking at him. Huffing, and panting, and looking. At. Him.
Moony?
He doesn’t get a reply, so to speak. But he does feel… something, prickling his skin, a burning sensation from the inside out, a blinding light he senses but doesn’t actually see. And, almost ready to believe it’s all in vain, he transforms into Padfoot, and Padfoot moves toward Moony, and Moony reaches out to him. And, in that moment, Sirius feels it everywhere.
Moony’s magic. Remus’ magic. Sirius’ magic, blending with it.
Sirius?
Remus!
Sirius! What the fuck?!
Moony! Oh my fucking god. What is happening? Are you alright?
I… I suppose. Where is this? Am I–? Oh god. I can see you. I can feel you. Oh my fucking god. You’re real. This– Do you– Do you feel it, too?
Yes, Moons. I do. Magic, eh?
Padfoot!
I know, Moons.
Where’s the rest?
The rest?
Of… of the… Them. The pack. Prongs? Wormy?
It’s… it’s just us, Moons. Is that okay? Just for now?
… So Bellatrix… I didn’t… She was real, was she not? She was telling the truth, then? Oh, fuck, Pads–
Moons. I’ll tell you all about it. Let’s just... Get through the night, okay? Can we do that?
I think so. Will I remember?
I think so. You feel this?
Yes. Magic. It’s… it’s everywhere.
It is. Do you think it trusts me?
It always does.
Do you?
Trust you?
Yes.
Yes, Sirius. I trust you. I always do.
I think you will remember, then. It’s real, all of this.
Do you?
Do I what?
Do you trust me?
I… I’m not sure, Moons. I want to.
Then I think I will remember, too.
Oh. Why’s that?
Because it’s enough. I suppose I needed to know. But–
But?
But in case I don’t. Remember, that is–
You will.
In case I don’t. There’s something you need to know.
You’ll tell me tomorrow.
I might lose the courage.
You might not.
In case I do. Pads?
Moons?
I love you. I love you so much.
Sirius Black loves the same way a dog loves: with faith, joy, devotion, radiance. He loves with his entire body: all four paws, all sharp teeth, open mouth salivating, throaty barks. He guards, he serves, he bites, he draws blood, he growls, he whines. He loves with stubbornness and wonder.
He bites Moony’s neck and licks his face and there’s a little blood, there, too, and he paws at him, and he hopes it’s enough.
Notes:
hello hello!
firstly, thank you so much for the birthday wishes & overall kind comments on the previous chapter. ❤️
and, as promised: sirius' pov today, we are soooo back! we're starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel, right?
i'm positively exhausted this week, but i'm finally taking some weeks off so hopefully i'll manage to keep the weekly updates!
this chapter... oof, it was so sad to write, because msh sirius is just constantly on the fucking trenches, you know?
and it felt important to delve into his relationship with remus, especially in relation to his lycanthropy, but also sirius' perception of himself, because the man just carries this... perpetual dissatisfaction and the belief that he’s never doing enough to help, it's like this ongoing struggle and self-criticism and it's heartbreaking, really. he loves remus so much but theres so much he needs to work on, first, so much to heal, too.
i'm really tired for an author's note today but! tell me your thoughts & i'll do my best to reply, as per always ❤️ i love your insights so keep 'em coming.
chapter titled after molly nillson's song, I hope you die: https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/5kWbmJzK2LYNLhcs7DKR9e?si=6a88729a6ad14923
thank you for sticking around & see u very soon.
L x
Chapter 8: Slow Pulse Boys
Notes:
tw for this chapter: mentions of blood, physical violence, mentions of unhealthy coping mechanisms, blink & you'll miss it rehab reference. lots of angst, as well.
take care of yourselves ❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Then we were standing very close,
I could live in the space
Between his heartbeats
“I hate you so much.”
Listen. Sirius doesn’t think he means it like that. Or, he does, but not with such malice, not with such bite. There’s hatred there, Sirius knows better than to try and disguise it as something else, much less immediate forgiveness or complete understanding. He’s feeling… a lot, apparently, because he can’t stop fucking shaking, and he feels like he’s overdosing, sort of, feels like he’s positively bleeding out, and yes, he has yearned for it – for the bullet to be found, for a fucking surgery to botch him completely and remove it all despite of it, for the hope, even, of a full recovery, once he stopped having to carry it around wherever he went –, but now he sort of wants to go back and beg to keep it where it was. It was easier to live like that. I’m not sure I’ll make it. Please. Please.
The moon was… the moon was, too, a lot, to put it simply. Seemingly the spell had worked, and he suspects it did so because of Moony, because of whatever happened in that chamber that made Remus embrace Moony with a confidence that had never been there, not really, that made him accept Moony in a way Sirius knew he never could before, so much so that Moony took it upon himself to protect Remus like he protected everyone in their pack. Frankly, Sirius would never guess that Moony would trust him – Padfoot, maybe, but it was Sirius there, too, and for what it’s worth, Sirius never gave Moony any reasons to trust him before. Still, he did, then, by allowing Sirius’ magic to greet Remus’ magic, and Moony’s magic by association, an act of faith, really, because without it Remus would have kept himself locked somewhere in his mind, hiding with fear and doubt and confusion and sorrow.
They talked, but not much. Remus promised he’d come back to him, and Sirius tried his best to believe him this time, even if a part of him remained skeptical and angry and ultimately fucking frightened that Remus wouldn’t keep his part of the deal. It took a lot of effort, truly, trying not to be so fucking stubborn, trying to trust someone out of love, simply because he couldn’t trust him out of trust itself, and just allowing the night to carry on like the past couple of years didn’t exist – for Padfoot, and, to an extent, for Moony, that’s exactly how the night went. They talked, but above all they played, they chased, they nibbled, they fucking cuddled at some point. Sirius left once it was over, Remus still very much out of it, called the most competent mediwitch of the Ward, and locked himself in his office to sleep it off.
He didn’t sleep at all, deciding instead to leave to Muggle London. He bought two packs of cigarettes and smoked half of it waiting for Smethwyck to come and find him, which he did, fully fretting and fidgeting albeit well rested, as Sirius bitterly acknowledged.
“How did it go?”
“Splendid. The spell worked, I suppose. How’s the patient?”
Smethwyck immediately tenses. “I just arrived. Weren’t you supposed to tell me how the patient is, Healer Black? Weren’t you with him?”
“I was, for the moon, as I said I would. The spell worked, so my job is pretty much done. I’ll keep monitoring the rec–”
“What do you mean, your job is done? Have you spoken at all to the patient?”
“Well, no, not after… No. He’ll talk, though, which I believe was the point of the whole thing… sir?”
“The point, Healer Sirius, was to grant our patient full recovery.”
“Which he will be granted. Just not by me.”
“How do you know if the spell worked if you haven’t talked to the patient after the moon?”
“Healer Smethwyck, with all due respect, I am telling you the spell worked. I talked to him, and he was lucid, and I have no doubts he will be alright once he w–”
“Right, let’s talk about the spell, shall we? I spent the night reading the book you lent me, Healer Black, and you and I both know it’s not… guaranteed that it was successful. It’s already tricky, to navigate one’s mind, but it’s entirely different to do so with one’s magic. It’s easier to manipulate, especially in such a raw state, which makes it more volatile, too, and perhaps it did work, and I will have you writing a full report on that. But for us to determine its success you will need to talk to the patient. If it’s something that relies on trust, and vulnerability, what do you think will happen when the patient wakes up and doesn’t find you there to account for whatever you talked with him during such state? What if it was all for nothing? What if it deepens whichever state of suspicion he was already in?”
Sirius, not one to shut up ever, never found himself so out of a good counter argument, which is why he is now standing across Remus Lupin, struggling to find the best way to open a conversation, because Remus is very much looking at him, and oh, he is looking, and he is there, and this time he is keeping quiet not because he’s out of it, not anymore, but because he is Remus, and Remus is never one to begin a difficult conversation. For a minute there Sirius thinks it serves him right, having him there, waiting for Sirius, something karmic about it, how he hopes it hurts, too, so he sees what it’s like to be on the other side of the fucking gun, never truly sure when it will go off, if it ever does, and it makes Sirius so angry, that despite everything he thought of saying (How are you feeling? Can you tell me your full name and age? Do you know who I am? Did you miss me, too? Can I hold your hand?), he goes with a brash:
“I hate you so much.”
And it should stun Remus, that’s why he said it, honestly, but it doesn’t, so he ends up feeling a bit petulant, a bit remorseful, and overall itching to run away and lock himself in his office all over again. Remus stays quiet, probably still groggy from the moon and the potions, and probably still determining if he’s imagining the whole thing, and there’s a smile creeping in the bastard’s face, because after a bit, he goes: “Some spell, uh?”
“Some spell,” Sirius replies, he, too, a bit stunned. He’s suddenly overly aware of his whole body, doesn’t know what do to with his hands, his feet feel weird, his back too heavy, and he fights the urge to be all Black about it, to stand straighter and taller and to look down on Remus: because he wants him to hurt, but not at the expense of Sirius losing himself to his own bloodline.
“Never heard of it. Did you come up with it?”
The itching intensifies, because of course it does, so he snaps: “Are we really going to discuss my spellwork, Remus?”
“No, I suppose we aren’t.” And then, a bit shyly: “You made it. You’re a Healer.”
“Surprised?”
“Not one bit.”
Sirius just hums at this, then, trying his absolute best not to make a mess out of himself, not to cave immediately at the break of Remus’ voice or at the sight of his anxious eyes. It’s preposterous, really, how Remus corners him, most likely not meaning to, and how Sirius is always so ready to let him, still today, after everything. Please don’t ask for forgiveness. I am not ready for it just yet. Please don’t ask for anything because I will give it to you and I am not ready, he wants to say. Please let me be the one who hurts you for a change, he wants to say. Please don’t ever walk away from me again, please don’t walk into my life again, he wants to say.
“Please, Remus”, is what he says instead. It bears more weight than he intended to, but, then again, his intentions are completely butchered whenever Remus is near. He supposes Remus doesn’t know that, he guesses it by how his eyes sadden further, by how they drop to his hands, by how his fingers tremble like he, too, is itching with something he desperately wants to put a name to, but for the sake of himself, doesn’t try to. For a moment, he believes Remus will simply remain like that, a little anxious like he’s thirteen again and afraid to take up space, like he’s sixteen and afraid to kiss back with real purpose, like he’s twenty and afraid to meet Sirius’ gaze, and for a moment he believes Remus fully means to.
“Have you told anyone?” and, oh, Sirius will rip his face off.
Anything Remus will say will piss him off, he realizes, and the way his heart constricts at the raspiness of his voice only deepens the fury. He’s not breathing right, he’s sure of it, and there’s too much of everything raging inside him and perhaps he should open the fucking window and perhaps he should summon the fucking Minister and perhaps he should check Remus’ pulse in some futile attempt to feel less alone in that battle. Do you feel this too? he wants to ask. Does it hurt in all the wrong places? he wants to ask.
“Does that really matter?” is what he asks. Remus is quicker, now, maybe because Sirius’ tone is one step too close to bickering, one step too far from haughtiness. “I believe it does. What should we talk about, then?” and for this Sirius is grateful, because it’s an opening. He gets to take some of it out. Maybe Remus is doing it on purpose. Maybe he’s tossing the ball with hopefulness. Maybe he’s tossing the ball with caring. Maybe he’s being so gentle about it. Maybe he’s trying to kill Sirius for good.
“Merlin, I don’t know! Let me think. Oh! Right! So, I heard the Hobgoblins are reuniting! How about the weather? Let’s talk about the fucking weather, Remus! Looks splendid today! Oh, and you probably haven’t heard, right, the Muggles are getting properly fucked up with that Thatcher lady! Plus. there’s this gossip going around th–”
“Alright, Sirius, got it”, Remus says, sounding so, so tired, that Sirius almost petrifies himself to stop him from tugging the bedsheets suitably. “I’m sor–”
“See, no. No, no, no, we are not doing this. You are not to apologize right now. You are to tell me what the fuck have you been up to, what the fuck happened during the fucking war, where the fuck have you been, and explain yourself, really, and then. Then you can apologize. And then I can decide if I forgive you. You know, scratch that. I don’t forgive you. Okay, Remus? I don’t care if you’re sorry. You better be sorry. I am sorry, too. We are all so fucking sorry, so how about me move on? Can we do that, Remus? Can we?”
Remus apparently knows better than to take the bait, which breaks Sirius’ heart all over again. Fight with me, he wants to beg. Let’s have a row like we used to. Let’s taste each other’s blood again so we can have an excuse to lick the wounds, he wants to beg. Say something, he’s about to beg, but the moment is gone, and Remus is stoic as ever as he replies, curtly, flatly, “We can. Yes, of course we can. We can do whatever you want, Sirius.”
Seemingly, whatever Sirius wants is to keep screaming like a madman. “Great, Remus! Brilliant! Whatever I want, right?! Merlin, how I longed for this one. So tell me, then, Remus, because this is what I want. I want to know. What happened during the war?”
“That’s a broad question.”
“Don’t play smart with me. I will walk out this room and we will never speak again. I can barely stand to look at you now, so, please, just answer the fucking question.”
“I got an owl.”
“You… you got an owl.”
“Yes. I got an owl. You know how the first year went. I was staying with some werewolf packs across England at Dumbledore’s request. Try to earn their trust, try to convince them not to side with Voldemort. That’s all there was to it, really. I was… I was useless for the most part, if not completely, since most of the packs I stayed with were crystal clear about how they felt regarding Dumbledore, and the wizarding community in general. So, for the first year of the war, I was mildly useful to the Order for a couple of days every month, and then I was utterly useless for the rest of the time. And then –”
“And then you got an owl. Regulus?”
“Regulus”, Remus confirms, and it hurts, it hurts so much because Sirius wished for it to be some sort of fake memory, some sort of hallucination, and it hurts because Sirius doesn’t want his little brother to be dead, but doesn’t want his little brother to be alive for that, either, and it hurts to not want any of those things, and it hurts to speak his name, and it hurts to have Remus speaking it, too, and he’s trying his very best to be so still, so calm about it, to control himself lest he begins doing accidental magic like a feral child. “I couldn’t believe it, but it was him. I could sense him, and smell him, and when the letter came, it held… his magic, too, and it was very much alive, but we had just gotten the fucking newspaper, right? I wanted to tell you, Sirius. I went there to meet him and try to understand what the hell was he playing at, and then I would come home to tell you. I wanted to.”
“Well, fuck what you wanted, right? Because you didn’t. Why didn’t you?”
“He asked me not to.”
“Since when does my brother tell you what to do?!”, Sirius snaps. “That’s not a real answer. Why didn’t you tell me.”
“You know why.”
“I fucking don’t. I can’t think of a fucking good reason not to. So why didn’t you?”
“Because I was selfish.”
“Yes, we’ve established that. What else?”
Remus is staring at Sirius like he’s pulling his teeth out with rusty pliers, like he’s still Padfoot biting at his neck with a little more ruthlessness. Sirius can’t stand it, but Merlin forbids he drops his gaze now. There’s a battle going on, in that space between their stare where anything and everything sort of fits, and for all Sirius has lost, he can’t afford to lose this one. Remus seems to understand this, but Remus seems to want something different. And so he cleans his guns and quickly mourns whichever dead he must mourn, instead, in that tiny moment that happens while he holds his breath and gains composure. “Because you would die, and I couldn’t let you die. Because I would die instead. Because, by all accounts, I should have. I would have.”
“Did you think about me? At all?”
Remus huffs, a hint of frustration very much there, like Sirius is not quite getting it. “Of course I thought of you. That’s why I did it. You would have… You would have died, back then, if you knew. You’d be unstoppable, because you are unstoppable. Everything would be fucking fine, and the war would be over, and Voldemort would be gone, and you would be dead, and I would be there to witness it all, I –”
“Damn, Remus, for a second there I thought you were describing my fucking LIFE!” and, great, he’s screaming, again, and in some way it feels more familiar, and it must feel the same for Remus, too, because he’s all doe-eyed and clearly wanting to reach out and soothe him somehow, except that now he can’t and it’s his fucking fault, too, so there’s nothing left for Sirius to do but to keep going. “Because you did die, right?! I was mourning you, you fucking wanker. I mourned you for years! And Voldemort is gone, and the war is over, and I stood here to witness it all, all fucking alone because you idiots decided to keep me OUT!”
“You are alive, Sirius. You are the Healer you have always wanted to be, and I am sure you have been out there doing amazing things. There has always been a life out there for you. Promising things for a promising person. You fought, and you survived, and you endured, and you’ll continue to do so, but me?! I would fucking wither. Okay? And I regret many things, but saving you from doing something reckless, or fatal, or both, is not one something I will ever apologize for.”
“Remus,” he starts, and Sirius really needs him to understand, so he bites the bullet and forces it out, “you ruined my life. That’s what you did. By supposedly saving me, you ruined my fucking life. I lost everything. Not just you, James is–”
“Don’t,” Remus cuts, and yes, got you. I hope it makes you bleed. I hope it makes you feverish. I hope it makes you rot. I hope you never suffer another day in your life, and I hope you do until I’ve had enough of hurting, too, “Don’t you dare putting that on me. James, and Lily, and Har–, they’re not gone because of me. They’re gone because of fucking Voldemort. All we fucking did was trying to stop him, and don’t you ever for a second think you’re the only one who gets to mourn them. They were my friends.”
They were mine, first, he wants to scream. They were mine, more, he wants to scream. He was mine, and you took him from me, he wants to scream. He doesn’t scream, choosing to sit this one out for the sake of his heart, but Remus knows him from the inside out, so hears his silences loud and clear, anyway, which is why there’s an all too familiar bitterness in his eyes that had not been there until now.
“They were my friends,” Remus goes on. “And I was trying to protect them, too.”
Sirius can’t keep this line of conversation, so he bolts. “So you spent almost two years lying to me. All those times you were away from the flat… You were with–, you were, what, destroying random pieces of Voldemort’s soul?”
“Yes. Dumbledore stopped asking about the missions, which goes to show how interested he actually was. It gave me… Space, and time, and, and motive. A lot of the time I was at your house, act–”
“Not my house.”
“Right. Grimmauld Place. Reading, researching, mostly. And, well, then we actually had to figure out ways of destroying them. Regulus had retrieved one, already, when he reached out, and–”
“How many?”
“Horcruxes?”
“Yes. How many were there?”
“Five, plus Voldemort himself.”
And, because Sirius can’t stop himself, because it’s equally impressive and absurd that Remus is alive at all, he only replies: “Fucking hell.”
“You tell me.”
“Keep going. What were you and my little brother up to, then? Had your fun adventure together for a couple years, evidently, but do enlighten me, Remus!”
“Oh, why, Sirius, of course! I am so sorry you missed out on all the fun!” Yes. Scream at me. Welcome back. How I missed you. Hurt me back. Don’t you dare stopping now. “It was positively exciting, what with the starvation and dehydration and the Gringotts break–”
“That was you?!” Sirius hisses. He had read about it in the newspaper, Bellatrix being interviewed and accusing Muggle-borns of trying to steal her property. Remus ignores him, and for a moment Sirius thinks Remus has forgotten he’s there in the room, too, and after another moment Sirius realizes this is most likely the first time Remus gets to talk about it, properly, because there’s an unmistakable edge to this voice, a desperation that he’s no longer trying to contain, and he babbles on, a little mad, “And the Hogwarts break in, really, and the fucking Basilisk, and–”
“Whoa, hey, Remus.”
For the first time, and solely on instinct, Sirius surges towards his bed, and ignores the angry part of his brain that is scolding him for rubbing his hand in purposeful circles on Remus’ shoulders, with a gentleness that is half reflex, half intent. “It must have been terrifying. I–” he pauses, forcing the words out, because he hates Remus, but he also means it. “I am sorry you went through that.” Remus takes a while to calm down, all ragged breaths and unfocused eyes, not daring to look at Sirius who is now standing right next to him, so, so close that he feels his own breath matching Remus’. “I’m sorry. Got a bit carried away, there”, Remus says, sitting straighter on the bed and flinching from Sirius’ touch, and just like that, the moment is over. Sirius steps away, but doesn’t move too far, and just. Waits. “Anyhow, we destroyed all of them. We thought of telling Dumbledore, then, but Regulus thought it was too hasty, and too risky.”
“Why is that? The Order could have helped. The more the fucking merrier, Remus, for fuck’s sake!”
“Oh, that’s neat coming from you. You never trusted Dumbledore. You hated the old man. Regulus was the same, you know? At first, I thought he was being too cautious, but with time I realized that a Dark Creature and a reformed Death Eater coming up to Dumbledore ranting about fractured souls and horcruxes wouldn’t bode too well. And we couldn’t afford to take any risks.”
Sirius gets it, he does, but he’s not about to admit that. He’s always been… wary of Dumbledore. To be fair, Dumbledore has always been wary of him, and he supposes that, for different reasons, and then again not really, they were both right in doing so. He’s not really ready to agree with Remus, anyway, so he presses, sulkily, “He would have listened. And after having them destroyed, Remus, he would have put together some fucking plan.”
“He wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t. Sirius, no one knew Voldemort was… Immortal, so to speak. The Order didn’t know, even if admittedly maybe Dumbledore suspected it. The Death Eaters, most of them, didn’t know, either. For all purposes he was mortal, even when he wasn’t, but that didn’t stop the war from going on, right? Didn’t stop us from almost losing.”
“So, what, two kids barely out of school would kill him instead? Incredible logic, Remus, congratulations.”
Remus sighs. “Yes, that was pretty much the plan. I was on my way to meeting Regulus when–. Anyway. I was on my way to meeting Regulus. We both knew Voldemort was after the Potters, of course, but we didn’t… We had no way of knowing who was spying for the Death Eaters, but by then it was evident someone was. We were planning on getting him, soon, and– and–. Well. I don’t know what happened. Bellatrix… I figured something must have happened to Voldemort, because after a while they were all… Too nervous. At first they asked about the Horcruxes, but I couldn’t tell if they knew exactly… what they were, or that their master had created some. She had one in her vault, but Regulus had half a mind to steal other things, too, family heirlooms and such, to make it less obvious… Anyway, they started asking me questions about Voldemort’s whereabouts and I knew… I thought… I figured he was gone. Dead. But it’s not like they gave me the Prophet to read post-torture, you know?”
Sirius… Sirius hadn’t realized he would have some explaining to do, too. Which breaks him altogether, again, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to revisit everything, and he doesn’t think Remus will be ready to learn it for the first time. Remus… it hits him that Remus doesn’t know. Anything. At all. It hits him like lightening, and the impulse to turn into Padfoot and sleep for weeks almost stops him from clearing his throat and urging his heart to stay still. Almost, but not quite. He sort of owes it to Remus, too. The truth, that is. “Voldemort is gone. There was… You were right, Dumbledore was right. There was a spy in the Order, and that’s how… That’s how Voldemort found them. The Potters.”
Remus’ face does something complicated, and Sirius just lets him do the fucking math, like a cruel test he doesn’t feel remotely ashamed of pushing. “But…”, Remus begins. “But if he found them… They were hiding, Sirius. No one knew the location. Except… Except the Secret Keeper. Except… Except you.”There you go. Show me how you love me, then, Remus. Show me how you don’t. Show me your fucking doubts, and your eureka moment, and your acceptance that I will never amount to nothing more than my fucking last name. Go ahead and break my heart again. I know you have it in you.
“Unless… Unless someone else was the one… Unless you switched… Without telling me?”
Fuck. Fuck you for doing this to me. Fuck you for not letting me hate you properly. Fuck you for making me hate you either way. Fuck you, Remus Lupin, for never stopping me from loving you.
Sirius nods. Here we go. I’m sorry. “I… I thought I would be… too obvious. And I was afraid… I was afraid they would get to me. You were gone, by then. When we switched. That’s why I didn’t tell you. And with you gone… I was afraid they had you, somehow. What if they used to against me? I would… I couldn’t risk it. And then I was spiraling. I thought they’d try and Imperius me, and they probably would, and what then? So I spoke with Dumbledore and suggested a switch. Someone more unassuming. Meeker. More discreet, too, but someone we could still trust with a secret. Someone like –”
“Peter”, Remus whispers, realization dawning on his face. “No. No.”
“Yes. Confessed to everything, too. He’s… He’s in Azkaban. He disclosed the location and Voldemort himself went there. Godric’s Hollow.” His voice sounds strange, robotic. There’s an acute pain stabbing his chest. There’s a sickness building up inside his stomach. There’s a fucking abscess about to burst. He ignores all of it, for Remus’ sake. “Killed them, and something must have happened, because… Well, there was no body. The Aurors arrived and there was no trace of Voldemort or... Or his magic. Apparently, he was… Gone. And, well, he never came back. A couple of weeks later the Ministry claimed the war was over. Death Eaters were arrested, some without a trial. Peter was granted one, because I demanded it. I captured him, myself, you see. Almost killed him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t. I loved him, you see,” and Sirius was surprised with himself at the admission, but then again, not really, because even under the most trying of circumstances Remus always reduced him to a filterless man. He didn’t want to say it, he didn’t even want to feel it, but there they were, and Remus was the only person who would understand. Sirius loved Peter. Through harsh words and mean jokes, he loved him. He loved his witty remarks, his brainiac chess obsession, the way his bravery manifested in quiet, meaningful ways. He loved him through fear, and determination, and mischief, and treachery. And, after the betrayal, he learned to hate him for the same things he loved him, and never once attempted to make peace with that, because he never once felt entitled to any sort of peace to begin with. He loved him, and trusted him, and it cost him too much. I never love right, he would think, over and over again. For the first time, he speaks it, too, and he hates that he speaks it so close to Remus, an admission of a fear he’s been harboring since before the fucking war. “I never love right.”
“Oh, Padfoot…”
“Don’t call me that. And don’t pity me. I don’t need your pity. I am just stating a fact. I don’t love right. It always backfires, somehow. I’m good at a lot of things, so it’s no big deal, really. I’m a great Healer. I’m good with politics, too. I’m fucking great at sex. I’m just not good at loving. I loved James, and I lost him because of that. I loved Peter, and I lost everything else because of that. I loved–. So, you see. And anyway. He’s in Azkaban, rotting in some cell, probably.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way you love,” Remus tries, and Sirius wants to sink his teeth into his hands and make him screech, anything to wipe the tenderness off his voice, because Sirius doesn’t deserve it, and Remus doesn’t get to. “I’m… I’m sorry about James. And Lils. And Harry…”
“You know they didn’t find Harry’s body, either? There are all sorts of theories, of course. The Quibbler keeps writing about how he’s alive and hidden away from all of this. That Xeno was never quite right in the head, but for a while I almost… But Dumbledore told me himself. That he was gone, that something… Something must have happened, with Voldemort. Regarding the prophecy, that is. I didn’t… I wasn’t… Functioning, then. But then again, Dumbledore never reached out, and when I wrote him asking for details, after I got cl– better, he simply wrote back some tacky bullshit about letting go of the weight of past ghosts or whatever. So that’s what you missed, really. The war is over, and very much thanks to you and my idiot brother, too, but yeah. What a fucking cost, right?!”
Remus doesn’t say anything for a while, but his face betrays an entire turmoil. There’s confusion there, evidently, and pure fury, and sheer disappointment, and bitter resignation, and a grievance that Sirius hates to have put there. He doesn’t cry, but Remus very rarely did, before. His hurt has always been different from Sirius’. More subdued, more interior. Sirius’ spills out of him, whether he wants it to or not, makes a dirty mess wherever it drips. Remus’… Remus’ stays locked inside him until it bursts, until it implodes, until it fucks up his insides completely, making him hunched and crumpled and old, rarely ever leaving a stain anywhere. He’s messy about it, as well, but never makes it anyone’s problem. He’s doing it now, of course, and it would be frustrating to face the silence if Sirius didn’t know any better. I’m sorry you’re hurting, he wants to say. I’m sorry I put it there. I wish I could wash it off. I wish I could carry your hurt, too, he wants to say. Please stop hurting. Please hurt a little longer. Merlin, what the fuck do I do with you. He says nothing at all, because Remus is very intently looking at him like he’s going to say something dangerous.
And then he does.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
Sirius wonders if Remus takes any pleasure in seeing him squirm in this way. If this mess he’s making of himself, all spilled on the hospital room, is but a delicacy for Remus to feast on. He wonders if there’s cruelty, there, and he finds himself yearning for it, as if cruelty is the only thing he could stomach at all. He wonders if there’s a part of Remus that holds any real love for him, still, and if there will ever be a time in which that part is enough to balance out the ugliness. He wonders if he looks at them and sees ugliness, too. He wants him to, he finds, a plea for him not to be left alone ever again with such big things that don’t fit inside him.
He wonders if Remus knows there’s a forgiveness he needs to grant Sirius, too, but then again, Sirius is still too wounded to even attempt to look at his mistakes. Most of them he has dissected like a maniac, knows them by heart, overplays possibilities, alternatives, different outcomes, eats up his own guilt and chews it until it becomes bolus and forces the bitterness down his throat and digests it and lets it lodge in his fucking blood, like penance, like penalty. Some of them he doesn’t dare to look at, though, lest he ends up nurturing more guilt than he can bear, and won’t do it now, not at all, not with Remus having his own guilt to atone for. He loathes feeling the way he does, because Sirius loves like a dog but hates like a fucking scorpion: predatory, venomous, cannibalistic. He’s at his most… Black, truthfully, when he hates, which is why he has fought against it his entire fucking life. It’s easy, for him, hatred, and its simplicity is what makes it so trying. He wants it out of him, but it’s too natural, too primal. I hate you so much, and he needs the hatred to fucking leave his body, for once, so he says it again. “I hate you so much.”
“You are right to.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“I wish you didn’t, too.”
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius took a week off. After his conversation with Remus, and after another hour or so discussing the case with Smethwyck, and after having it fully confirmed that Remus was recovering properly, he decided to stay clear from St. Mungo’s for a bit. Well, he didn’t decide, so to speak (“You will not set foot in the Hospital for a week, or I’ll suspend you for good. Rest.”). And he wouldn’t stay fully clear, of course (“I expect an owl with a full report on his stats every morning. I left some enchanted spectacles to adjust the light levels around him, for his vision. Two doses of Skele-Gro every four hours for the tibia, don’t forget. There’s also a couple of Nutrient Potions I prescribed for the malnutrition. And someone get him a fucking Mind Healer!”), but it would be enough to just… try and process everything.
Stupidly, he wants to…
Well, he wants to run to James and ask him what to do. He needs James to tell him what to do, to help him untie every fucking knot in his stomach, to hold him through this mess. He actually settles on hating James for a while, simply because there’s a lot of hatred he doesn’t know what to do with, and because it’s so fucking rude that he’s not here to fix it for Sirius, to slap some sense into him, to stop him from drinking into oblivion and fucking his way out of the storm. He also needs James to smash a brick into his head so he can stop replaying everything Remus said to him. Not just about the Horcruxes, not just about Regulus, not just about his fucking excuses and motivations, not just about Bellatrix and the hideous things he went through. And yes, by everything, he truly means everything.
I love you. I love you so much.
You need to get a fucking grip, Black. And, alright, he feels ridiculous. He should be focusing on, quite literally, anything else. Thankfully, he bought Remus and himself some time. The meeting with the Minister won’t be until next week, and he forbid everyone on his team from allowing Dumbledore to talk to Remus, but he still should be focusing on what to tell them, exactly, on what terms, and he still should be focusing on the pragmatics of the whole deal, like where the fuck will Remus be living, how the fuck will he sustain himself, but Sirius only can’t bring himself to.
All in all, resented and hurt and enraged as he is, almost everything feels fairly simple. What will they tell the Minister? Whatever Remus wants to tell them. Where will Remus be staying? He could offer his flat, but there’s always the Lupin’s cottage that he might or might not have magically restored after years of abandon. How will he sustain himself? Stupid question, really, and either way, Sirius transferred half of his equally stupid fortune to Remus’ old Gringotts account, anyway. So. Simple. Effective.
I love you. I love you so much.
Maybe he’s just perpetually restless. Maybe he needs to deep clean his flat, muggle style. Maybe he needs to give Andy a call and treat Dora to a trip to Fortescue's. Maybe he should get a new tattoo. Maybe he should get a haircut. Maybe he should get a buzzcut. Maybe he should finish his essay on the effectiveness of combining Calendula Balm with Murtlap Essence for deeper wounds and cuts. Maybe he should drive his motorbike to fucking Leeds.
I love you. I love you so much.
Maybe he needs to owl his old Mind Healer and have him perform the wackiest stabilizing charms and prescribe him the strongest mind-strengthening potions and maybe avoid the whole talk therapy thing. He’s so done with talking. He’s so done with thinking. He’s so d–
I love you. I love you so much.
Fuck. Maybe he needs to permanently turn into Padfoot. Maybe he needs to take a trip and stare at the sea. Maybe he needs to rearrange his heart in a way that finally fits in his chest. Maybe he needs to rip it off his ribcage and lock it inside a crystal casket and never look at it again until it becomes unrecognizable. Maybe he needs–, maybe he needs–, mayb–
Maybe he needs to answer the fucking door.
Or, you know. Maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe he shouldn’t have.
Maybe he’s about to break his fucking teeth against the fucking concrete. Maybe he’s about to set fire to himself until the embers settle definitely. Maybe he needs to cast a Ridikkulus charm to shy the Boggart away.
“Hello, Sirius.”
The Boggart doesn’t give him nor time nor warning, so Sirius does the next best thing he knows to ease the dread. He punches his face, hears a crack, teeth meeting fist, feels victorious, really, and there’s a little blood, then a lot of blood, hot, then cold, and it hits him that Boggarts don’t bleed, not quite, but apparently they fucking jabber, and this one won’t shut the fuck up, and Sirius is so, so tired. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“Why the fuck are you here?!” Sirius screams and he’s a man possessed. He’s a ghost with little life in it. He’s life itself furiously fighting to win. He’s an eleven-year-old kid with night terrors. He’s an older brother looking at his biggest failure. He’s sure he’s about to have a fucking heart-attack.
“You know why I’m here. Where’s Lupin?”
“How the fuck are you here, Regulus?! Why the fuck are you alive?!” and, fuck, does his name sound heavy on his tongue. Wrong. Forbidden. Outlawed.
“Rude. Has he spoken with anyone?”
“Oh my fucking. Oh fuck. Shut the fuck up. You are not real. You are not real. Where the fuck have you been, you fucking idiot?!”
“Hiding. Does it matter? Never did, before. Have you spoken with him? Remus?”
Remus’ name somehow does it, for him. It’s not supposed to sound so familiar, not from Regulus, and the greedy beast he nurses inside him is positively murderous, now. He’s mine. You’re mine. Stop talking about him. Don’t say his name like that. Don’t say his name at all. He’s mine. You’re mine.
“Don’t talk to me about fucking Remus!”
Regulus… he hasn’t aged one bit. Not like Remus, he hasn’t. He’s older, of course he is, no longer looking like the sixteen-year-old frightened little boy Sirius last saw, but maintaining, despite everything, a youthfulness that makes Sirius’ heart essentially shrink. His hair is longer, and there’s color in his cheeks, and he is well-fed, and he smells so good, and Sirius needs to touch him just to make sure he’s real, so he reaches for him, Regulus flinches, wide-eyed, and Sirius knows. Sirius knows.
“I’ll talk to you about whatever I want. Lucky for you, I’m not here to talk about Remus.”
“Oh, really?! Not even going to try to put on a good word for your best fella here?”
Regulus rolls his eyes, and he’s oh so done with Sirius, and he’s real, that’s him, that’s his little brother. That’s my little brother. “Frankly, Sirius, I do not care about what you do with your relationship. Remus knew what he was doing when I asked for his help. He had his motives, which I am sure he has told you about. But, you see, I need to talk to him, since I suppose he’ll have the Ministry trying to get their hands on him as soon as he’s discharged. And I need to talk to you, too.”
“Honestly, Regulus? Go fuck yourself.”
Something almost... nostalgic passes through Regulus’ face. Suddenly they are kids again at Hogwarts and Regulus hates James and Sirius hates Barty and they both miss each other too much to speak on it. Suddenly they are kids again at Grimmauld Place and Regulus hates Sirius’ defiance and Sirius hates Regulus’ compliance and they both want to hold each other too much to act on it. Suddenly they’re grown man who survived an impossible war and their eyes still look the same, still search for each other, but there’s a hollowness, there, there’s torment, and loss, and resignation. “Grow up, Sirius. The petulant act looks exceedingly off-putting. I lied to you, I made Remus lie to you, I ruined your life, you hate that I’m alive, whatever, we get it. You are pissed. B–”
Sirius’ mouth doesn’t give him time to think. “I am not pissed, Regulus. I am fucking sad! I am fucking broken! You are fucking idiot, you know that? I can’t believe you are alive, I –”
“Yes, we’ve established that.”
“And I’m… I’m so happy you are. Regulus. Regulus,” he begs, not quite sure what for.
“Sirius.”
So he tries. For Regulus, he has to. “I thought you were dead. There’s a fucking grave with your name in it.”
“Yes. There are too many graves with names that shouldn’t be there.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
Something else happens in Regulus’ expression. It goes completely blank, like a fucking rehearsal, like a fucking show he’s convinced himself to put on for Sirius. Sirius wants to tell him to stop. Be real with me. Don’t hide away. Who hurt you? What happened? Sirius wants to tell him to go on. Don’t ever keep me in the dark. Sirius wants, and wants, and wants, and he’s so done with wanting things. He’s in a turmoil, and the words barely register. Until they do.
“I need to talk to you about Harry.”
And Sirius’ world crumbles down once again.
Notes:
hello hello!
i actually got to spend the past week completely isolated in the middle of nature and albeit healing for me it clearly didn’t help to ease the angst for them here. i apologize?
anyway, on to the chapter:
- i realized i haven’t really said it but what happened to remus was sort of a parallel with what happened to frank & alice after the war ended (they were tortured by bellatrix, bcj & the lestrange after voldemort disappeared following the events in godrics hollow), and i wanted a redeeming situation in the sense that remus made it out with a much better outcome than the canon one for the longbottoms. ever since i was a child reading hp for the first time their story stuck with me and made me absolutely heartbroken, so here’s to them living happily ever after raising neville (he’s also one of my fav characters).
- also coming up with the spell on the previous chapter was supposed to feel sort of... esoteric, because i truly believe magic is not something you can quite grasp the full meaning of through words, and i find it beautiful the idea of one’s magic being familiar with the others, especially playing with werewolf magic, too, and the connection between moony & padfoot. it’s like their trust is everywhere: in the rawest state of mind, in their magic, in their bodies, even, but put it all together in such trying circumstances and it’s just them needing to realize they need to fully give in to that connection and trust. it’s kind of fate-y, in a way, and maybe i’m a hopeless romantic despite of it all, but that’s very much the wolfstar essence to me: inevitability, endurance, and trust building.
- black brothers angst is another thing that i didn’t really intend to make central in this fic but it became its own thing so, yep. theirs is such a tragic story as well and it will never not be heartbreaking how family and context and everything *but* them kept them apart for so long, and how they both just wanted to keep the other safe and both feeling like failures in doing so 💔 i might or might not be working on some oneshots for msh that feature regulus more heavily because i love him to bits ❤️
- tiny tiny astro nerdiness but the whole scorpion analogy for sirius was very much intentional bc 1) we know he’s a scorpio & 2) the scorpius constellation stands on the opposite side of the sky from orion, since as the myth goes gaia sent a giant scorpion to kill orion, so yep, literally mortal enemies! love how sirius always struggles to *be* different from his family but even when they’re similar they really are to be on the opposite sides of whichever war!!
finally, this chapter is titled after this song by and also the trees: https://open.spotify.com/track/3X7FAmrYLT4TLnYWkSVAZ3?si=N19opH8ZQQ23FwG22_oo4Q&context=spotify%3Aalbum%3A7KYP2B7Pc7gq1iggf7dyxX
they’re one of my favorite bands so if you’re into eerie, poetic rock/post-punk from the 80s, they’re your guys.
anyhow let me know how you’re feeling ❤️ & see you soon!
L x
Chapter 9: Rain Dogs
Summary:
Love without blood on their hands.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Here’s what Sirius knows: his chest feels too tight, sort of like there’s an invisible hand gripping his heart ruthlessly, committed to squishing whatever resemblance of a life it still holds. Regulus is alive, again, and still, and regardless. The buzzing in his right ear hasn’t quite stopped, which means the world is both too quiet and too loud for him to focus on anything else other than the thumping of his compressed heart. Harry is alive, again, and still, and regardless. Here’s what Sirius doesn’t know: how many more dead he can manage to exhume until his own vitals begin to crash.
Regulus isn’t kind about the whole affair, because Regulus, unlike Remus, doesn’t do kindness. He’s sharp, has been sharper than anyone ever gave him credit for, and he is being his absolute sharpest now, speaking with resolve but without clear compassion, throwing meatless bones at Sirius and leaving him to determine what to do with them. “I wanted to come sooner, but I couldn’t do it until I was absolutely certain,” he explains and follows it with the only evidence, so far, of a little caring, a little consideration. “I don’t think it would do you good to feed off speculation alone. But it’s true. Harry is alive.”
Harry is alive. Sirius is very much out of his depth, here, because there’s a meatless bone if he’s ever seen one. What do I do with this? Where is he? Why isn’t he here? Should he be here? Where else could he be? Where else has he been? He wonders if he says any of this aloud, or if Regulus is, after all, still Regulus, and can hear his thoughts without having them out there in the open, wonders if there’s something in his eyes that betrays him. “Little Whinging. That’s where he’s been staying”, Regulus goes on, and that name does ring a bell, rings a couple more as Sirius’ mouth opens in a quiet ‘o’, realization dawning on him, closely followed by a frustration so dizzying he actually sits the fuck down. Why didn’t I think to check? Why didn’t I go and check? We had a fucking funeral, and I didn’t check. I didn’t check.
“There’s no way you could have known. Nobody thought to check,” Regulus says, once again not necessarily out of kindness, but most likely because he’s always been one to go for proper clarification. It, however, still doesn’t sound as comforting as Sirius hoped it would. Comfort is actually the last thing Sirius thinks he will ever feel again, which in and of itself feels entirely ridiculous, because a couple of weeks ago he had been all alone, and now he clearly isn’t, and it should be at least a little bit soothing to have his dead defying that fate. It's just that he’s grown too used to the grief to learn how to do it differently. Right now, he doesn’t think he can bring a sentence together, but for Harry’s sake, he tries, and fails, of course, only saying the one name that has been replaying in his head ever since Regulus came in. “Dumbledore…”
“Is an idiot. We’ve established that, and a long time ago, honestly. I suppose he thinks he’s done the right thing. I don’t think he’s all too convinced that Voldemort is gone, and blood offers protection in ways nothing else can. As you know.”
Sirius remains too stunned to say anything, so Regulus goes on. “But it didn’t add up when I read it on the paper, you know? I kept thinking about it. I was set on finding Remus–”. At this Regulus stops but doesn’t really dare to look at Sirius, for which Sirius is grateful. “… I was set on finding Remus, but then he was presumed dead, and it… Well, it made sense. He wouldn’t be gone for so long, and I did my own mourning and thought of maybe coming out of the shadows, but then. I couldn’t stop thinking about J–, about the Potters, and Harry. It didn’t make sense that the kid was gone, the same way it doesn’t make sense that Voldemort is gone, even with–. Well. And I figured…, I figured I’d check. He’s… He goes by Harry Dursley, now, actually.”
Now this. This is what makes Sirius snap out of it. It sounds wrong, so wrong it brings a visceral growl out of him, which dazes Regulus a bit, but he recovers fast. Sirius is positively fuming, because. Because. Fuck. They had little time, but Harry was a Potter, through and through. Dursley? Dursley is ugly. Dursley is wrong. Dursley is weak, and empty, and too simple, and fucking hideous. It’s disrespectful. It’s heartbreaking. It’s erasure, over and over again, and Sirius simply won’t have it. “What the fuck, Regulus?! You didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think to ask Dumbledore about it? Why the fuck is that man making decisions regarding Harry?! He’s not family. He’s nothing to Harry, just like he was nothing to them! Why did he get to decide?!” Why didn’t I? he leaves unasked.
“I didn’t know until a couple of days ago, not for certain. As I said, I suspected it, but I… I didn’t know where to look. I knew James’ family was… Gone, so I–”
“How did you know that?” Sirius cuts, and Regulus just downright blushes, and, alright, what the actual fuck?
“Read it in the paper. Sorry for your loss, too. Never had the chance to tell you, before. Anyway. I didn’t know much about Evans, so it took me a while to get there. And then a longer while to actually see him, and he looks so m–. Uh. Well, and I had a little help, too.”
Sirius decides right there that Regulus must be, evidently, very committed to pissing him off. The little shit has been going at it since they were kids, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does, nonetheless, and Sirius has to bite his tongue until he tastes his own blood because he knows, he knows how childish he would sound – why didn’t you come to me for help? Why is always everyone else good enough for you? Why am I never good enough for you?
If Regulus sees the questions in his eyes, he chooses, this time, to leave them unanswered, only to go straight for the jugular. “Severus, that is.”
And oh, Sirius is not pissed off anymore. Sirius is not even on the verge of cardiac arrest anymore. Sirius is murderous, is what he is. He’ll gladly take a life sentence in Azkaban with no trial if he must. He’ll gladly kiss a Dementor first, and with fucking tongue, too, because Snape? Fucking Snape?
It’s just, Regulus must know how Sirius feels about Snape. For starters, Sirius has always made it painfully obvious. He was loud about it, obnoxious about it, mostly because he was always loud and obnoxious about everything, but especially about the things he despised. There’s no way for Regulus to know everything there is to know about their mutual hatred. He surely doesn’t know Sirius almost had him killed, surely doesn’t know Sirius meant it, too. Doesn’t know how crucial Snape has been in Sirius’ life, in every wrong way: how he forced him to look at the worst facets of himself, how he proved him to be a bearer of the same Black madness he so brashly bragged to have broken away from. How he showed him the ugly parts of who he could be, when wrongfully pushed: unremorseful, vain, cruel. Prejudiced, too. Careless, too. In fact, a lot of the things that have happened in Sirius’ life sort of end up coming back to them, Snape and him, and there’s hatred, of course there is, but also shame, and an unshakable fear that only comes from knowing you won’t like what will be staring back at you in a fucking mirror.
Regulus doesn’t know any of this, sure, but Regulus has been there: at school, at war. He has seen Sirius around Snape, has heard him, plenty, so he must know what this would do to Sirius. He must know this one would leave him mauled and homicidal in equal measure. He’s almost feverish with rage, actually, blinded by the sheer audacity of it all: having his brother reach out to someone who hates him, and his people, so much, having him effectively involve someone like Snape in anything regarding Harry. Snape, the Death Eater? Snape, the hypocritical blood purist? Snape, the resented little bitch? Snape, who hated James in ways that not even Sirius could match? It’s outrageous. It’s disrespectful. It’s hurtful, too. It’s–
“Necessary. It was necessary. He knew Evans, as you might recall. They were friends but… Well, they were neighbors, too. He was actually the one who came up with the idea of checking on Evan’s sister, so,” Regulus shrugs, and the smallest hint of uncertainty reaches his eyes. It’s not exactly apologetic, and it won’t do, not at all, but it tells Sirius his brother at least figures this must be difficult for him: to have been kept in the dark, by both the person he wanted to trust the most, and the person he hated the most, and to learn about it all in the span of a couple fucking days.
“He’s a Death Eater and he hated James,” is what Sirius says, which is not particularly forthcoming, adds nothing to the conversation, but it’s factual, and it matters. It matters.
“I was a Death Eater and I hated James,” Regulus shoots back, and if everything Sirius has learned about Regulus for the past week has proved the former a brazen lie, something in Regulus’ tone suggests the latter might be, too. Sirius doesn’t know what to do with that, so he remains quiet. “Severus… he loved Lily. He did, and I suppose he still does. He spied for Dumbledore, too, so it was a feat that I managed to keep his mouth shut from the old man. He tried… He tried to save them. Same as me, same as you, Sirius. He couldn’t, he’s trying to do it now, with Harry. Out of love.”
“And you?”
“What about me?” Regulus asks, the same something in his tone more evident, now, despite his efforts to appear indifferent.
Still, Sirius pushes. He feels like there’s a prey, somewhere, and the urge to hunt, to taste blood, to have some sort of revelation, only makes him push harder. “Why are you doing this? You didn’t love Lily. You definitely didn’t love James. Why are you trying now?”
Surprisingly, Regulus smiles. It’s sad, a little knowing, carries a secret with it, which feels weighted, which feels imposing. “Well. I didn’t love– no. But I love you. Isn’t that reason enough?”
And because he doesn’t think he’s yet remotely capable of accepting it as an explanation, since it’s so fucking overused, since it makes him feel somehow worse, to have him be the both the burden and the ignorance, Sirius just sighs, waits a moment, waits another. “I still can’t believe you’d go to fucking Snivellus.”
“Don’t call him that. I don’t expect you to understand. Not entirely, that is.”
Then make me understand, Sirius wants to scream, although he suspects that if Regulus wanted him to, he would have done so already. Everything is intentional, with his brother, and even if Sirius has always been the one who managed to get the closest to him, Regulus’ ability of shutting people off appears now stronger than ever. Besides, Sirius doesn’t really have the time. “I’m going to see Dumbledore. And then I’ll get ready to get him home.”
“Are you sure you can handle taking care of a literal child on your own, Sirius? You’re hanging on by a fucking threat, and it shows. I came to tell you so we can get a real plan. So we can do this with strategy, more so than purpose. And there’s Remus, and the Ministry meetings, and you need to get this out of the way before… Before you get him. Because you will, okay? You will get him. But you need to pull yourself together first.”
Sirius knows Regulus is right. But he’s met Lily’s sister. He’s seen the way she looked at James, the way she’s looked at him, the way she’s looked at Lily when Lily broke the news about being pregnant. He can’t for the life of him believe that Harry is in a safe environment, there, and he knows he’s feeling a lot, and a lot of things he can’t really name, a lot of things he can name and is repulsed by, but one thing outdoes all the others: this incessant pull to protect. Harry needs this and, selfishly, Sirius needs this. Harry is his chance to make it right. He can’t afford to fuck up. He’s been fucking up for too long. Here’s an opening to make it better, and he desperately needs to take it. To walk through it and burn and cease if he must, and then bring himself from the dead and make it fucking right. Everyone else around him apparently can come back from the dead, so he feels entitled to take his chances, too.
Regulus seems to perceive this. “I’ve been watching them. It’s… Not good. I am not going to lie to you–”
“Well, that’s a fucking first–”
“Again. I am not going to lie to you, again. But we need to be smart about this, Sirius. Get your shit together. Let me handle Harry. Please? Trust me one more time. One last time, if you must. Let me handle it.”
“Why the fuck would I trust you, Regulus? And with Harry, of all things?!” Sirius snaps.
The sad, knowing smile is immediately back on Regulus’ face. So is a fierceness that Sirius has only seen in himself. “I made a promise, some time ago. I will get him out. And, when you’re ready, I will bring him to you. I promise you this.”
“You made a promise? To whom?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know. Trust me. Please?”
And Sirius knows, right then, he has no choice but to do so, so he does.
Regulus leaves shortly after, says something about having a lot of work to do, asks him about Remus once or twice, even ends up apologizing on his behalf. Sirius sits with everything for maybe ten minutes, cries about it for maybe two hours, charms every cabinet in the house so he doesn’t reach for emergency firewhiskeys and most likely expired powders. Accios a stupid quill, sends a letter to the stupid Hospital, let’s them know they are to expect him back tomorrow, and tries to get some rest.
The sleep, of course, never finds him.
☾ ✹ ☽
“I don’t really like it here,” is what finally Remus settles for, after what feels like ten painful hours of uncomfortable silence that Sirius very obstinately decided not to be the one to break. It was hard enough as it was that he was there, too, in the first place, except that it didn’t feel quite right to be anywhere else.
The meeting with Bagnold didn’t go too well, and left everybody on edge. Remus very clearly didn’t want to let the Ministry in on the Horcruxes subject just yet, and it took a toll on his recovery: he had to attempt some preventive Occlumency, given that Sirius had almost ripped the Minister’s head off at the mere suggestion of Veritaserum, which meant they could, and most likely would, try something else other than trusting a surviving fucking hero. And it’s not like Sirius is in a forgiving mood towards Remus – not in the slightest. But the Ministry? The Ministry should build the man a fucking statue. Should invent a new Order of Merlin just for him. Should make him Minister, while they’re at it. Not only did Remus effectively worked with werewolf packs during the war, but he also played an enormous part in ending the stupid war and, even if Remus is not ready yet to let the Ministry know about the latter, everyone by now should at least the aware of the former. Sirius was not allowed to be in the “interview” (“Your medical assistance won’t be needed, Healer Black” “I’m sure you forget yourself, Minister. As a member of the Wizengamot I absolutely have all reasons to be present–” “And as the Minister of Magic, Mr. Black, my word is final. The Aurors will interrogate him, and we’ll see how, and where, we go from there”), and wasn’t exactly allowed in the Hospital, as well (“You are dead on your feet, Healer Black, so it’ll do you good to go home and rest.” “I’m more needed here than I am at home, Healer Smethwyck” “Not for long, son.”), so he resorted to apparating to the bloody cottage, and just. Sat there. Waiting, oh so patiently. Definitely not fretting. Definitely not agonizing. Of course not. Everything was fine. Everything was more than fine. Everything was fucking brilliant. What a time to be alive, etc.
Alright, maybe things weren’t exactly fine. Sirius had spent the entire day – the entire day – at the doorstep of the cottage, determined not to enter until absolutely necessary. He kept shifting between Padfoot and his human self, mostly to stare out at the fields surrounding that small haven the Lupins had once found and nurtured. And it wasn’t as though the cottage was unfamiliar to him; after all, he’d taken it upon himself to tidy it up, to breathe a little life into it, some days ago. Hope had died during the war, and Lyall not long after it ended, just before Remus, himself, was pronounced dead: a mercy, albeit a small one, since it seemed that loneliness, more than any other ailment, had apparently claimed the head of the family. Sirius… Sirius was aware of the cottage, of course, but never thought to visit it again, not after everything, and evidently not until Remus’… return. He played with the idea of bringing him to his flat, which used to be their flat, which used to be their sanctuary, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to actually picture Remus there. Sitting on his sofa, that used to be their sofa. Drinking from his mug, which could have been his, or Sirius’, not really possible to tell anymore. See, no, that wouldn’t do. Sirius wanted Remus to feel comfortable, he needed it, deserved it, too, even if not by Sirius’ standards, by Sirius’ urges. He needed to get Remus comfortable, needed him healthy, and safe, and alive. But there’s only so much comfort he can manage to stomach these days. It would kill him, at least for now, and so he took it upon himself to work on the cottage, making it homely, and welcoming, and his.
Now, the cottage wasn’t exactly… uninhabitable, when Sirius decided to visit it, for the first time in years. It hadn’t been maintained, of course, and it had an almost ghostly essence, as if it too, much like Sirius himself, hadn’t managed to just, what, move on? Except, a house is a house, a cottage is a cottage, and these things aren’t supposed to move on, exactly, not without people in them. Apparently, Sirius could relate to that too, since he felt essentially like the skeleton of an abandoned house, filled with cobwebs and ghosts and creepy echoes and dust, dust, dust. And yet, at least the damn cottage was salvageable (again, small mercies).
The tidying up was a quick affair, with magic. Furnishing the place was equally swift, with money. Everything reparable – sofa, tables, chairs – Sirius restored, and everything else – new sheets, a mattress that wouldn’t torture a werewolf’s back, food ready to be cooked for when said werewolf returned – Sirius bought. It kept him occupied for an afternoon, this whole ordeal, and, naturally, Sirius never returned to the cabin again.
That is, until the Healers decided Remus was fit to be discharged from St. Mungo’s, and until the Minister decided that before his discharge, it was absolutely non-negotiable that Remus meet with her and the Aurors in her office, and until everyone decided that Sirius didn’t have much choice but to go to the damn cottage and wait.
As if he hadn’t, apparently, done anything but fucking wait, these past few years, and, okay, even if unknowingly, Sirius waited, and waited, and waited, and spent the whole bloody afternoon waiting, yet again, nervous, irritated, canine, and human, as if the whole bloody afternoon was nothing but a darkly humorous summary of his life: Sirius Black walks into a bar and waits for Remus Lupin to come home. Nobody’s laughing. Everybody’s laughing. When’s finally time for the punchline?
The punchline arrives exactly at four in the afternoon, following a messy – and highly unadvised – Apparition, leaning on a cane, taking in the view, which is a beautiful one, and walking slowly, oh so slowly, towards the door and, oh, are those Muggle clothes? His eyes are on the ground, except now they aren’t on the ground anymore, and oh, oh, Hello, there. There you are. Merlin, I’ve missed you. Of course, Sirius says none of this, and does nothing, either, because he’s immediately unable to move an inch, barely registering anything but Remus’ footsteps, and Remus’ eyes on him, and Remus’ closed expression, and Remus’… smile? Is the bastard smiling?! as he reaches Sirius. He feels like he should say something. He probably should say something. Merlin, how long has it been since they’re standing there, just looking? Why am I here? Fuck, I shouldn’t be here. “Let’s go inside. Need a hand?”
“I’m alright, thank you,” Remus replies, and just. Keeps staring. Doesn’t move at all. Waits for the door to open, waits for Sirius to do something, waits for a command, but doesn’t look passive while doing it, not really. In fact, he looks incredibly collected. Put together. Determined. In control. Sirius… would love it, he would, but can’t, not exactly, not when he’s feeling like every bit of control he usually holds has evaporated. “Right, er. Let’s go in.”
And so they go in. Sirius checks Remus surveying the place in the corner of his eye. Sits down at the kitchen table, thinks about offering tea, realizes that the two cups of tea are enough of an offer, and Remus will take it if Remus wants to take it, because he might hate Remus Lupin, but he also knows how important this moment is. He’s been deprived of… well, basically everything, for the past years. Freedom is important. Liberty is important. He earned this moment, really, the possibility of making choices. Sitting down with Sirius, locking himself up in some bedroom. Drinking the tea, ignoring Sirius for what feels like ten painful hours of uncomfortable silence. Choices, choices.
Sirius is still angry, so, so angry at Remus, because Remus fundamentally robbed him of making his own choices, too, but he decides against yet another war, waves the stupid white flag instead: sips his tea, and looks down in extreme concentration at his hands, and waits. And waits. And waits. Grows impatient, remains determined to strive for peace, but starts considering a harmless battle, decides he won’t speak until Remus does, not only out of kindness, but, right now, out of bloody spite.
“I don’t really like it here.”
It stings and it doesn’t, because Sirius gets it. “I’m sorry. We had nowhere else to go.”
Remus frowns at this, visibly confused. “We?”
Sirius huffs, because he hates it when Remus plays stupid. Hates it even more when Remus doesn’t play stupid and is actually stupid, which is happening right now, because of course, We. “You are in no condition to be alone yet, Remus. You can barely move. Of course, we.”
“The other Healers seem to think otherwise.”
“Well, too bad the other Healers don’t get to decide.”
Remus stifles a laugh, and Sirius has half a mind to stop himself from doing something foolish like begging him not do to that again. “What if I don’t want you here?” and, oh, he’s teasing now.
Remus… He looks impossibly well. Sure, he still has that bloody limp, and he’s still bruised all over, and evidently malnourished, and Sirius knows his vision is yet to fully recover. But considering everything he’s been through, and given that he’s only started to properly work with the Mind Healer assigned to him a couple weeks ago, he looks almost too well. It stresses the living shit out of Sirius, and warms his heart in equal measure. There’s so much… weight, still, between them. It’s palpable, really, and Remus must feel it, too, so it’s incredibly valiant of him to try to fight it back. Make it lighter, for them. Make it bearable. There are conversations to be had, and pardon to be granted, and all sorts of grief to navigate, and yet, Remus is teasing him. There’s the mischief, there’s the trouble. Sirius wants to eat it. Wants a taste of it. He’s an indulgent man, if anything, so he replies, way before his brain attempts to stop him: “Oh, you want me here.”
The Remus he knew – the Remus he missed, the Remus he mourned – would blush at this. This Remus, now, does no such thing, and it would piss Sirius off, because Sirius always made Remus blush, but it doesn’t, now, not with the mischief and trouble intensifying behind Remus’ gaze. “I do, yeah,” he says, and fuck.
Fuck.
Sirius is certain his body is not supposed to feel like this. Sirius is angry, Sirius is furious. Sirius hates Remus Lupin, and Sirius hasn’t forgiven him. Remus lied to him, betrayed him, destroyed him, abandoned him, and Sirius hasn’t forgiven him. Remus hasn’t apologized, because Sirius didn’t allow it, and Sirius hasn’t forgiven him. Sirius is angry. Sirius is furious.
Sirius is also about to throw Remus against the closest wall and bite his neck and lick into his mouth and grip his arms until he bruises some more and pin him there so he never, ever fucking leaves.
Remus must notice something’s up, and is gracious enough to change subjects, although not gracious enough to pick a subject that doesn’t sting. “Do you still have it?”
They both know what he means, so Sirius decides against feigning ignorance. “Yeah. Tried to sell it, but um. Yeah. It’s still there.”
Remus’ face immediately shuts off. He struggles for a moment, as if the bravery has momentarily left his body, only for a moment, though, for Sirius sees it returning to him as he inhales and says: “Do you have… Is there someone? In the flat, that is.”
At first Sirius very pointedly doesn’t get the question. Until he does, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and tries his very best not to punch him in that beautiful face of his. There’s never been anyone else, that’s the truth, but Remus is not yet entitled to the truth. He has given Sirius his truth, but Sirius is not yet sure if he accepts it, or if he’s ready to give him his. And, well, he’s always been a bit of a twat, so he raises an unamused eyebrow, does a little smirk, gives him his very best bedroom eyes, and says, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Is that why I can’t go there, then?” Remus pushes, clearly fishing for something that Sirius is determined not to give him.
“No, that’s not why we can’t go there.”
Remus drops it. Sirius smiles a victorious smile. It feels easier than it has in weeks. It feels easier than it has in years. It’s so easy he immediately feels guilty.
“Are you staying here? With me?”
“I told you I am,” which doesn’t convince Remus.
“Until when?”
Until you let me. “Until it’s necessary.”
Remus just hums, then, fiddling with his fingers, finally, finally, making his way to the table. He pulls a chair, stares at his tea, stares at Sirius. Looks around, a beautiful frown between his eyebrows, again, emerging. “I don’t like it here.”
“You sound like a child.”
“I feel like a child. This doesn’t… It’s not really mine, is it?”
“By all accounts, this is completely yours, Remus.”
“Yes, but it isn’t, right? I grew up here. It’s my parent’s place. It was home, once, sure, but it hasn’t been in a long time. It feels like going backwards, being here. I miss– I miss my own house. Having one, in any case. A home.”
I miss my home, too, Sirius almost says, although he settles for a blunt “Your dad passed away. Weeks after the Potter’s… yeah. I’m sorry, Remus. I wasn’t sure you… Well, you couldn’t have known, but. There was a funeral, of course. He’s buried right next to Hope.”
“Oh. Yeah, I figured. His magic– The house–, well, nothing feels really alive, in here. He was very sick by the end, I… I figured he’d be gone. I figured he’d have visited, if he wasn’t, you know?”, and then, after a beat. “Was it pretty? The funeral?”
Sirius wishes he could lie to him. Figures he deserves that kindness, if nothing else. Doesn’t have it in him to do it, anyway. “I don’t know. Didn’t come. Wasn’t… It wasn’t good, back then. I was probably passed out somewhere. Mary went, though, she owled me about it, but um, yeah. You could try and reach her, she’ll probably–”
“How is Mary?”
“Oh. I. I’m not sure. We haven’t really–”
“Why not?”
Because it hurts more to share this pain than to carry it alone. Because she reminds me of things I can’t make myself forget. Because until a couple of weeks ago she was the only one who understood, and I can’t handle being understood anymore. Because she looks at me with a different pity from everyone else’s. Because she mourned everyone properly and makes me feel ashamed for not doing so. “Well. As I said. It wasn’t good. I wasn’t good. People grow apart, etc. She tried to reach out, for a while, then maybe realized it was for the better to let go. Let me go. I believe she’s married, now. And I suppose she’s happier, too.”
Remus, the bastard, looks at Sirius like he’s heard absolutely everything he was thinking, and nothing he was saying. “Were you alone, then? These past years?”
Sirius mimics him by hearing everything else Remus doesn’t ask: Did you do it on your own? Did you push everyone away? Did you let it all eat you alive? Did you let it ruin you forever? Did you really, completely survive? Did you ever seek comfort? Did you ever find it?
“I had people,” Sirius says, carefully, and his heart does a little flip when Remus, against all odds, smiles at him, a bit shyly, and says, “Good. I’m glad you hear.”
The silence that ensues is not exactly comfortable, but is also not unwelcomed. They had talked, before Remus was discharged: after Regulus’ visit (Sirius stomach churns again at the memory), he immediately went to Remus to put him up to speed, to let him know that Regulus was, indeed, alive (Regulus was alive Regulus was alive Regulus was alive, alive, alive), to tell him all about Harry (who is also alive, so alive, and his eyes instantly fill with tears because Harry is alive), and about Dumbledore (who, in contrast, is only alive because Sirius cannot afford to go to Azkaban for skinning the old man and sending him to the underworld, or else, or fucking else), and about bloody Snape. Remus… mostly listened, very much like Sirius when Regulus reached out, because it is a lot to take in, and Sirius is angry and Sirius is furious but Sirius loves Remus as much as he hates him, and knows that he’s done his mourning too: for Harry, and most likely for Regulus, and maybe, to an extent, for Sirius. So, Sirius is angry and Sirius is furious, but Sirius understands what it’s like to get to have the dead back in your life, so he’s careful about it, with Remus, reassures him that it’s okay to be happy about it, that there’s no risk of any of it being a lie, or a hallucination, or a cruel dream. Remus seems to accept it, mostly because it’s Sirius saying it, and Remus apparently will believe anything Sirius says, these days.
Regulus didn’t visit again, which was absolutely setting Sirius’ skin on fire, since he needed to get Harry back, and to hex Dumbledore about it, and to hug his brother properly. But Regulus asked for his trust, and Sirius loves like a dog, so he’s very loyal about it, even if it’s killing him from the inside.
Which is saying a lot, because these days there’s not much that could kill Sirius. He’s been through pretty much every terrible thing he can think of, even if he feels, still, like he’s lucked out.
Regulus does write to Sirius, though, who gets his letter exactly five minutes before Remus arrives (how Regulus knows Sirius is in that cottage is lost on him): Harry’s safe. Get your shit together. Talk with Lupin. Will see you soon. R.A.B.
“My Mind Healer says I need to learn to ask for what I want instead of convincing myself I don’t deserve the things I want.”
It startles Sirius, really. I can’t believe you’re one of those people who says My Mind Healer says, Moony, is what he thinks, but Remus is right there, and he’s trying, and Sirius just knows how hard it must have been for Remus to say it so bluntly. So he tries. He does nothing but try, these days. “My Mind Healer used to say I needed to learn to accept that wanting things is natural and that I shouldn’t convince myself that I don’t deserve them.”
“Are we seeing the same Mind Healer?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not seeing anyone. Smethwyck reckons I should, again.”
“What do you think?”
“I reckon I should, too.”
“Yeah, maybe. And have you?”
“What, made an appointment?”
“No. Learned to accept that wanting things is natural and that you deserve them?”
“Have you?”
“I know wanting things is natural. It’s the asking, apparently, I struggle with,” Remus shoots back, somewhat amused.
“So, will you?”
“What?”
“Ask for the things you want.”
“Working on it.”
Sirius knows he should drop it, there. They’re not ready, not yet. Sirius is not ready. But Sirius is also stubborn, and impatient, and angry, and furious, and a little in love, a lot in love, with the man in front of him. He wants to be careful with him, too, but he can’t help it, not with Padfoot’s excited heartbeat buzzing in his ears, not with his own heartbeat so frantic he’s sure everyone in Wales is hearing it, too.
“So, what do you want, Remus?”
A beat, and he’s waiting. He waits, and he waits, and silence should do this to him, shouldn’t be this torturous, this stressing, shouldn’t make his palms sweaty and his vision blurred but it is, and it does, and Sirius is about to drop it, about to make some absurd comment about the weather, about to get up and refill his mug even though he barely touched it, about to turn into Padfoot and play with the bugs outside, anything but waiting, because he’s so done with wanting things, and so done with waiting for them, and–
“Well, you. I want you, Sirius.”
I want you too, Moony, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s not ready. He’s so glad Remus is, or that Remus is trying to, but he can’t. Or, maybe Remus isn’t ready, either, but he’s so brave about it, so fucking courageous, because years ago he wouldn’t have said anything as open, as straight to the point, he wouldn’t voice it like that, he wouldn’t sound that sure. Either way, he’s not ready, so instead, he says, a little cruelly, “James thought you were the spy, at one point.”
Remus’ face betrays nothing but a quiet resignation, like he sort of knew this already, like he sort of accepted it, a long time ago. “What about you?”
Sirius laughs, despite himself. “I didn’t think anything, really. I didn’t care.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t care?”
“I mean, I didn’t care. I didn’t think about it at all, you being the spy, because whenever I thought about it, I always came to the same conclusion: that I didn’t care.”
“What if I was?”
“Then you would be,” and I would love you either way, because I am an idiot like that.
“It would be my fault. They would be dead because of me. How can you not care?”
They are dead anyway, Sirius doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to, because the way Remus immediately flinches, the way his voice cracks at the end, tells him he thought it, too. “I never thought that far. Never allowed myself to do so. It wasn’t… rational, exactly. I just didn’t want to think it, because I knew it wouldn’t have mattered, and I couldn’t make peace with that. I knew I wasn’t the spy, and that was enough, because I wanted– I would’ve– I would’ve done everything to keep them safe. Either way, it didn’t matter, did it?”
“I guess it didn’t.”
“I. I slept with James.”
Remus is a proper grown-up about it. He’s visibly pissed, his pretty lips thinning out and his jaw utterly clenched. He’s beautiful like that, too. He’s also awfully quiet, like he’s urging Sirius to go on. When Sirius doesn’t, he tries, “Oh. Good for you. Were we– when was this?”
“After you left. A couple of weeks after, actually. Once I realized… Once I realized you wouldn’t be returning.”
“Did Lily know?” Remus asks, which is not exactly what Sirius expects to hear, and yet it is exactly what Remus would wonder about. It’s actually sort of offensive, to Sirius, and once again goes to show how much Remus doesn’t get it, not when it comes to James. Lily got it, always did, but then again, Sirius and Remus weren’t James and Lily.
“Yes, of course. And it wasn’t like– it was a comfort thing.”
“A comfort thing.”
“You wouldn’t get it,” Sirius says, and means it, even if he knows it’s going to break Remus’ heart, who, frankly, is looking more pissed by the minute. Sirius loves it. Sirius wants to feast on it. Sirius hates like a scorpion, and here it is: take it, take it, take it. See how you like it. But also: I wish you’d get it. Nobody does, not anymore, but I wish you would, and then you would see how I would give up comfort forever for the chance of staring at that angry face of yours.
“No, of course I wouldn’t.”
You never did. “I slept with a lot of people. After you left, that is.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Great.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” Sirius feels the absolute need to clarify. Not even with James, because it really wasn’t like that. It never was, although Sirius suspects Remus never believed it, which is why saying it now, of course, does nothing for Remus, who very pointedly remains quiet. “It didn’t mean anything,” Sirius repeats, because Remus doesn’t get it, but he has to get it eventually. For them, and for Harry, and for those they both lost who don’t get the chance of getting anything anymore. “And I am so mad at you. But you– you mean something to me, Remus. Other people don’t.”
“James did.”
James is dead, he’s about to counter, but it’ll be pointless and hurtful, and Sirius is done with pointless and hurtful things. He needs to try something else for a change – for them, for Harry, and for everyone they lost –, and so he does. “He did. But he wasn’t you.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.”
“Why don’t you tell me anyway?”
“I can’t. Not yet. I haven’t forgiven you. And you haven’t apologized, not exactly.”
“Forg–”
“Don’t. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I'll forgive you.”
Remus looks confused. “I’m confused.”
“It’s alright. We have time,” and this time around, he believes it. It’s liberating. It’s thrilling. It’s so, so scary. “Have you taken your potions?”
“They gave me some this morning. No need for another two hours. But I could use some rest.”
“Great. I made the bed.”
“You... made the bed.”
“I’ll have you know I’m not completely useless, Remus. I can make a bed.”
“Oh, I know. Awfully neat, you always were. But you didn’t have to. Where, um–”
“On the sofa. The other rooms don’t feel right.”
“You can take–”
“Don’t you dare finishing that sentence.”
“But I can–”
“Really, I will hex your balls off.”
“Sirius, it’s really not a–”
“Remus, shut the fuck up and go to your bedroom!”
“Okay, dad.”
“Merlin, don’t call me that again.”
Remus looks amused. “Is it doing it for you?”
“Actually, not really. It’s weird. I have no fatherly love for you. Like, none at all. Don’t say it again.”
“Well, it would be weird if–”
“Remus, I mean it, shut it. Weren’t you tired?”
“Not so much, suddenly. Figures.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
I really do, he wants to say. And, because he’s Sirius Black, fearless, idiotic, foolish Sirius Black, because he’s here, right now, bruised and beaten up and alive, despite it all, because he’s so done with waiting, and so, so done with wanting and not doing anything about it, because Remus’ bravery must have been rubbing off on him somehow, he says: “I really do.”
☾ ✹ ☽
The next moon is vicious, and it is all Remus’ fault. The man is an idiot, and Sirius wants to bite his head off, scream I told you so from the top of his lungs, and slap some sense into him to prevent this from ever happening again, because this? Remus bleeding out on his perfectly good sofa? Remus passing out on said sofa due to blinding pain? Could have been avoided. Perfectly preventable, in fact. The man is a fucking idiot.
It started that morning:
“Where are we spending the moon?”
“I, er, I was thinking–”
“Dangerous, that.”
Remus gives him a look. “I was thinking, I should spend this one on my own.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes. Think about it, Sirius. Harry will soon be here– that is, if you’re still planning on staying here, of course, and–”
“I am staying here. And if I ever leave, you’re coming with me. You and Harry, both. And what is Harry got to do with this conversation?”
“Everything, Sirius. He’s a child. He’ll need proper care. We can’t simply leave him alone on every full moon just because I need to go howl at it for an entire night. Best if I try and get used to it, too, so–”
“Are you being stupid on purpose?”
“Well, I resent that. I think I’m being perfectly logical.”
“Perfectly logical my ass, Remus. He can stay with Regulus for a night or two. I could talk to the Weasleys, too. And he won’t be a child forever.”
“Sure, but he is a child now. And you haven’t exactly checked with Regulus, or Molly, or anyone, to see if they’re available, have you? And even if they are, Harry might need his godfather sometimes. You know this.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t play the godfather card. I can be a perfectly good godfather–”
“I know you can, I didn’t mean it th–”
“I can be a perfectly good godfather,” he goes on, ignoring him, “and still be with you for the moons. And I will consult them tomorrow, first thing in the morning, just to prove you wrong. And,” Sirius continues, impatience growing by the second, “Harry is not here now. Regulus is taking care of it, and there’s no use fretting about it, you told me that–”
“And I meant it, but, S–”
“So that’s final, right? We will not be creating problems where they don’t exist, Remus.”
“Well, you don’t get to decide this for me.”
“Actually, I do.”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Well, I will let you decide everything for me, if you want. But just not this. We need to–, we need to be prepared. We need to make sure everything is safe and sound for Harry to come home to us. It’ll be a pain in the ass as it is once people figure out that two grown men are taking care of a missing hero child, so the werewolf thing cannot be an issue, too. Just because the Ministry kindly allowed me to not get registered, doesn’t mean they won’t be on my back constantly. So we need to be cautious, and–”
“The werewolf thing is getting old, Remus. I have patients who have been bitten. Several, in fact, many of them parents. Some of them single parents. People manage, and it’s not like we are doing this alone. I am–”
“Let’s see how this one goes, yeah? And then we’ll talk about it in the morning. Moony might enjoy a night out solo”, he says, trying to lighten the mood, and failing miserably, because Sirius goes exceedingly acidic for the next hours. Doesn’t even speak to Remus. Goes outside, turns into Padfoot, a flashy tantrum of sorts, and doesn’t come back in until it’s almost time for Remus to leave.
“You’re making it awfully hard not to be mad at you right now.”
“Forgi–”
“I don’t. You need to stop apologizing. Let me come with you.”
“No.”
“Remus.”
“No.”
“Remus,” Sirius insists, and he really wants to say: Don’t make me beg. I will beg, for you, but don’t make me. I just got you back. Please don’t leave so soon. Please don’t leave again. What if you leave again? What if something happens? What if I lose you again? What if I lose you for good? I haven’t forgiven you, yet. You shouldn’t leave until I forgive you. Isn’t that how quarrels go? Haven’t we learned anything? Haven’t you?
“Sirius,” Remus mirrors. “Sirius. I will be alright. And I will come back as soon as it’s over. I won’t be caged, I won’t be locked, it’ll just be Moony running around and chasing rabbits. I will be back before you know it.”
Sirius is still deciding on whether to tell him he has said those words before or to make him swear he means them this time when Remus adds a quiet, barely audible: “I promise.” And, well, what is Sirius supposed to do with that? So he lets him go, decides against hugging him only for the fact that he actually believes Remus now, trusts him not to break this, him, them, and just stands there, a bit out of reach, for safety purposes, saying, so quietly, “okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. I’m going to go now.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
And he leaves.
It’s absolute chaos when he comes back and one thing about Sirius Black? He hates chaos. Hates the fact that it is always there, unrelenting, hates the fact that it never lets him catch a break. Hates the fact that, somehow, it always comes back to Remus, Remus bloodied and bruised and hurt, and Sirius never doing enough to stop it from happening. The healing takes ages. He thinks of running a bath, but Remus can’t even properly move. There are angry scratches everywhere, and the tibia is most likely broken, again, and he’s bleeding through his stupid The Who shirt, and it doesn’t make any sense. The wolf was running free, there were no chains, no silver, no torture, no shack. It doesn’t make any sense, and his hands are trembling because this feels too familiar, and he’s fifteen again, and he’s sixteen again, and he’s seventeen again, and haven’t they had enough of being stuck in this moment? How many wounds are wounds enough? When will they learn that licking them will always stop the wounds from healing altogether?
“Sirius,” he begins, and Sirius is not sure he’s completely lucid, but the bones are mended and the blood has been vanished and their hands are tangled on their own accord, and Remus is looking at him with a fierceness that tells him that yes, he’s here, awake, with him.
“Remus,” he speaks back, whispers, really, doesn’t want to break whatever moment they are having right now, because they have been here so many times, but they haven’t, not exactly. “What happened?”
Remus looks like he’s about to cry and, oh, oh, please don’t do that. None of that, please. Sirius swears to himself that this won’t happen again, and he’s determined not to break that promise. “I don’t know. I think… I think Moony was confused he… Well, back there in the–, when they got me, the transformations were easier, you know? Even if restrained, Moony was… helpful. It was chained, but I was released, and I think Moony knew that. And then when–, back at the Hospital, you were there, and of course Moony wouldn’t be mad at that, but tonight I– I’m not sure. I think he felt lonely. I think he felt angry. Which is so fucking stupid, because he was free. He was free, Sirius, I– Merlin, I feel fucking useless. How will we do this if I can’t get it right?”
And Sirius’ heart breaks with that, breaks with the realization that Remus might know that wanting things is natural, but he doesn’t allow himself to want some things, nor does he allow himself to need some things, either way. It shouldn’t, but it brings him comfort to know he’s not alone in this, to know they have a chance to make it better for each other. To teach other things, really, to trust each other enough to allow such teachings, to maybe even grow from them, alongside them, together. He's still so angry, and he wants to hold on to it for a little longer, because Remus has hurt him so much, but right now, in this moment, Sirius can’t for the life of him remember why is it that he wants to hold on to the unforgiving bits of himself.
“You’re not useless, Remus. Don’t say that again. Please, don’t say that again. Okay? We– We will do whatever we need to do and we will make it through together. If Moony can’t spend the nights alone, Moony won’t spend the nights alone. He doesn’t need to, alright? You don’t need to. If you need–, whatever you need, Remus, you can have. Okay?”
Remus just cries, and it’s ugly, and it’s beautiful, and he’s curling up like he wants Sirius out, except that he really doesn’t, because he has said so, hasn’t he? He has, so Sirius detangles their hands, reaches for his face, holds it between its hands, and it’s so intimate, so vulnerable, that tiny space that barely exists where a lot of things can properly fit and then again not so much, that he can’t say anything but another plea: “Okay?”
And, you see, it goes like this: Sirius Black falls in love with Remus Lupin. Inevitably, predictably. He loves him, torn or whole. He loves him, a carnal thing, a spiritual thing. He loves him, like a dog, a man starved, a pilgrim, a devotee. He loves him, stains and bruises. The blood on his hands, the blood on his mouth. He loves him, ferociously. With intent. With malice.
He loves him so much it might just destroy him. He loves him so much it feels like another war, but again he’s ready to wave the stupid white flag while still doing the loving, so when Remus says, “Forgive me. Please, forgive me, Sirius,” Sirius, this time, allows it. This time, thinks he might just do it.
This is how it goes, after: Sirius surges forward and kisses him. It’s impulse, it’s flesh memory, it’s home. It’s small, and it’s hungry, and it’s gentle. There’s hatred there, and frustration, and anger. There’s also a promise of forgiveness, of tenderness, of love without blood on their hands. Sirius takes it.
He takes.
And he takes.
And he takes.
Notes:
i can't believe we are almost done with this little story! thank you all again for your kind words and for just hanging out ❤️
random thoughts on this chapter:
- snape mention! snape mention! now listen. snape is... snape is a very compelling character, and i'm not his biggest fan in general, but there's something about pairing him (not romantically, mind you) with regulus and having them both working together to save the son of the people they most loved. like, regulus made a promise! severus... probably did, too! and it feels so healing to have severus actually *caring* about this kid, more so than having him hating him for being james' child. i mean, maybe he did, a little, but regulus is there to make it better. love this plotline tbh 😭
- wolfstar in this chapter... god i love them SO MUCH. i think these interactions were the nicest to write, because of how conflicted sirius is - he's not ready to forgive remus (much like remus wasn't back in chapter 6, post-prank 🤭), but he sort of is, because it's inevitable, because they're inevitable. there's just so much caring between the two of them, and sirius struggles through this entire chapter between holding on to his anger and waving a stupid white flag and call it a night.
- remus lupin!!! back in chapter 6 we see this memory of sirius telling him he deserves comfort, and remus is working soooo hard to ask for that comfort, to see him as deserving. sirius struggles with this, too, which goes to show how much they're willing to give each other, and how important it is to allow themselves some comfort as well. they're getting there! they are!! they even kiss a little about it!!! if you can believe it!!!
anyway, one more chapter to go, guys. thank you again for stopping by ❤️
chapter titled after this brilliant song: https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/0m64PtMUZrwOxavI4bch5G?si=612f7f0825b64a6c
see you soon.
L x
** Edit: 14/10/2024 **
This fic is not abandoned! Currently editing the last chapter and doing some rewriting of one or two scenes I want to get right, and life has been a mess these days, so there's that. Thank you for your patience <3 we will get the last chapter before November starts.
see you soon.
L x
Chapter 10: Taste Sweet Again
Summary:
because the Light is slowly spreading, the truth begins to dawn.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Miriam Strout is ruthless, is what she is. She can’t be much older than Sirius, and it’s not that she looks it, either, but there’s a certain air to her that gives him the same chills he used to get after a particularly sharp reprimand from McGonagall. In fact, their sessions feel very much like particularly sharp reprimands, too, with the exception that this time around, when Sirius says he didn’t do anything, he honestly means it – even if he’s doing his best to be opened to the possibility of having, in fact, done something and having, in return, to do something else about that. She never opens the conversation with subterfuges and rarely ever sugar coats whatever question she’s planning on throwing his way after those initial, forgiving minutes of sitting down, offering some tea, and commenting on the weather. Like so:
“Merlin’s pants, it’s bloody cold,” Sirius grunts, wiping some droplets of rain off his robes, shivering a bit, still, as the body gets used to the comfort of the room. Strout is wearing an unimpressed expression, as she does, and wordlessly points her wand at the fireplace, completely ignoring Sirius’ attempt at small talk, but acknowledging with some kindness that yes, it is bloody cold, and they might stay there for a while, so she might as well warm the place up a bit. The fire does make the room more inviting, so Sirius doesn’t have it in him to be annoyed at the Healer’s silence. He does have it in him to be annoyed at the Healer’s bluntness, since he barely had time to sit his ass down, or to actually stop shivering, or even – perhaps most importantly – to collect his thoughts, when she demands, with a light tone that by no means matches the intensity of her gaze, “So let’s talk about Remus Lupin.”
“Good afternoon to you, too, sunshine,” he groans, rolling his eyes dramatically, cracking his knuckles without ceremony, anything to keep the conversation very much not about Remus Lupin.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Black,” she concedes, not blinking, green eyes still intensely piercing Sirius’ grey. It feels like a challenge of sorts, it does, except that this is a battle Sirius is not confident he’ll win. It’s not even a battle Sirius wants to win, truthfully, since he’s there for Harry’s sake, and he’ll do anything to get that kid back, and he’ll try anything to be a better person, the best person he can muster, to raise that kid right. James’ kid, Lily’s kid, Harry, he… Harry deserves better. He did, and he does, and Sirius will be damned if he doesn’t try to be better, for him. That’s why he’s sitting here, again, willing to lose the stupid staring contest Strout is daring him to join. He drops his gaze, effectively losing said contest, inhaling sharply and waiting for the second hit.
The second hit doesn’t feel lighter than the first. The power lies in repetition, he supposes. “So. Let’s talk about Remus Lupin.”
He feels childish, of course, but, well, he has to try, so he does, as he mumbles a quiet “Let’s… not?”
“Remus Lupin is living with you, Mr. Black. And, from what I’ve gathered, he will be living with you and Harry, once you get Harry home, correct?”
Sirius exhales. Yes, Harry. Harry, who he’s here for. Alright. Alright. He can do this. He can. He absolutely can. He’ll be strategic about it. He can talk about Remus. Remus has been the prime occupier of his brain ever since they were eleven, for Merlin’s sake. He can do this. And there’s a lot to talk about, regarding Remus. How he still takes his tea with absurd amounts of sugar (“Remus, it’s chamomile. It’s sweet enough on its own!” “It is not nearly sweet enough, Sirius. And, anyhow, I’m not forcing to you drink it.” “What if Harry starts wanting the same? He’ll get cavities. It’ll rot his teeth. Do you want a teethless baby, Remus?” “Babies are essentially teethless for a while, Sirius, and he won’t get cavities, nor will I give him sugar like a mad person. Relax.” “So you admit it! You admit you have sugar like a mad person!” “Sirius?” “Remus?” “Shut up and let me enjoy my tea.”). How he still sleepwalks and has entire nonsensical conversations and remembers fundamentally nothing the morning after (“What are you doing up, Remus?” “I was on my way to the library.” “There’s no library here, Remus, go back to bed.” “But I wrote you a poem!” “You did? Brilliant. Let’s hear it then.” “I wrote it in the library!” “Maybe you left it on the bed, Remus. Can you go check and lie down for a bit?” “But I’m hungry.” “I’ll make you breakfast.” “I haven’t had dinner.” “No, you haven’t. Go to bed and I’ll bring it to you.” “Promise?” “Of course.” “You’re brilliant. I’ll write you a poem for it.” “Thank you, Remus.” “See you!”). How he still is the most disorganized person known to mankind (“Have you seen my other red sock?” “You left it in front of the couch yesterday.” “Don’t be absurd. Why the bloody hell would I leave one singular red sock in front of the couch?” “Sounds like a perfectly valid question for such a ridiculous choice, really. Maybe you should ask yourself that.” “I didn’t leave my red sock in front of the couch.” “Can you check it?” “I’m checking it now, but it won’t be there.” “Remus?” “Sirius.” “It’s there, isn’t it?” “It’s here.”). How he–
“Mr. Black?”
Right. Remus. He can talk about Remus. “Of course, sorry. Yes. What do you want me to say, exactly?”
Strout purses her lips, eyes still unamused. “I suppose that’s up to you. There are many ways in which we can start this conversation, since we haven’t talked about Remus at all, even… Even before you stopped coming for our appointments. I think it’s time we fix that, so we can move forward, don’t you agree?”
Sirius doesn’t agree, actually, or doesn’t want to, anyway. “Yes. Yes, of course. I agree. Let’s talk about Remus. It’s just that I… well, I don’t know where to start,” he starts, laughing nervously despite himself. “I don’t know when to start, really.”
“I would say from the beginning,” Strout replies, straightening her back. “Or, perhaps… Right now? How are things right now? With Remus, that is.”
“Loaded question, Miriam,” he says, because it is. He has no idea how things are right now with Remus. A common occurrence if he ever saw one. “Remus is… Remus is better. He can walk almost every day without a cane and the potions are doing their thing. He’s stronger and eating properly, and we even managed to get rid of some of the sc–”
“If I wanted a medical report,” she chimes in, “I could go down to the first floor and have a word with Smethwyck myself.”
Sirius huffs, a bit affronted, because she clearly is not cutting him any slack. “He’s… He’s Remus. Just Remus. I don’t know what else to say, honestly. I… I like having him around,” he starts, dropping his voice to an almost-whisper, as if to stop anyone else to hear his almost-confession. “I like having him around, which is not new. I always, hum. I’ve always liked having him around.”
“You weren’t expecting it, though.”
“I wasn’t. I was… Well, I was hoping for it. Sometimes, at least, I was hoping for it. Other times,” he hesitates here, because it hurts, and he’s so, so tired of hurting, so, so tired of finding out new places where the pain can be lodged, so, so tired of having its roots growing inwards. “Other times I was hoping to never have him around again. I like it. But I don’t know what to do with this… liking, so to speak. It feels wrong to want him around. To enjoy it.”
“Why is that?”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”
Somehow, this makes her laugh, a small, knowing thing, if a little private, and for a second it’s almost as if Sirius is not quite there in the room with her. “I don’t think I am, no. If anything, it would be redundant. I’m sure you already know why. Don’t you?”
“I miss my friends,” Sirius blurts out, and immediately feels tears prickling in his eyes, which doesn’t embarrass him, so to speak, but is uncomfortable enough to have to push the urge to turn into Padfoot and bark at his Healer. He tries his best to ignore the impulse. “I miss my friends. I miss… I miss James. Lily, too, of course, and everyone else we lost, and there are many people we lost, but I miss– Merlin, I miss James so much. I miss him, and I need him, because he would tell me what to do. In fact, he wouldn’t, because he wouldn’t need to, because I would know what he would say and he would know that I would know so, to be fair, I miss him just for the sake of missing him, I think, but it doesn’t make it any less painful.”
“Remus misses James, too, no? You were all good friends.”
It’s not the same, Sirius almost says, but doesn’t, because at the end of the day, it doesn’t do anybody any good, and if Sirius has learned anything, is that just because something is true doesn’t mean you need to state it. Sometimes the truth just settles silently somewhere anyone can go sit and look at, if one needs to. Sometimes the truth just settles silently somewhere anyone can learn to avoid altogether. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because it’s true, but doesn’t stop Remus from missing James, and Sirius knows this. Hates it a bit, too. “He does, yes. But he’s the reas– Alright. Listen. I get why he did what he did. And I don’t want to get into that right now, because it’s just… too much, honestly, and I… I can’t. But the bottom line is, he did something noble. I get that. I really get that and I lov– I respect that. I respect him for it. It was noble and brave and beautiful and he deserves nothing but good things for it. But he– he let me out. On purpose. And I could have helped, and maybe then James would– Things could have been different. Maybe, I think. So, I like having him around. I am so happy that he’s here, and alive, and healthy. Healthier, that is. But his choices, Miriam, I… I don’t know if I’ll ever learn how to live with them, you know?”
Strout just hums and scribbles down a couple of unintelligible words. It takes her a while to reply, maybe out of kindness, maybe to give Sirius the time he needs to steady his breathing, to ease his heartbeats. “Has he spoken to you? About these… choices, as you put it? Why he made them?”
“He said he did it to protect me. Us. Whatever. But the p–”
“Would you do the same?”
This… admittedly startles Sirius a bit. “What do you mean?”
“Listen here, Mr. Black. I don’t know what went down exactly, and if you are not ready to talk about it, then we’ll revisit it later. That's perfectly understandable. But whichever those choices might be, he told you he made them to protect you. What I’m asking here is: were it the other way around, would you have made the same choices to protect him?”
“Yes” is, of course, his automatic and, well, fully honest response, because yes, of course he would, and he hasn’t thought about it before, since there’s not much to think about, frankly, which in hindsight feels a bit unfair, and Sirius wishes Strout would give him more time to explain to himself as to why it doesn’t feel like it’s the same, so he could then explain it to her, but as it so happens, she doesn’t want to beat around the bush. At all. “And would you do anything different from what Remus did? You said he, ahem, left you out. Would you try another approach? Would you let him in on it, for instance?”
Again, his mouth is as quick as his heart, and both always quicker than his brain. “No. Absolutely not,” he states, and startles himself once again as he realizes that he fully means it. Strout’s lips quirk up a bit, as if she herself saw realization dawning upon Sirius, and goes on. “No. No, I didn’t think you would. Why is that, though, Mr. Black?”
And, well. He bargains with the most closed off parts of his brain that he’s paying a good amount of money to be here, so he might as well get on with it. He bargains with the most protective parts of his brain that Harry needs him on his best behavior, and the only way he’ll be better is by getting rid of dusty luggage that doesn’t need to be hidden from everyone’s sight. Everyone sees the dust eventually. There’s simply no point in trying to conceal it. “Because I love him and I’ve loved him since Merlin knows when and I would have died rather than risking his life and I wouldn’t regret it for a second.”
He says this is one breath, hurried, like he needs to get it out all at once, and perhaps he does, because he feels five hundred times lighter than he did when he arrived, and for that, at the very least, he is grateful. “Very well, Mr. Black. Now, I would like you to tell me,” she starts, and Sirius knows where she’s going before she says it all. “Could it be that Remus made the choices he made for the very same reasons?”
It makes his skin itch, it does, because a part of him – several parts of him, truthfully, the daring, reckless, hopeful parts of him – sort of know that yes, it could very much be that the reasons why Remus did what Remus did are the same reasons why Sirius would have done the same. “He apologized to me, you know,” Sirius says, not really answering her question.
“For making those choices?”
Sirius thinks for a moment. “No, not really. I mean, not completely. He said he’s sorry, and I suppose he’s sorry for how he went about the whole… thing, but he also said he wouldn’t apologize for, hum. Saving me, I suppose. He literally said he would never apologize for that. But I– I get it. He said he was sorry, and I get it. I am, too.”
“What do you think he’s sorry for, then?”
He laughs a bit, with no humor behind it. “For not doing enough. For having done so much and putting so much on the line, and still not being enough. For making what he considered to be a good choice and for having that choice backfiring spectacularly.”
She gives him a curt nod and a knowing stare before asking, and Merlin, she is ruthless, “is that something you can relate to, Mr. Black?”
“Oh,” he puffs, “Oh, Miriam, you have no idea.”
“So did you? Accept the apology?”
“Sort of.”
Strout quirks an eyebrow. “Sort of?”
“I, er,” he cringes. “I kissed him. I actually, hum. I have been kissing him. A lot. Not… Not intentionally. Well, I mean, I want to kiss him, so, intentionally, yes, but not like. Not like that. I know we ought to talk. It’s just. Yeah. We kiss a lot.”
She looks entertained by Sirius’ lack of eloquence, which should piss him off, but for once it feels good to say it, as if this time around the confession he’s professing is a brighter one, more like gossiping, more like weightless love. He smiles, a small thing, a little shy, a little mischievous, a little optimistic, even. He doesn’t really wait for her to say anything, because apparently it does remain true that talking about Remus is still the easiest thing for Sirius to accomplish. “And I think he wants to talk, too. We both do, which is good. It doesn’t… It doesn’t feel avoidant, or anything, to kiss him. It feels… Early, sometimes, too impulsive, but then again, it really doesn’t? And I think we might be on the same page. For once, frankly, I think we are. I–” he exhales. “I do forgive him. I think I have, already. I think I have from the moment I saw him again, even before the explanations, even before the reasonings. What else can I do but forgive him? And James… Lily… That’s what they would want, I know it. Somehow I just… It doesn’t feel right to have lucked out like this. I think it all comes down to this. I don’t… I don’t think I deserve it. I love him, and I forgive him, and I hope he forgives me too for the things I should have done differently once I get to apologize to him, too, and all of this is so good but…”
“But you don’t deserve it?”
“James does,” Sirius says, only half expecting her to understand, and fully knowing she won’t. “James did. Lily did.”
“Now, this we have talked about. And it isn’t linear, of course, Mr. Black. We can come back to this however many times you need to. But I will say to you what I’ve said before, and I still stand by this as much as I did the first time we spoke: your friends did deserve better. They deserved to see their child grow, they deserved to grow up themselves, they deserved to be surrounded by their friends, by their loved ones. But so do you, Sirius.”
“I'm partially to blame for it. They're gone and it's not entirely my fault, I know that, but it... sort of is, as well?”
“They’re gone because they were murdered by Voldemort. They’re gone because they were betrayed by a friend. They were victims, the same way that you were, Mr. Black.”
Sirius feels… a bit insulted by that. “They’re dead. I am not.”
“Do you truly believe they are gone because of Remus’ choices, as well?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Sirius.”
“Miriam.”
She pauses for a bit, eyeing him up, before proceeding. “A very dear friend of mine died around that time, too,” she says, which effectively confuses him.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for your loss,” he replies.
“Thank you. She was… She worked here, too, but we met in Hogwarts, first year. Both sorted into the same house, sharing the same dorm, fully attached by the hip. Both dreaming of coming to St. Mungo’s, too, and we even worked together for some time. She… well, she never joined the Order, but she was very outspoken regarding Voldemort’s… ideologies, and was a great help to Dumbledore, whenever she could. Smuggling potions, sharing information she’d hear from random patients, that sort of thing. She was brilliant, too. She became an Animagus, at one point, you see, and did it all by herself. One day she didn’t show up for work, but I didn’t give that much thought. After a week, I was more than fretting, as you can imagine. Dumbledore broke the news to me. They wrote a small little thing on the Prophet almost a month after she passed. They failed to mention she was murdered, same as her husband, by the Death Eaters.”
“I’m sorry, Miriam,” he repeats.
“I blamed myself. So much. I would spend ages recounting every interaction with her, regretting every time I’d praise her bravery, thinking that maybe I should have been more cautious, I should have pushed her to be more cautious, that maybe if I did something different, or said something different, she would still be here today. When I was not blaming myself, I was blaming everyone else around me. The patients she would overhear, her husband for enabling her courage, Dumbledore for not knowing when to stop demanding impossible tasks. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sirius?”
Sirius thinks he does. He nods.
“She was… she was very important to me. She was... well, in a way, she was my James, I think. Do you know my Patronus takes the shape of her Animagus form? Yes, she was really special. And I lost her, and I blame myself for many things, and I have my own regrets to make peace with, but the truth remains that Death Eaters murdered her. She’s gone because of them. Because of him. Because of the hatred, and the prejudice, and the violence the bunch of them perpetuated.”
Sirius just keeps nodding, which is just as well, since he’s sure he won’t be able to say much with the lump in his throat tightening. He tries to say something, anyway, but all he comes up with is “What was her name?”
That gets him another small, knowing smile. “Healer Winger.”
“Winger… Oh! Was she–”
“There’s a memorial on the Third Floor. She used to work there, on the Poisoning Department. She was good with potions, you see.”
He feels his lips curling up. “She sounds amazing.”
“She was,” Strout agrees. And then: “Our time is up.”
“Oh. Of course. Thank you, Miriam. This was… This was good, I think.”
“I agree. Same time next week?”
☾ ✹ ☽
“What in the name of fucking Circe–”
“I burnt the eggs,” Remus states, with remarkable calmness in his voice, one that most definitely does not match the panic in his eyes. The man is hopeless, which is both unnerving and endearing in equal measure. Sirius wants to kiss him for it, but Sirius wants to kiss him all the time, for whichever reason, and he’s really committed to not giving in to the urge every time it resurfaces, so he just attempts to maintain a stoic expression as he approaches the adorable crime scene that was, a mere couple minutes ago no doubt, a perfectly clean kitchen. “I can see that,” he replies.
Remus groans and throws both hands to grasp his unruly hair, another crime scene of its own, and equally adorable. “I’m hopeless. I am utterly hopeless. And obviously not fit to raise a child. How the hell will I raise a child? I’ll fuck up his stomach and I’ll fuck up his tastebuds and he’ll hate me for it, and–”
“Whoa, Moons. Be careful. You sound an awful lot like me, dramatic twat. You won’t fuck up anything. It’s just eggs. See?” Sirius says, with the patience of a saint, if he does say so himself, and vanishes the mess with a lazy wave of his wand. “How about I do the cooking around here?” he tries, mostly to calm Remus down, but also because he’s starving after his shift and dying for some runny eggs. Remus looks… well, Remus looks a bit offended by the offering, mumbling a quiet thank you and excusing himself to the kitchen table, leafing through the Prophet and not reading one word of it, determined not to meet Sirius’ eye. Which is to say: absolutely fucking adorable.
“You’re welcome. Find us some crosswords, will you?” Sirius tries, because he knows how important it is for Remus to feel useful, and smiles despite himself when he spies Remus’ own smile creeping on that grumpy morning face of his. “Aren’t you tired? That shift took forever,” he comments, eyeing him properly for the first time since his arrival, a cute frown appearing between his eyebrows.
“I’m fine, Remus. Dozed off during the break, and it was a quiet night, all things considered. I’m starving, though,” he adds, and that’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because the frown deepens, and the sluggish smile immediately disappears. “Of course. I’m sorry. Evidently you cannot rely on me to help with that,” Remus murmurs, petulant, sulking, fucking cute.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Sirius repeats, shrugging as he cracks four eggs into the pan. “They’ll be done in a mo. Tea?”
“Oh! I made some for us! Here,” he gloats, while pushing a mug Sirius hadn’t noticed towards him. “Earl Grey for you. Chamomile for me. No sugar.”
“Oh? Do my ears deceive me, Remus? Finally trying not to die of diatrebes?”
“It’s diabetes,” he retorts, rolling his eyes but charging his voice with a fondness that makes Sirius’ heart sing, and it’s just. They are both trying so hard. They are. Sirius, of course, knows what diabetes are (he’s a Healer, for Merlin’s sake!), and Remus must know Sirius knows, but they are both smiling like idiots, and it’s a beautiful morning, and they are trying. For Harry, of course, but for each other, too. It’s another important thing, that. “It’s diabetes,” Remus corrects, anyway. “And I’m doing it for Harry. You were right. Maybe cutting down some… unhealthy habits could be good. For all of us, that is. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you no longer have cigarettes on you.”
Sirius grins. He’s proud of that one, especially because it cost him some terrible migraines and some very intense mood swings. “I’m craving them all the time. Would kill for one right now.”
“Well, you can’t always get what you want. My tea tastes like Hippogriff’s crap, so.”
“How do you know what Hippogriff’s crap tastes like, Remus?”
Remus just laughs. It’s brilliant. “Taste this and you’ll know it, too.”
“You’re insufferable,” he replies, but surreptitiously charms Remus’ tea with the subtlest sweetening charm. “Eggs are done. Here.”
“Thank you. Sit. Let’s do crosswords,” Remus says, taking the plate with one hand and summoning a quill with the other. “Broomstick model released in 67. Ten letters.”
Sirius doesn't falter. “Nimbus 1700. Merlin, James wouldn’t shut up about it the first days at Hogwarts. It was his first broom, courtesy of Monty.” Remus smiles again, all shy for no reason, humming and writing the answer down silently. “So, Moons. How did you sleep?”
“Oh. I slept fine, thank you. Just didn’t sleep much, so I’m a bit grouchy. Better now, anyway. Ugh. These eggs are perfect. Why are these eggs perfect? I hate you. Why are you good at everything? It’s not fair,” Remus complains, attempting to change the subject after dropping, no doubt unintentionally, a very crucial information on Sirius. Sirius, of course, doesn’t fall for it. “Why didn’t you sleep much?” he asks, frowning.
Remus’ cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink at the question. The urge to kiss him comes back full force. Once again, Sirius ignores it. “Oh. I… Well, don’t get mad, but–”
“Terrible way to start a sentence, Remus,” he warns, visibly confused because, for what it’s worth, and despite their history, it’s usually Sirius who gets Remus mad, and not the other way around. Remus winces a bit. “Sorry, sorry. I was… Well, to be fair, I was a bit… Ugh, I suppose bored is the right word, and also, well, a bit done with being useless and–”
“You’re not useless,” Sirius interrupts, pointedly.
“And I thought I could… Hum. Well. I changed things up a bit. The bedrooms, I mean. My parents’…” Remus hesitates, blushing deeper, trying to figure out, no doubt, how to explain himself. “I redecorated,” is what he settles on.
“You… redecorated.”
“Yes. For… For Harry. If that’s okay. I just figured… Well, evidently, he will need a room for himself. For his toys, and his books, you know. I… Also changed my bedroom, a bit. Put a stretching charm and we can fit another bed, there. We can put some sort of wall for privacy, if you want, of course, or we can change everything, honestly. I should’ve asked first but it was an impulse thing, you see, but yeah, if you hate it we’ll put everything back and–”
“Show me.”
“Oh. Alright, then. Come on,” Remus rasps, a bundle of nerves, getting up and leading them in silence to Harry’s room, first. He stops by the door, then, surely to mumble another apology, surely sensing Sirius fidgeting behind him, surely not realizing what’s making Sirius so fidgety, surely not aware that the room could be the ugliest thing in the entire world and Sirius would still want to kiss him stupid for it – for the effort, for the thoughtfulness, for the caring. “On with it,” Sirius orders, all steady tone and neutral face, and Remus stiffly opens the door. Remus stiffly opens the door, and Sirius has to lean against it because his knees are weak and his heart is racing and he's in love with Remus Lupin.
The room is small, has always been, but the size is still more than adequate for a child. Sirius almost doesn't registers the size, though. His eyes go straight to the bed – a single, tucked neatly beneath a dark blue bedspread that glimmers with golden stars. The stars, and this he registers, are charmed to move, ever so slightly, softly twinkling as they drift across the velvety fabric. Beside the bed is a simple wooden table, scuffed along the edges, where a single photograph sits in a frame. His eyes fill with tears immediately, because he remembers that day. It’s a muggle photograph, taken with some camera Mary used to carry around, only weeks after Harry was born. James, Lily, and Sirius grin up at him, frozen in time beside a baby Harry, round-cheeked and wide-eyed. It makes Sirius’ throat tighten. To the side, there’s a basket overflowing with toys, a mix of muggle and magical: a stuffed bear missing one eye, a broomstick no longer than a forearm, colorful wooden blocks that rearrange themselves into towers. They all look… Well loved, really, which tells him they were Remus’ once. A small bookshelf stands against the far wall, packed with children’s books, all Remus’, too, no doubt: a greenish edition of Beedle the Bard mingled with a worn copy of Peter Pan, and so many others Sirius’ eye doesn’t catch.
Remus was thorough, and this he also registers. The floor is soft underfoot, a fluffy mat in a lighter shade of blue. The ceiling above is charmed to look like the night sky, just like the bedspread – only here, the stars stretch wide, blinking down gently. He’s… he’s fucking speechless. Remus’ voice pulls him out of his trance. “I thought of buying some new toys and books but I didn’t have the time. Well, no stores would be opened, anyway, but I thought he could also have some of mine. Sirius? Hum, Pads? Are you okay?”
Sirius turns to look at Remus. There’s hesitation, in his face. He’s nervous, Sirius can tell, and a bit embarrassed, and evidently sleep deprived. There’s a bit of egg yolk in the left corner of his mouth. His hair still looks like a crime scene. He wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him. He wants, and he wants, and he wants, and this time, when the urge comes, Sirius chooses to give in and surges forward to crash his lips against Remus’, messily, desperately. I love you, I love you, I love you, his heart chants, and Merlin, he means it. “Thank you,” he breathes, between kisses, and goes on kissing him for a while, tousling his curls and licking into his mouth, thinking to himself, if a little distantly, that perhaps they will be able to make a new cathedral out of this place. “Thank you,” he repeats, pealing himself off Remus, gazing intensely into his amber eyes. “It’s perfect. We’ll get more toys and books. We’ll get him everything he wants. But he will love it as it is. It’s perfect. Remus, it’s so perfect.”
Remus gives him a lopsided grin, looking all goofy and toothy and proud, and perfect, perfect, perfect. “I’m glad you like it. I didn’t know if… I didn’t know if the flat would be better, but,” he pauses, fixing him with an intense gaze of his own. “But it’s good here, I think. I loved it here when I was a kid. And he can have other kids around, of course, and the countryside could be good for him, and–”
“We’ll stay here, Remus,” Sirius assures him. “Of course we’ll stay here. I’ll keep the flat, it’s… It’s important to me. That I keep it, that is. It’s… It’s a special place, too, for me. This here… This was your home. The flat was mine. My first, that is,” he confesses. “So I’ll keep it. We can have both, but I agree that this is better for Harry. I get it. I love it. He’ll love it. Merlin, Remus, it’s perfect.”
Remus just keeps blushing. “Thank you. But, Sirius?”
“Yes, Remus?”
“It was home. To me, too, it was home. The flat. I was… Despite everything, I was very happy there. I think we were happy there, for a while. We were, weren’t we? My memory’s all fucked, but I think… I think I was happy there.”
“We were, Moony. We were very happy there. With a little luck, we’ll be very happy here,” Sirius whispers, and is once again surprised to find that he entirely means it. “Show me the other bedroom?”
They walk towards it, closing the door to Harry’s room (Harry’s room!). Now, Sirius remembers Remus’ old bedroom faintly. He’s been there once or twice, when they were still at Hogwarts, and surely enough, when Remus opens the door and invites him in, the only thing different about it is dimension – it’s twice as large, and Sirius is certain it must have taken quite a bit of magic to make it happen, especially given the fact that it still holds the same familiar coziness it had when it was half this size. Somehow, it is the… expansiveness that leaves Sirius with a bitter taste in his mouth, because yes, it’s not like they have discussed the… future arrangements, or the future in general, but it feels distant, and it feels wrong, to have such a big space for just the two of them. Remus has put a lot of effort into it, so Sirius has to bite his tongue to avoid saying something incriminatory like, I liked it better before or, I can’t share a room with you and sleep on a different bed. “It’s… spacious,” is what he chooses to state, as he takes in the place.
In one corner, the small single bed remains (Remus’, he thinks, with vigorous disgruntlement), covered in mismatched blankets, all warm tones of orange and red, worn from most likely years of use. The fabric is frayed at the edges, and the sheets are tangled, and Sirius has to mentally chastise himself for his canine impulse to throw his body over the bed and smell said blankets, simply to inhale Remus’ scent he just knows will be undoubtedly imprinted there. Above the bed, scratched and curling at the edges, are posters of David Bowie and The Rolling Stones, colors faded, and half-peeled in random places. A battered bedside table sits precariously beside the bed, a forgotten cup of tea resting on it, long cold, its rim slightly stained. Beside the cup, a small stack of random books lie askew: Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, and a few others. And, well, stacks of random books are pretty much everywhere else, arranged in teetering piles against the walls, spilling onto the floor. They lean in messy towers, worn spines cracked from regular use, some half-open, like they’ve been abandoned mid-chapter, and it’s chaos. Raw, indisputable chaos.
Sirius loves it.
The small, cluttered closet stands in the corner, supposedly containing what little clothing Remus has, since (and rather predictably) most of it is scattered across the room – an old ratty sweater is tossed over a chair, a singular green sock forgotten on the floor, and a pile of shirts draped over the bedpost. There’s a notebook open to half-written thoughts on the floor beside an unused quill, and a pile of letters, some unopened, is crammed beneath the bed.
And yet. He takes in the room, feels possibly a million things at the same time, and when he’s sure his heart will give him a fucking break, it catches Sirius’ eye, and he’s done for. There’s a small tin box by the bedside, the one he charmed for Remus back at Hogwarts, and it still works, still shows the current moon phase, still has the Canis Major constellation near it, oh so close, oh so steady, like a promise, like a prophecy. Remus and Sirius, Sirius and Remus. Them, them, them. Sirius swallows hard, heart currently feeling way too big for his chest, and he knows he has to say something else, because Remus is so fucking quiet, looking so fucking jumpy, looking so fucking soft. “I suppose that corner there is for another bed?”
Remus, the bastard, blushes again. “Is for whatever you want to place there. I didn’t want to… I wanted you to have space. And a choice, really.”
“A choice?”
“You know what I mean.”
I choose you, he almost says. “I think I do, yes,” he murmurs. “Hey. Want to hang out here for a while? Like the good old times. It’s very... evocative, this room. Remember that one time we had a sleepover with Prongs and got him so high we had to use a silencing charm to stop your parents from finding out what we were up to?”
Remus smiles. “If I remember correctly, James was very adamant that he had to sing Baba O’Riley from the top of his lungs. Merlin, that boy was tone deaf.”
“Don’t raise your eyeeee, it’s only teenage wastelaaaand” Sirius starts, in a failed attempt to sing as off key as James used to. “He was terrible at it.”
“He was. You weren’t any better,” Remus retorts, fully lying through his teeth, and knowing it. They sit on the floor, Remus cracking his knuckles, Sirius holding a book for the sake of not cracking his knuckles. “I miss him, you know,” Remus ventures, looking up to Sirius with a cautious expression. Sirius says nothing, all of a sudden very focused on the stupid book he’s holding, not reading a single word of it, waiting, and waiting, and reckoning that Remus takes his silence as permission to go on, because he does, and boy, does it hurt. “I didn’t… I know nobody did, of course, but you know,” he stutters, uneasy, pained, beautiful. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I don’t… I don’t even remember our last conversation. I remember the last I had, with Lils. It was a silly thing, but I remember. Not with James, though.”
And it hurts, and it hurts, but Sirius knows yet another important something is taking shape right there, so he does his best to manage the hurt, and he encourages: “What did you and Lily talk about?”
Remus laughs, then, reddening a little, again. Beautiful, beautiful. “Oh, you know. She was complaining about James, as she did. Something about being an ignorant pureblood who had no idea who Peter Pan was, and begging me to help her out with Harry so… well, so he wouldn’t grow up not knowing who Peter Pan was.” Sirius smiled, then, remembering the muggle book stacked in the bookshelf. “I don’t know who Peter Pan is,” he admits, and that gets him another chuckle from Remus. “Of course you don’t, Pads. Lily would call you an ignorant pureblood for that. Anyhow, it’s this character from a children’s book. A boy that never grows up, and just spends his time doing mischief and causing havoc in this magical land.”
Sounds like Prongs, Sirius almost blurts out. Sounds like all of us, in some other universe. A kinder one. “I’m sure Harry will love it. I’ll read it myself and we’ll read it to him, too,” he promises, because it’s a promise, because that’s what Lily would have wanted if she couldn’t be around to read it herself, and she isn’t around to read it herself, so Sirius will, Sirius will. “I don’t remember my last conversation with Lily,” he admits.
“And with James?”
Sirius scoffs. “I do. Of course.”
“Tell me about it?” Remus asks, and it’s Sirius’ turn to blush. “Oh. Well, it was mostly nonsense, as it was. We talked a bit about you, too,” he confesses.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t… It wasn’t good, Moons. James was pissed, and scared, and I was pissed, and scared. It really doesn’t matter,” he adds, since it really, really doesn’t matter, regardless of how much James will always do, to him. “I wish we talked about something else. In hindsight, I do. I wish I told him–”
“Me too, Pads,” Remus cuts, knowingly. “Me too.”
“He loved you a lot, you know?”
“James?” Remus asks. Sirius just nods in response. “Yeah, I know that. I loved him a lot, too. There was a lot of love, with all of us.”
Not all of us, Sirius thinks, and bites his tongue because it hurts less than to admit that yes, all of them. Yes, all of them, at least at some point, at least to some extent, yes, yes all of them. There was a lot of love, with all of them. There was a lot of other things, too, and eventually some began to matter more than love did, and wasn’t that the catch with the two of them, too? “There was, indeed,” he agrees. “There is,” he whispers, raising his eyes to meet Remus’, and there is, there is, there is.
☾ ✹ ☽
“Welcome, Mr. Black. Have a seat,” Strout starts, not raising her eyes from her parchment, finishing up whatever scribbling she clearly couldn’t abandon for the sake of his arrival. “How are you today?”
“Great, Miriam, thank you for asking,” Sirius replies. “Harry will be coming home soon,” he adds, not one bit ashamed of the excitement in his voice. Strout smiles at him then, folding the written parchment in four and placing it under a nearby book. “Is that so? How are the arrangements going?”
“A bloody mess,” he admits. “Regulus is handling things with the Dursleys and sent over the adoption papers so we could have a look at it. We’re planning on meeting Harry over the weekend, maybe show him the cottage, see how it takes the whole thing… Regulus says he’s just a kid and he’ll acclimatize easily, so I’m trying to remain positive. I– I miss him, Miriam. Hadn’t realized how much, honestly. And I miss him for him, too. Not just as… As an extension of… them, you know? I miss him. Can’t wait to see him again.”
“You’ll be with him in no time, now. I’m really happy for you, Sirius. So… Regulus,” she starts, taking a very formal tone that sends another chill down Sirius’ spine because Merlin, healing feels too often more like a stab wound and less like a bandaging charm. “What about him?”
“Well. You rarely talk about him.”
“Not like I need to,” he scoffs. “The Prophet’s losing it over his return from the dead. Same with Remus, except that Remus is not a Black, and apparently that makes him more forgettable, or less printable, or something,” he mumbles.
“Well, I’ve read the Prophet, of course,” Strout states. “It must have been quite a shock, having him back.” Sirius almost laughs at her, because once again the universe is set on proving that no one but their very own understands his fucking family. “I don’t have him back.”
“Hum. How so?”
And there are a lot of ways he could answer that question. He could say: I never had him in the first place, he was never mine to have, I am not my brother’s keeper. Or he could say: I lost him way before he died, and with him I actually did the mourning I had to do, so I don’t know how we are supposed to exist in a world where it’s just the two of us. Or he could say: How do I even get him back? We had to learn how to grow apart even before we could learn how to grow up. He could say: It hurts that everything I know about him are the big things, most of which I absolutely despise. I cannot forgive him for them, just like I cannot forgive myself for missing everything else – him complaining about his grades, him musing about his teenage infatuations, his voice deepening, his jaw sharpening, his hair growing. I cannot forgive myself, or him, for letting go of the chance of growing up together, and now we are here, and I recognize him, but I don’t, so he must not recognize me either, and what the bloody hell do I do with that?
But he says: “There’s just a lot going on and he’s working tirelessly to get Harry back to me. He’s been meeting with Dumbledore, and the Dursleys, and fucking Gringotts, and we simply haven’t had much time to… well, talk. I’m not sure how that would go. We haven’t exactly talked, much, what with him being dead for years, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose that made it difficult for you to dialogue,” Strout concedes, smiling at Sirius with fondness, a rare thing. “Are you planning on talking to him? Once everything settles?”
“I suppose I have to. He’s been… Really brave. Did you know he was with Remus, actually, for a while? Before Remus went missing, that is, and for almost two years during the war.”
“Ah,” she muses. “Something to do with the choices we were discussing last week?”
“Something to do with it, yes.”
“Have you forgiven your brother like you forgave Remus? Or are those different situations altogether?”
Sirius thinks about this. Forgiveness feels... well, it feels inevitable when it comes to Remus, only because Remus feels inevitable in and of himself. Things are… yes, different, with Regulus. For starters, and despite their distance, they were raised in the same way, by the same people, and were born bearing the same fucking crosses and curses and expectations and behaviors. It’s not like Regulus will ever apologize to him – what would he even apologize for, anyway? Saving the bloody Wizarding World? Pretending to be dead to a brother who was very vocal about not giving a flying fuck if he was alive? Not reaching out before? Sirius understands Regulus, perhaps even better than he understands Remus, and Regulus, unlike Remus, doesn’t feel at all like a beautiful equation or like a vessel for all the secrets of the universe. Regulus is a universe of his own, and even if Remus is, too, Regulus is a universe Sirius might recognize anymore, but will forever fully understand. He misses him but knows him all the same. He won’t apologize, just like he won’t forgive the things Sirius won’t apologize for. And yet, they’ll carry on, because family is the most important thing in family. Forgiveness, like love, might come after, if it comes at all, and if it does it isn’t sacred, not really, it is pragmatic, and a little moody.
“Yes and no. It’s sort of the same situation, but entirely different approaches. And I don’t know if I have forgiven him. I don’t know if he has forgiven me, either,” he confesses.
“What does he have to forgive you for?”
“Leaving,” he spills straight away. “Leaving,” he repeats, voice steadier. “Not being around. Not having been enough. Not showing him that he could rely on me. Not being closer. Leaving him behind to rot in that awful house. You name it.”
“Alright. We can come back to this, but- have you ever apologized for the things you believe that need to be forgiven?”
There would be no point, he thinks. “No, not really. I might. I… I want him around. I think it would be good for Harry.” He doesn’t add: I think it would be good for him. I think it would be good for me. “I miss him,” he does add, not exactly sure as to why he says it, but hell, it’s out there, and does it feel good to have it out there, because this is the longest he has missed a person, and the longest he’s gone without saying it out there, a truth that can be revisited, but never is, except here we are.
“Of course you do. He’s your brother,” Strout declares, and isn’t that just so. He is his brother, and Sirius doesn’t know if his Healer has a sibling, and doesn’t know if that would be enough for her to get it, but this small, unassuming statement feels so, so heavy, and so, so relevant for Sirius, that he has to take a deep breath and clench his fists and close his eyes for a bit, lest he start crying ugly, decades-old tears, because yes. He is his brother. He misses him because of it, and despite it. And he is his brother even when they’re missing from each other. He was a brother even when Regulus was presumably gone. He will forever be a brother. And, for what it’s worth, he’s glad he’s Regulus’.
“Do you have siblings, Miriam?”
“I can’t say that I do,” she replies, all gracious, all beaming. “But I’ve always been positively envious of my friends who do. Siblings are precious things.”
At that, Sirius genuinely laughs. “You’re a bit out of your depth there, Miriam. Siblings are not precious things. They’re what we colloquially call, ah, a pain in the ass. Absolute pests. Eternal burdens. Complete nuis–”
“I think I get the picture, Mr. Black,” Strout chuckles. “But you say all that with fondness, just like all siblings do,” she states, and oh, does he? does he? Sirius didn’t think his fondness for Regulus was still a thing he carried around, let alone show to others. But it’s here, of course it is, because he is his brother. A pain in the ass, an absolute pest, an eternal burden, his little brother. “I won't claim the path is only strewn with roses, especially regarding your history, and the… situation you all have gone through. I will claim the path is out there to be taken, though, and it’s a precious thing to have the chance of not taking it alone.”
“And would you look at that,” Sirius says, not really looking at her, but smiling all the same, and he’s been doing that a lot these days, hasn’t he? “maybe we will get to find some roses here and there.”
Strout smiles back, and it holds some pride, it holds some delight. “Exactly. Now get out of my office. Time’s up.”
☾ ✹ ☽
Sirius Black is a very strong man. He lasted exactly a week after Remus’… redecorating, a triumph for which he truly believes he should be granted some sort of award, something grander than a mere pat on the back. No, really, someone should bring it up to the Wizengamot and have them decree some new Order of Merlin to be bestowed upon those who survive that long – a whole, entire bloody week – sleeping on the couch when Remus Lupin is out there on the loose being the most adorable creature ever, spending sleepless nights expanding bedrooms to grant the two of them both freedom and proximity, both space and warmth.
Tonight, Remus has already retired to his – their? – bedroom, calling an early night because his vision hasn’t been great these past couple of days, and letting Sirius know with unnerving calmness that he’s welcome to join him, should he want some proper rest on a proper bed (which could, and should, in Sirius’ opinion, be a compelling invitation for Sirius to join him in his bed, except Remus, the maniac, transfigured a second bed out of Merlin knows what and Sirius hates it and wants to set it on fire and is sort of throwing a quiet fit over its very existence).
Regulus has been mediating the conversations with the Dursleys, but Sirius will finally be meeting the obnoxious couple tomorrow morning, and will be seeing Harry for the first time in years. He’s incredibly deserving of yet another award for hanging on for so long, honestly: of course, he gave in to sudden urges here and there (and if Padfoot has been obsessively paying visits to Privet Drive and hiding behind bushes only to catch an occasional glimpse of his godson, it’s frankly no one’s business), but he’s been so good about the whole thing, working against his recklessness and towards becoming a healthy, mentally stable godfather for that kid. He looks better, of this he is certain (if Remus’ pupils are anything to go by when he catches him eyeing Sirius up and down before leaving for another shift at St. Mungo’s), and he feels better, too. He feels… capable. Still all over the place, but in a contained, measured manner. Still messy, in every way except exterior, but committed to cleaning up, with intention, with fervor. But tonight… Well, tonight Sirius feels exceptionally messy, and exceptionally anxious, and the bloody couch is killing his back, and the bloody house is too quiet, and Remus was just there a few moments ago but he misses him and needs him and he’s done with not accepting the things he wants.
When Sirius finally gives up and struts towards his – their? – bedroom, Remus is standing right behind the door, and looks at him like a child that was just caught doing something naughty. Sirius has half a mind not to lick his lips like a starving dog. “Oh. Hi, Moons. Why are you standing there? Even you wouldn’t fall asleep so fast, so I’m sure you’re not sleepwalking,” he jokes, hoping to sound way less nervous than he feels.
Remus chuckles back at him, throwing a lanky arm behind his head. “Not sleepwalking, no. My eyes are killing me and my head is hurting but I’m not really sleepy, so.”
“So you thought you’d stand there and wait for the sleep to come?” Sirius tries, arching an eyebrow. “Something like that. Are– are you? Sleepy, that is? If not we could hang out. Here, that is,” he babbles.
Please, Sirius thinks. “Sure. It’s too quiet. Mind putting on some music?”
“Of course. What music do you fancy?”
“Donovan,” he whispers, the name escaping him before he thinks too hard about it. Remus seems to get it, anyway, and turns around to search amongst his records until he reaches for the sepia cover. Sirius takes in the space and stares angrily at the second bed in the corner of the room. In a moment, Astral Angel starts playing, and Remus hands him a cigarette with a crooked smile. “I know you’re quitting, but hey, how about one last one before Harry comes?”
Sirius takes it and lights it with his wand. “Thank you,” he says, as he exhales the smoke. Remus just hums and sits on his bed, scooting over to make room for Sirius, should he want to sit beside him.
He does.
“I love this song,” Remus mouths, his gaze drifting away from Sirius. I love you, Sirius thinks back, erratic, a bit hysterical. “Me too. It always reminds me of you.”
“Not all good things, I suppose,” he says, sheepishly. Sirius’ eyebrows raise in slight surprise. “Do you remember?”
“I do, Pads. It always reminds me of you, too,” he replies. “I thought of it often back… Back when they caught me. Would sing it often, too. Your cousin… well, she hated it. Only made me sing it more,” he muses, and again, the conversation feels important, because Remus hasn’t exactly spoken about those times, not with Sirius, at least, so it hurts him to hear it, of course it does, but he sits through it and lets Remus take his time. “She looks a bit like you, your cousin,” he continues, still not looking at Sirius. “You’re prettier, of course. But there’s something about her. I despise her, always did, but it was oddly comforting to look at her and see… Some resemblance, you know? I never thought I’d see you again. She was the closest I had. Isn’t that awful?”
“No,” is Sirius’ immediate answer. “It’s not awful. I… I get it, I do. You know, everyone in the family would comment on our… resemblances, as you put it, anyway. It’s probably the eyes, I guess.”
Remus hums again, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, still not looking at him. Yes, it’s probably the eyes, he supposes. Maybe he sees Bellatrix in them, now, too. Sirius has been seeing her in the mirror for much longer, so he gets it, he does. Maybe he sees every Black there, now, too, and maybe he’s just as frightened as Sirius has always been when catching his reflection, and maybe for the same reasons. “No, I don’t think it’s the eyes. Yours are kinder,” Remus retorts, after some time.
“They aren’t, really. I’m sorry, Moons.”
Remus grimaces a bit. “Whatever for?”
“Just. For everything. I’m sorry you got through all of that. You didn’t deserve that. No one does,” he adds. He wishes he could bring himself to say more. To want more. He wishes he could say, I would kill her, for you, and mean it. He hates that he’ll never say it, or mean it. “No, I don’t suppose anyone deserves that,” Remus agrees. “I’m glad I made it out. Never thought I would. Sometimes… Sometimes I feel like I’m there, still,” he admits, and oh, does that one hurt, too. “Sometimes… Sometimes I feel like I should be there, still. It would be easier, I think, for everyone. I’m glad I made it out, but I can’t help feeling like I brought you so much pain, coming back.”
Look at me, Sirius wants to beg. Look at me. Look at me, look at me, lookatmelookatmeLook–
“But then again,” Remus continues, and it’s like Sirius isn’t even there, not really, but also like Sirius is finally there, as well. Remus still isn't looking, just talking, and it’s slow, and intentional, and just for the two of them. “I suppose you deserve the truth, and for that I am also glad I came back to you. Perhaps you’d end up learning all of this, and I’m sure Regulus would end up reaching out, but–”
“I’m happy I heard it from you. I’m happy you’re here, Remus,” Sirius cuts in, suddenly. Look at me. Look at me. “Remus? I need you to know that– I need you to know that I would have done the same thing. For you, for James, for everyone, I would have. I would have gone and done everything exactly as you did, and would have died trying, if I had to, if it meant keeping you safe.”
“I would have died if the roles were reversed,” Remus admits, putting out his cigarette. “I wouldn’t… I’m sorry I disappeared on you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when… I’m just. I’m sorry, Sirius. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen. I thought I–”
“I know,” he says, and he does. “I know. I’m glad you’re back. Merlin, you have no idea, I– I’m so happy to have you here, Remus. And I haven’t been happy in a long time. I’m learning still to accept it, you know? But the truth is, I am. Happy, that is. I am happy that you are alive, and I am happy that I get to see you living your life, and I am happy that you still want to live it around me, and I am happy that Harry will get to grow up loved and cared for. I don’t think– you have no idea–”
Remus looks up at him then, his eyes piercing into Sirius’. It’s intense, and determined, and raw, and Sirius loves him. Sirius loves him, torn or whole. He loves him, a carnal thing, a spiritual thing. He loves him, like a dog, a man starved, a pilgrim, a devotee. He loves him, stains and bruises. The blood on his hands, the blood on his mouth. He loves him, ferociously. With intent. With kindness, too. He loves him so much it could save him. He loves him so much it feels like a ceasefire. “I am happy, too. I am, Padfoot. My brain is a bit cruel sometimes, but I’m working on it, yeah? I am happy. And Harry… I wish, I wish they were here. I think I will miss them every day. I think Harry will, too. But we will love him, and care for him, and honor them, and that will be enough. We will love, and love, and love some more, and that will be enough.”
“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” Sirius confesses. “My brain is a bit cruel, too, you know? I keep thinking that something will go wrong. That he won’t want to be with us, that he’ll be scared of me, that I’ll fuck up, somehow, raise him wrong, because I’m not– Merlin, I’m not James. James has known so much love, and has grown with so much warmth, and tenderness, and I don’t know how to be that person. I want to, desperately, for Harry, but I feel all wrong, sometimes, and I know the kid is a Potter but what if I end up raising a Black? What then, Remus? We’re all… Fuck, I don’t want him to be crooked. I don’t want him to be rotten. He deserves– he–”
Remus runs his fingers through Sirius’ wet cheeks and cups his chin, and Sirius loves him. “Sirius. You will raise a Potter. And a Black. And a Lupin. You– We will do it, and we will do it right. I know you think I don’t get it, I know you’ll want to say it, too, but I do get it. For so long I haven’t, and I think you don’t, either, but here’s the thing: there’s nothing to being a Black. That’s just a name. That’s all that is. There’s no curse to it, no madness to it, because it’s just a name. Everything else has the power we choose to grant it. I’m done with granting power to silly things like a name,” he states, and Sirius opens his mouth, because no, Remus really doesn’t get it, and if he ever does he’ll hate him for it, but before any sound crawls out from his throat, Remus goes on.
“Do you want to know what a Black is, to me?” he asks, caressing Sirius’ hair, and Sirius loves him. “I’ll tell you. Someone stubborn, for starters. Determined to a point of annoyance. A fighter. A lover. A smartass. A powerful wizard – not because of blood, because blood is just blood. It’s red and gummy and horrific, at times, but that’s all there is to it. It’s about what you do with what’s thrown at you, Sirius, and I know I’ve only met three of you. But two of them are the bravest, most courageous people I’ve ever known. Two of them are the most loyal souls I’ve ever encountered. Two of them have saved so many people and did it because it was right, not because of their blood.”
“But my cousin–”
“Your cousin is a bitch. And I feel sorry for her, because there are resemblances, as I told you. With different choices or circumstances, she could have been more like you. In some ways, she is – there’s determination, and loyalty, and devotion, and none of those are necessarily bad things. And honestly? I hope Harry gets to have that. Even the annoying parts of you. I hope he’s a little shit that won’t take no for an answer. I hope he gets to be loud and dramatic and flamboyant and I hope he gets to be proud of that. I hope he gets to love the way you do, just like I hope he gets to love the way James did, or Lily did, and he will, because we all learned how to love together. Despite the blood and despite the names.”
By then, Sirius is just crying. He can’t even get a word out, not really, doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say, because he’s feeling everything all at once, and more than anything, Remus’ words are reassuring. More than anything, Remus’ words are a kind of closure he didn’t know he needed. His whole life, his name haunted him, in everything, in every way, was nothing but a curse, a cross to bear, an infected wound, an ugly stain, a stubborn wraith that wouldn’t leave him be, even with all the good things he had carved out for himself. Remus putting it all into perspective like that… And after going through what he went through… Remus giving him this redemption like it was as simple as breathing? A redemption that wasn’t even just for him, but for Regulus, too? It’s so important. It’s so, so important. So he cries some more, and he cries, and he cries, and Remus must understand how much what he said mattered to Sirius – he must have, because he, too, doesn’t say anything else, just... holds him, holds him with such tenderness, rocks him back and forth for what could have been hours, could have been seconds, and sings softly into his ear, the Light is slowly spreading, the truth begins to dawn, and ain’t that just right.
Ain't that just right.
Notes:
hello, hello!
god, it feels good to be back. i know it's been over a month, but i simply had so much going on (not all of it good, but all of it important), so yea.
first things first: this was intended to be the last chapter but i still have a couple of things i want to include to make it all more cohesive, so i had to split what i wrote into two different chapters- all of this to say that, yes, the chapter count has gone up, and yes, i'm almost done with chapter 11, as well, which i truly believe will be the final one. ❤️
as for this chapter... to be fair i really loved writing it, even if it took me a little longer than it usually does, because it was soooo healing in so many ways. so a couple of things:
- Miriam Strout!!! she's a baddie I fear. she's actually mentioned on ootp and upon reading more about her, especially after learning that her patronus took the shape of a White Swan which was the animagus form of Healer Winger... it felt all very prongsfoot to me so i just had to write it here. <3
- every wolfstar moment in this chapter cured me, okay? okay. remus making a room for harry from scratch and charming it into the coziest, prettiest space in the world. he loves that kid so much, which is not something we get to see entirely since this is sirius' pov, but yea, the love is undoubtedly there. remus acts-of-service-is-my-love-language lupin you will always be famous! and sirius trying his best to be all calm and collected and then having to snog remus at all times is so special to me... they're the sweetest, christ.
- sirius being a chaos hater this entire fic but then entering remus' room and being like you know what... i fuck with this... he's so silly i love him 😭
- also the two of them not remembering the last conversations they had with the potters 😭 but choosing to sit and reminisce and share and heal. there's just so much healing here, and they're in such need of that, really.
- sirius 'im-not-my-brothers-keeper' black i see you... chapter 5 abel/regulus are calling... they need to have a word...
anyway, and this time for real: one more chapter to go!
thank you again for stopping by, and for your kind words, and kudos, and bookmarks, and everything. you've been making my days for the past months and i'm forever grateful. ❤️
chapter (like the fic) titled after this perfect song: https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/3tpNnUzPHhN6kZfHUnoKfV?si=204853c6d4d14a5d
see you soon.
L x
Chapter 11: Some Candy Talking
Summary:
a taste of something warm and sweet,
that shivers your bones and rises to your heat
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning after is… against all odds, exceptionally ordinary. Or, well, as ordinary as it could be, in any case. Here’s how it goes:
Dumbledore makes a case of showing up, and that stirs Sirius’ insides like nothing else, for apparently this is what it takes for him to show his face around there and at least pretend to care for Harry: a loving godfather fulfilling his duty, if only too many years too late. Sirius tries his absolute best not to hex the old man into next century for that alone, if anything because he’s trying his absolute best not to make a fool out of himself in front of Harry, and not to scare him off since, well, if you ask Sirius, Harry has had enough shit scaring him off as it is.
The Dursleys are there too, obviously, Petunia holding her own son a little too tightly, as if Sirius – and Remus, bless his soul, who would not have it any other way but to accompany him – would try and take her kid, too, for good measure. They’re obnoxiously quiet during the whole affair, Petunia doing the fretting and the husband – Vincent? Victor? – doing the self-righteousness, looking very pleased with himself. Regulus comes, as well, and is the one that does most of the talking. A lot of as we previously discussed and a lot of you won’t need to provide anything else and a lot of no, you don’t really need to maintain any sort of contact. Regulus has explained every step to Sirius, beforehand, has provided him with every Muggle paper to sign, and has given him every important pointer regarding how this specific conversation should go, and so Sirius tries his best to pay attention, but the moment he sees Harry peeking out behind the door – of course the couple didn’t invite them in, which is frankly contradictory given how bothered they are with saving face and keeping appearances; a bunch of men dressed in extravagant robes should by all definitions urge them to take the conversation inside – his eyes zero on the kid and his mind shuts everyone else off in an instant.
Harry… Well, Sirius has seen him, of course. Regulus managed to bring him some photographs, so Sirius had time to prepare, so to speak. Except that, apparently, no, he really didn’t, because there he is, and Merlin, he really is James’ kid. Right now, with no prior knowledge or recent memories, even knowing Harry will grow up to be his own person, even knowing Harry is his own person, right now, that’s all Sirius’ mind supplies: James’ kid. James’ kid. That’s all James right there (not the eyes, and ah, there we go, another dull ache in his chest, yes, yes): the unruly hair, the dark eyebrows, the tiny mouth. He looks… not scared, exactly, but hesitant, almost. There’s a glimmer of curiosity, there in his eyes, which is all James, James, James, but laced with something else, deeper, narrower, uglier, too, which could be doubt, which could be self-preservation, and all Sirius can think is how terrible it is for a child to look so bloody complicated. Things shouldn’t be so tangled, so intricate, for a three-year-old, because a three-year-old is not supposed to be complicated. That’s a burden Harry should only carry much later, if at all, if Sirius had it his way. It feels very wrong, having those squinting eyes clouded with hardships he mostly remembers seeing in young soldiers fighting their way out of the battlefield and failing every time, until it hits him that his own eyes, like his brother’s, albeit less squinting, have been, probably since that same age, fogged just the same.
“Before we go, Sirius, I would like a word with you, if you would be so kind,” Dumbledore says, bringing Sirius’ focus back to the conversation. Sirius frowns at him, because yes, he had been expecting this. Regulus prepared him for it, too, so he knows exactly where their talk will go even before saying, wryly, “lead the way, Albus,” and taking a few steps towards the fence and away from everyone else.
Remus follows. Immediately.
“I’ll join you two, if you don’t mind,” he says, apparently high-spirited, but fixing Dumbledore with a glare so icy it sends a couple of shivers down Sirius’ spine.
“Actual–”
“Perfect!” he claps his hands together, still very enthusiastic, and steps right besides Sirius. Sirius’ heart does at least two violent flips for that alone. “What do we do the honor, Headmaster?” (And if the we makes Sirius’ heart do another couple of flips, it’s no one’s business, really.)
Dumbledore, for what it’s worth, seems to accept Remus’ presence with both quick resignation and admirable grace, but spares him barely a look before turning to face Sirius. “I expect your brother already explained to you the reasons Harry had to stay with his family,” he begins.
“That’s not his family,” Remus cut in, eyes darkening, and it looks dangerous, and it sounds dangerous, he sounds dangerous, and Sirius wants to crack his ribcage open and devour him with teeth for that tone, and for those words, because no, that is not his family, and it is so important that Remus knows it too. It is so important that more people out there know that, that Sirius is not alone in this discussion, that Dumbledore will have to bring his best rhetoric to the fucking table and prepare to lose because Sirius is not alone.
“His blood family, then,” Dumbledore concedes, still not taking his eyes off Sirius’, and evidently not thrown off by Remus’ daring manners. “I was… recently made aware of your brother’s – and Mr. Lupin’s here – endeavors during the war. Of course, I couldn’t have known… What the two of you did it’s admirable, Remus,” he continues, turning to Remus for the first time. “We couldn’t be certain, back then, and the entire Wizarding World will be forever indebted to you two. But no caution is too much caution. It remains… Unclear that he’s been defeated. Voldemort, that is. And Harry was… and might still be… His sole focus. His purpose, so to speak. Blood magic, as you know, is as ancient as it is powerful, and Harry needs this sort of protection. Until we are certain. And we are not, so I must advice you–”
“Yeah, see, no, I’m going to stop you right there, Albus,” Sirius says, trying his darn best to keep calm, because he knows that, in theory, Dumbledore is right, but only just. “Blood magic is a powerful protection, and Harry needs, and deserves, every protection he can get. Which is why he’s coming with me, and I will not debate this any further with you, or with anyone, for that matter. Whatever protection you think these Muggles offered Harry so far, it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. And I suppose my brother explained to you the sort of protection they’ve been providing. Where they make him sleep, what they make him eat. You don’t need to be a doctor to see how poorly he’s doing. He’s a fucking child, Albus. And if you think you’re better than Voldemort, which I suppose you do, you’ll know better than to argue that he needs to stay here just because he’ll stay alive. He’s been put through fucking enough. He needs a proper room, and proper meals, and clearly someone to check his eyesight, and he needs hugs, and toys, and love, and–”
“His family–”
“THAT’S NOT HIS FUCKING FAMILY,” he bursts, and great, Harry’s probably hearing him scream like a madman and he’s mucking the whole thing up, so he might just get it all out and be done with. “That’s not his fucking family, and you know it. And you were more than willing to have him grow up uncared for, with a stupid name that is not his to hold, with the whole Wizarding World believing him to be dead, with me believing him to be dead, Albus, which is fucking cruel, and fucking wrong, because in a way you were willing to have him dead. To erase Harry Potter completely and have a shell of a kid going to your stupid school in a decade or so.”
“It did what had to be done, Sirius,” he replies, steady, fucking cold. “This boy would not have a childhood as free as the one his blood family could provide. And I am sorry for the pain you’ve had to endure, but it was for the great–”
“Say greater good so I can hex off your fingernails,” Sirius snarls.
Dumbledore, the prick, is unperturbed. “I am sorry for your pain, but I did what had to be done. The anonymity could be used to his advantage, Sirius, and I believe you agree that there are things that matter more than a name.”
It’s just a name, he thinks of Remus murmuring to him, but it’s venomous now, entirely different now, and now, right now, it’s not just a name. He waits before replying. Lets the dust settle. Then goes on: “Are you familiar with love magic, Albus? Just as ancient and just as powerful. My blood is not the same as Harry’s, and for Harry’s sake, that’s a brilliant thing. But it doesn’t have to be. If you don’t understand this, you’re just as daft as fucking Voldemort. But if love isn’t enough for you, and something tells me it won’t be, please let me remind you who you are talking to.”
Dumbledore’s eyes betray nothing, but there’s the briefest hint of annoyance when he asks, “What do you mean by that, Mr. Black? Surely you’re not resorting to the old Orion’s ways. I’d say intimidation is beneath you, but now I am not so sure.”
And, well, Sirius is no Orion. Doesn’t plan on ever being like his father, frankly. But that’s his choice, and one he makes with intention and actual effort, every day. He has it in him to be like his father. He’s a Black. Unless he fights it, it’s what he does: to be like his father. Like the father of the father. Like the father of the father of the father. For all his talking, Dumbledore also doesn’t get blood, much like he doesn’t get love. Sirius wonders often what exactly is it that Dumbledore gets, besides his way, most of the time. “What I mean, Albus, is that my family’s beliefs are rubbish, but not completely unfounded. No one, not even a poor excuse of a Dark Lord, dares to attack a Black. They should know better than to try. Evidently, it took one of us to defeat him, and I will have no qualms of defeating him myself a second time, if it means keeping Harry safe. Just like I will have no qualms defeating you,” he finishes, glaring at the old man and making sure his voice is steady, and cold, and oh, so Black, clear enough for the three of them to understand with no hint of a doubt that yes, this is a threat, yes, this is intimidation, and yes, he means every word. “So, you see, some things matter more than blood, and some things matter more than a name. But for better or worse, these things also matter. And Harry Potter will be coming home with me, and that’s final.”
Dumbledore, alas, understands. Or – doesn’t, but Sirius knows he’s got him. If anything, because Sirius is granting him a way out, giving him the water he needs to wash his hands of the burden of it all, the guilt of it all, and isn’t that just so. “Very well, Sirius. I have no doubts you will protect this kid with everything you have. Let’s all hope, for Harry’s sake, that it will be enough.”
Sirius opens his mouth to answer, all teeth, all rabid dog, all promise of carnage. Remus beats him to it. By laughing, of all things – loud, open, beautiful. “It will be enough, Headmaster. Now, if you don’t mind, we have a kid to bring home. We’ll see you when we see you,” he replies, still smiling, still all high spirits, and places his hand on Sirius’ waist, turning him so they can head back to the front door, with gentleness, with reassurance. They leave Dumbledore behind, facing away from him as they walk off.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and turns his head to find Remus already looking at him. Still smiling. “Anytime.”
When they reach the front door, Harry is already outside, standing very close to Regulus, but immediately turning to Sirius, looking at him with those big green eyes for maybe two seconds, before all shyness disappears, giving way to a very, very amusing determination. “Who are you?” he asks, demands, really, with no real bite behind his words, and more so with some sort of expectation, which makes Sirius suspect Regulus must have already told him he’s taking him away from here. “Hello. My name is Sirius. I am your godfather.” And even if Harry most likely has no idea what a godfather is, he breaks into a blinding smile, clearly satisfied with the answer. “I’m Harry. He says we go home!” he bursts, pointing at Regulus and piercing Sirius with another deep stare, as if daring him to deny it. Not really believing it, but daring himself to want it. His heart flutters at that, and he gives him a blinding smile of his own in return. “We go home, Harry. You’re coming with me and Remus. That’s Remus, there. He’s a friend. Would you like to come with us?”
Harry nods frenetically. “Yes! Home!” and proceeds to turn to Regulus again, grabbing his hand seemingly out of nowhere. “You, too!”
Regulus’ face does something complicated straight away. It has been doing something complicated ever since they arrived at Little Whinging, to be fair, more so now that Harry is addressing him, and Sirius can’t for the life of him understand whatever is going on in his brother’s mind, but can’t, for the life of him, pay much attention to it right now. Harry’s excitement takes up his entire focus, as it seems. There’s just so much of it, and Sirius had been preparing to find that sort of sentiment lacking, somehow, judging by the terrible things Regulus told him about Harry’s life with the Dursleys, so it’s warming, and welcomed, and relieving, seeing Harry like this, still capable of being just a kid, so very eager about what he probably perceives as some kind of new adventure. It’s warming, and welcomed, and relieving, seeing that he might be late, because of course he is, but perhaps he’s not too late. Perhaps he’s just in time to make Harry’s childhood something much closer to what James, and Lily, wanted for him.
All in all, it’s all very ordinary. Papers are signed, goodbyes are uttered, a kid is retrieved. Odd as the whole scene could be perceived by some random Muggle neighbor, it feels so right that it fails to be overwhelming. Dumbledore is frowning, Petunia looks like she just wants it all to be over, Regulus’ face is still doing something complicated (can’t stop staring at Harry, which Sirius absolutely gets, but apparently, sort of really doesn’t), and everything is just right.
Everything is just right.
☾ ✹ ☽
“He loves you, obviously,” Regulus says, sitting on their couch and stretching his arm to get a cup of tea Remus had been brewing in the kitchen. Harry has been with them for two weeks, now, and is, to Sirius’ immense relief, behaving exactly like a three-year-old is supposed to: he’s loud, most of the times, and a mess, all the time, and hilarious almost to a fault. There’s a seriousness in him, occasionally, but it always feels so defiant, so bloody cheeky, that Sirius is still struggling to understand when the hurt stops and the genetic mark of one Lily Evans Potter begins. That thought never fails to make him smile. There’s the certainty, there’s the promise: He’ll work through the hurt, with Harry. They all will.
Sirius feels very smug, listening to his brother. “He does, doesn’t he? He’s taken quite a liking of you, too. Shame your name is too bloody long. Although I’m growing fond of Uncle Reg. Suits you somehow.”
“Sirius?”
“Regulus?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Alright,” he sniggers, sitting next to him as he tries to enjoy the tea as well. Remus is playing with Harry in Harry’s bedroom, and besides the clinking of their teacups there’s the occasional roar of muffled laughter from behind the door. Sirius loves it. Regulus, as it appears, also does, if the little smile playing on his lips is anything to go by.
About Regulus: he’s been on Sirius’ mind lately, which is why they find themselves in this predicament now. Sirius wants Regulus present in Harry’s life. That’s literally all there is to it. Regulus has played a significant part in getting Harry back and, just as importantly, in saving Harry’s life, and, well, he’s his little brother. Harry needs his family as much as Sirius needs his family. They’re making their own, right now, and Sirius is learning – or remembering – that it’s hard to tell which one is harder: existing within the family you’re born into, or making your own from scratch. As it transpires, both of these take effort, and sometimes the two overlap, and either way, Sirius is trying. For everyone’s sake, he’s trying.
It’s just. Well. For starters, he doesn’t know how to look his brother in the eye without wanting to throw up his lunch, throw a mean punch, or throw himself off a bridge. Sirius doesn’t even know how to think about his brother, because the oldest lesson Sirius has learned and embraced was that he should not think about his brother: he shouldn’t think about him, lest his friends think there’s love in him for a blood-purity maniac kid; he shouldn’t think about him, lest the Order think he’s working with a blood-purity maniac teenager; he shouldn’t think about him, lest the good ones think he’s actually mourning a murderous death eater. So. Sirius did his best not to think about Regulus, and he was so damn good at that that, after a while, he eventually got used to the severance, and got used to the phantom pain, and kept on living, as he does, and everything was fucking fine. When he lost everyone else, he found out where their parents placed the memorial grave, Apparated there during the night, talked for longer than he had in months, apologized profusely, cried like a baby and apologized for that, too, and never, ever thought of Regulus again.
Regulus being back feels like a chance he doesn’t know he’s deserving of, one he most likely won’t know how to grab, one, he supposes, would be easier to let go. Sirius is not going for easy, though, and even if he was, he finds that he doesn’t really want to let go of it. Doesn’t really want to let go of him. What he really wants, honestly, is to smack his little brother across the face, which he doesn’t, since Regulus is adamant in constantly testing his patience, which he does. Like so:
“I thought you’d want me out of your hair once you got Harry back.”
That earns him – a mercy, honestly – the laziest punch to the shoulder. “Don’t be daft,” is what Sirius chooses to mutter, because he’s still figuring out the best way to say what he truly means, which would be something like, I don’t think I can have you out of my hair ever again, or Please allow me to forget a life without you in it, or Can we have this for maybe a bit longer?
They remain in familiar discomfort for a while. Sirius briefly thinks of a time when the discomfort wasn’t there. When the silence didn’t stretch like it does right now. Allows himself to remember these snapshots from what can only have been another life, in many ways kinder, in most ways rougher, and isn’t that how family goes anyway: Regulus laughing at his jokes, Regulus climbing to his bed, Regulus pulling his hair, Regulus mocking their cousins. Allows himself another hurried round of mourning: not even an entire childhood, because they couldn’t even have that, but the innocent bits of it; the could haves and, somehow more importantly, the should haves. The silence goes on stretching, although Sirius is sure he could have heard Remus and Harry if he tried to. His trust in Remus gives him the permission to block out every other sound, though, so right now it’s all grieving chants and Regulus, Regulus, Regulus, which shouldn’t feel this loud in a silence so solemn. And because Regulus apparently hasn’t had enough of proving himself braver than anyone ever bargained him for, he’s the one breaking it. “I’m sure your friends would be happy to know Harry’s with you. I’m not so sure I’d be welcomed to be around, though. And I think you know that. So, yeah. Fulfilling their wishes and what not, you know? I’d understand if you wanted me out of Harry’s life. That’s all I’m saying.”
It takes Sirius a moment to come up with a somewhat satisfying answer because, you see, Regulus might be sort of right. He sounds… a bit weird about James, really, and Sirius isn’t stupid so Sirius has noticed, of course, and another version of himself would want to probe at that mercilessly, but this version of himself knows better than to pick at what looks like a nearly bleeding scab, if anything because he carries one with James’ face, too. Wound recognizes wound, despite the size and despite the depth. Either way, and all weirdness aside, James probably wouldn’t mind having Regulus around (and it’s not like Sirius understands why, but he’s certain that James wouldn’t mind, and he’s never been wrong once about James), but Lily most likely would. Which, in hindsight, has some sort of comedic value to it, since Sirius is also certain that, in another universe, in another version of themselves, Lily would absolutely obsess over Regulus. They’re similar in bite and fierceness, both seemingly quiet, although impossibly effective. If things had been different, Sirius muses, maybe they’d even get along in this universe. But things weren’t different, so Lily would mind, and would be reserved, and would be right to, always too bloody smart for her own good. So all in all, he gets where Regulus comes from, he does, but at the same time it makes his blood boil because after everything Regulus has gone through, he still sees himself as nothing but a burden.
“Their only wish is for Harry to be loved. Can you love him?” he asks, and surprises himself with how important this answer his for him, how hesitant it is to hear the answer. He needs Regulus to love Harry. He needs him to at least want to try. He doesn’t know if Regulus senses this, but he knows his answer is sincere and not uttered for the sheer purpose of calming Sirius down, when he immediately blurts out a “Yes. Yes, I can. I’ve loved him for a long time,” and Sirius thinks he might not be talking about Harry entirely, but somehow that is also alright. “Then I want you around. Obviously, I want you around. Not so much the creep you call friend, though.”
“Remus?” Regulus asks, which earns him another punch, stronger this time.
“Don’t be an idiot. Snape,” Sirius hisses, the name still tasting bitter in his tongue. Regulus just rolls his eyes. “Severus was a great help and you know it, Sirius. And perhaps James wouldn’t be exactly happy with the arrangement–”
“He wouldn’t.”
The eye-rolling intensifies, but Sirius can’t help it, because of course James wouldn’t be happy with the bloody arrangement. He’s not entirely sure James is not somewhere in the afterlife bargaining with a random entity to let him come back and haunt Sirius until he grows a pair and pulls some sort of plan to get Snape as far from Harry as possible. “I know. Anyhow, Evans would have. Severus made as many mistakes as I did, if not less, and–”
“Well, he didn’t save the bloody wizarding world, but whatev–”
“He saved Harry. He found him, and he had been looking even before I was. Did you know he almost attacked Dumbledore? Threatened to murder the old man if he didn’t cooperate in getting the kid out of there. Had no idea he had it in him.”
It should have been me, Sirius thinks, because it’s true. “It couldn’t have been you,” Regulus goes on, and oh, did he say that out loud? Apparently he did, because Regulus repeats, with vehemence, “It couldn’t have been you, because Severus had nothing to lose. You couldn’t afford to lose Harry. You put in the work, too, Sirius, and I’m– I’m proud of you. You helped Remus, and yourself, and made a home for this child to grow loved and cherished. That matters more than hexing an old man into next week.”
“I still think you all put in the work and I just sat back like a fucking princess.”
Upon reflection, he supposes that earns the punch Regulus throws his way. “Don’t be an idiot. You were in no state to argue with Dumbledore, just like you were in no state to raise a traumatized child. You buried all your dead only for so many of them to come back. I’m guessing you weren’t even done with your grieving when these things were thrown your way. I’m guessing you had to grieve different things in different ways, and I’m guessing you didn’t do it right, at first, because there’s no right in this absurdity. So don’t be an idiot and cut yourself some slack.”
Sirius says nothing to that, partly because he knows it is all very true – he knows it, alright, has been feeling it in his bones like an infection he doesn’t want to get rid of, not entirely, not if it means going back to the familiar grievance, not if it means losing these bits of kindness that were tossed to him, like raw meat to a starved dog – and partly because he’s bloody tired of these sort of conversations, anyway – he’s had them with Strout, he’s had them with Remus, he’s having them with Regulus. How he feels: like a snake devouring itself, stuck on this constant cycle of repeating both creation and destruction, one where hope is born and taken away, where healing begins only for the same sickness to settle in, one where, sometimes still, he doesn’t have it in him to pull his teeth away from his tail. He's getting better at it, though: at talking about it and at breaking cycles and at unclenching mandibles, but it’s so fucking hard, and above all he’s tired of everyone noticing how tired he is, and he’s tired of the pity that echoes within every cut yourself some slack he gets.
He eventually croaks a muted “Thank you,” and presses his two hands together with just enough strength to stop them from reaching for Regulus. Regulus, who’s clearly trying – in a fashion so foreign to him, because he rarely tries, not like this – to lighten the mood, to make conversation. “How’s Remus these days?”
Sirius exhales, relief running through his entire body instantly, for there is nothing easier for him than to talk about Remus – even the tough parts of it all, these days. He’s really getting better at that, which he supposes has something to do with the fact that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about Remus, or talk about Remus, for too long. It’s a flood, now, an overcompensation, of sorts, and Remus is all Sirius wants to think or talk about – a close second to Harry, of course. “He’s brilliant,” he says, because he is.
“That he is,” Regulus agrees. “A bit loony, that one. Did you know I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why you’d hang out with him, at first? James made sense, and even– and even Peter, if we think about it, but Remus always looked too… Different from you. Like he couldn’t be less interested in your mischief-making, and such.”
Sirius barks a laugh. “Ah! He’s always been a menace. A quiet one, granted, but I can assure you he was very interested in mischief-making. The man invented the concept, I suspect.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it now,” he smiles back. “He keeps to himself, sure, but the more I got to know him the more I understood of much of your brand of insane he is. Of course you’d like him.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, let’s just say that, for someone who appears so calm and collected, the man was ready to jump at the wildest situations to get the job done. At first, I’d have to rile him up a bit, but eventually he just. Well. He got the job done. The dragon was his idea, you know? We broke into Gringotts and left on a fucking dragon. When I told him that was exactly the type of thing you would have done, all he said was I know. And we are ensuring he gets to keep doing shit like this. The man is mental.”
“You should have come to me, Regulus. You shouldn’t have to go through any of that – none of you, that is.”
“You know, sometimes I think about it… If I’d go to you instead, given half a chance to do it again. Perhaps I would, now.”
“Why didn’t you?” Sirius asks, idiotically hoping for a different answer, and wound recognizes wound but this one he likes to probe at, but that’s all he knows how to be, you know? Sirius Black, never knowing when to leave well enough alone. Always chasing the fucking bone, always looking for a good place to bury it. Sirius Black, never paying attention to the mess he makes while digging the damn hole.
“The world would be shit without you in it. And I was doing to protect you. Couldn’t very well protect you if you were dead,” he mumbles.
“Did it cross your mind that maybe I wanted to protect you too? I’m your older brother, for Merlin’s sake! You were a fucking child. You were supposed to be protecting yourself and allowing me to protect you. Not the other way around, Regulus. Never the other way around.”
“You’re impossible. I bet you’re pissed at Remus still for the same reason. Or, worse yet, bet you’ve forgiven him for the exact same situation, but can’t extent that grace to me. Would you preferred to have gone yourself hunting those cursed little shits? Perhaps die in the process? I know you would, but do you think about how that would make me feel? Everything you felt, everything you think so unforgivable – if it were the other way around, would you be okay with making me feel all that? Don’t be a fucking hypocrite.”
And, you see, that would have been enough to shut Sirius up, if it came from Strout, or Remus. Somehow, it’s harder for Sirius to make peace with things when Regulus comes into play. Nothing’s new there. Another snake biting its tail, and nothing’s fucking new. And because he walks in circles, he just repeats: “I’m supposed to protect you. Not the other way around.”
There are a lot of things Regulus could have said then. Sirius even expected some of them: You didn’t protect me regardless. Things don’t go how they’re supposed to go. You can’t tell me what you to do, you nitwit. But Regulus says nothing, just sets his gaze firmly on some random furniture, looking forward, always, and never towards Sirius, who is staring at perhaps the same random furniture, never towards Regulus, even if, in the end, there’s not much else either of them looks for in everything but each other.
“Why Remus?”
“He’d die for you.”
“How’s that a good reason, Regulus?! I didn’t want him to die for me, and you would let him. You’d fucking let him!”
“Yes, I would. If it meant keeping you safe, I would. Same goes for him, by the way. He was more than ready than letting me die.”
“I suppose you’re both more stupid than you give yourselves credit for. My life would be over without you. My life was over without you, so I know for a fact what I’m talking about.”
“Except it wasn’t really over, was it, Sirius? You’re making a difference in the Wizengamot, in the Ministry, in the fucking Hospital. You fulfilled your dreams and you are helping the entire wizarding community by doing so. There’s a lot of life for you – even without us.”
“It was never a life I wanted,” he confesses, and it’s easy to, because it’s real. “Even if it is a life I could be proud of – it’s not the one I wanted. And if you still fail to see that, well, I suppose you’re in need of a conversation or two with Strout, as well. If you think it was a fucking fine life, without my fucking brother or my fucking best friends or my fucking boyfriend, you’re just as insane as I am.”
Regulus, the little shit, smirks a mean smirk. “Boyfriend, is it?”
“Is it really the time for that?”
“Any time could be the time for that. You see, I had a feeling about you two, since you were never one to be subtle about your love at any capacity, but when I reached out to Remus, I wasn’t yet quite sure if you two just had a similar co-dependent dynamic to the one you had with James and–”
“We weren’t co-dependent–”
Regulus gives me a look. “Anyway, I sort of expected it to be the case with Remus. Except that it wasn’t at all, wasn’t it? He never outright said it, by the way, but it just… Well, it showed. In the way he spoke about you, or in the way he looked whenever you were mentioned. Kind of annoying, if you ask me. And mental that someone loves you like that that much.”
“Rude.”
“Honest.”
“Fuck you, Regulus.”
“He reminds me of Barty a bit, you know.”
Sirius would obviously hate to admit he had thought about it, so he doesn’t. “Your little Slytherin Death Eater best friend?” he asks, instead. “Sure, of course he does. Granted, he probably wouldn’t torture him for years, if the roles were fucking reversed, you stupid idi–”
“He’s not a Slytherin.”
“Excuse me?”
“Barty. He’s a Ravenclaw. Not a Slytherin.”
“That’s not the bloody point, Regulus. And no one would ever guess, anyhow, what with the worshipping of that mental arsehole–”
“If you think only Slytherins worshipped the mental arsehole you still don’t really get much of this war, Sir–”
“That’s not what I fucking said. And either way, it doesn’t matter. He did worship him. Your friend worshipped the mental arsehole, and tortured my boyfriend in the process of worshipping him, so forgive me if I resent the fucking comparison. Remus is nothing like that berk.”
“Oh, except he is. For starters, there’s a wickedness to him. We didn’t have many chances of actual forming a normal friendship, mind you, but we spent enough time together for me to realize that he’s much kinder, much warmer, than Barty is, or was, in any case. But there’s a darkness to him as well, you know? As in, provided the chance, and the right motivation, I have no doubts he would torture the living hell out of Barty if the roles were reversed. If, for instance, it had anything to do with you. You see, he also worships an arsehole of his own. He’d die for him, and he’d kill for him, and maim for him, and do whatever for him.”
This admittedly startles Sirius as much as it excites him. He’s mildly aware that it shouldn’t. He’s also mildly aware that he doesn’t care one bit. “Well, they’re still different. Although I do remember him acting like a swot at times. Not unlike yourself.”
“Oh, we couldn’t be more different.”
“You’d know. Do you miss him?”
“Barty?”
Sirius hums.
“I miss having friends. He was a friend to me. A friend who, granted, did terrible things. But you do realize that I did them, too, right? I didn’t know any better. It’s embarrassing, but it is what it is and I can’t change what it is. At some point in my life it could have been me torturing Remus. Well, maybe not Remus, you’d kill me for it and, well, I’d die for you, but I’m very fond of being alive regardless. But I’d do it to other people.”
He remains quiet. It feels important to do so, if anything to have Regulus talk it out. Merlin knows how much Sirius yearned for someone to talk shit out to, at the right time, someone who could actually get him, instead of pitying him or, Merlin forbid, trying to understand him. Regulus takes the cue to go on. “So, yeah, I miss him, a bit. I miss my friend, who might or might not be the person who’s rotting away in some cell in Azkaban. I’m sure you can relate to that.”
Sirius doesn’t think he can. Not exactly. “Not exactly,” he replies, cautiously. “You knew what to expect from Barty, as your friend, and as a person of his own. I have someone rotting away in some cell in Azkaban, and I miss him, as a friend, and as a person of his own, but it’s not the same. You knew Barty could end up there. None of us did, regarding Peter.”
“Do you think it hurts more?”
“I think it hurts either way. I would have hated to know what to expect. I think I would miss him despite knowing it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so too.”
“What about Bella?”
“What about her?”
“Do you miss her?”
“I should be asking you that. We were never as close as the two of you were. In fact I don’t think she was ever as close to anyone as she was to you.”
“I think I miss her, too. I hate her for everything she’s done, and I miss her terribly.”
“Eternal return, and all that jazz, right?”
This, Sirius gets. A snake devouring its tail. Nothing’s new, there. That’s the thing about family, I suppose. “I wish things were simpler,” he says. “I wish we were simpler, too. I miss you, too, Regulus.”
Regulus, impossibly, offers him a small smile. “Oh, to smash our relationship until it takes the shape of forgiving, unrelenting simplicity. We are not simple, Sirius, and it will eat at your soul forever to pretend we ever could be. I’ve made peace with that, if anything, at it might not be satisfying, but it’s real, and that also matters. That matters above all else, honestly. Do you get it?”
And, would you look at that, Sirius does.
☾ ✹ ☽
Harry is asleep. Finally. No, really, the kid’s got endless steam in him, it appears. Very James-like, and he might just be a bigger menace, if you can imagine. Against all odds, Remus is the one to blame for the excitement he carries all the bloody time. He’s soft like that, you see. Sirius is constantly filled with both exasperation and an undefeatable desire to devour him.
And, listen, it’s not like Sirius, or Regulus, or even Snape – no, Sirius doesn’t want to talk about that, thank you very much – don’t spoil the kid rotten. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it, anyway, so no one particularly minds. It’s just that Remus is one hundred times worse, always getting swept up in Harry’s pleading eyes, spending every coin he has dusting away at Gringotts on him, and he doesn’t have many of those, mind you. Harry’s room, and the entire cottage overall, is a mess, and exactly the type of mess one would expect from Remus. Somehow, he always manages to spot every magical toy out there, and each of those never fail to make Harry’s eyes go impossibly wide, which means that each of those also never fail to end up scattered around every corner of the house.
There was the screaming yo-yo that nearly gave Sirius a heart attack when it went off for the first time (“What in Godric’s name is this thing, Moony?!” “Don’t be dense, Pads. It’s a screaming yo-yo.” “Why would we need a screaming yo-yo, Remus? Harry does the screaming well enough on his own!” “Well he likes screaming along! What was I supposed to do? Not get it?”), or the collection of at least six brooms (“This broom is bigger than you, Remus. He’s not going to fly it until he’s at least eleven!” “I know that, Padfoot. I’m a responsible guardian, I’ll have you know.” “Why did you buy it, then?” “Oh, well. He wanted it. And he will fly it eventually. Planning ahead?”), or the bloody talking books (“Why is that book talking, Moony?” “It’s narrating the story, Padfoot. Babbitty Rabbitty? Harry’s favorite?” “The voice is bloody annoying! Couldn’t we read it for him?” “We could, but he likes the voices. There are at least seven different ones!” “Why does he need a book with seven different voices?” “Because Babbitty and the teacher have different voices, Sirius!” “I’m going to throw myself off a bridge, goodbye” “You’re too dramatic for your own good and Harry’s getting it from you!”).
And then, of course, the Diagon Alley trips that never fail to turn into day-long excursions with Remus giving in to every whim – flavored ice creams that have Harry giggling and making a mess all over the fancy clothes Regulus got him, or sweets that turn his tongue insane shades of blue or green, or more children’s books with silly spells to make Harry sound like a roaring lion when he holds the cover and Remus presses his wand against those tiny hands.
It's all stupidly endearing. It’s all stupidly exhausting.
Right now, Harry is asleep. A miracle, almost, and one Sirius will gladly take, so he’s sprawls on the sofa, a well-deserved luxury, almost asleep himself. There’s the crackling of the fire, the wind breezing outside, nothing but the sound of his breathing. It’s peaceful. It’s earned. It’s brilliant.
Well.
Until it isn’t.
Remus, the clumsy idiot, steps on the blasted yo-yo and sends it screaming, Sirius nearly falling off the sofa in a jolt. “Moony, for fuck’s sake!”
“’M sorry,” he mumbles, poorly holding back a giggle as he wrestles the yo-yo back to silence. Sirius can’t help but chuckle along, even if he’s still clutching his chest dramatically. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you dipstick.”
“Always so dramatic. Can’t believe Harry didn’t wake up,” he muses, turning his head towards the bedroom, which remains, would you believe it, remarkably silent.
“Playdate with the Weasleys always seem to do the trick. I swear those gingers are even more restless than Harry is. And there are so many of them!”
“Yeah, Molly’s a champ, I’ll give you that. Can I join you there?”
“Sure. Put some music on, will you?” Sirius requests, purely out of habit, because by then Remus is already walking towards their shared collection of Muggle records. He picks Cosmic Wheels and goes on to settle back in the sofa, shoulders brushing and one hand mindlessly roaming through Sirius’ leg (which immediately sets him on fire), another holding a busted edition of Kafka’s Parables & Paradoxes.
“Harry wants an owl,” he mutters, as he cracks the book open, pretending to read but clearly spying Sirius’ reaction from the corner of his eye.
Sirius is going to kill him.
“Absolutely not. We have owls, Remus. We’ll get him one when he gets to Hogwarts.”
“We saw a beautiful one in Diagon Alley, today. All white. He’s enamored with it,” he whispers, mimicking Harry’s pleading eyes perfectly. Sirius is going to kill him, mostly because, of course, it’s working. “Is he, or are you?”
Remus huffs. “I’m not enamored with an owl. Got a dog to keep me busy,” he winks, earning an instant blush from Sirius.
“Are you enamored with me, Moony?” he teases, playing with Remus’ fingers.
“No. I’m enamored with the stray that visits sometimes when you’re off to work,” he deadpans.
“Well, that’s too bad. For you, that is. I’d be a much better dog to you,” which earns Sirius an instant blush from Remus. Hell, he missed this. He missed a lot, frankly, to a point where he began to believe he was made entirely of missing things, and people. He missed the kissing, and the touching, and Remus’ eyes, and Remus’ hair, and Remus’ elbows, but hell, did he miss talking to him. The banter. The teasing. The fun.
“I don’t doubt it,” Remus eventually retorts, eyes shining with mirth. “Speaking of. I have this weird memory from when I– when I was out. In St. Mungo’s. We… talked, sort of?”
“We did,” Sirius nods, shifting a bit on the sofa to face Remus. “What about it?”
“Well, Regulus told me, before, of course, but yeah. Something about you dreaming of some hound? What’s that about?”
I have no idea, he thinks, surprised to find out it has been a while since the hound visited his dreams. He almost dares to hope he has reached the bloody destination, at last. He almost dares to believe that it most likely had something to do with Remus, something to do with this tiny place they made for themselves, something to do with all the building they did with tired hands and bloodied gums and rotten teeth, something to do with all the building they did despite all the decaying surrounding them. I have no idea, Sirius thinks, but I hope it leaves me alone, now. I have no idea, but I’m done with the pilgrimage. I hope I made it this time. I hope I got away. I hope I arrived. I hope I get to stay. “Black family nonsense, Moony, don’t worry your pretty head,” is what he settles for. “Mother and Father were firm believers these were sort of like premonitions, as I came to discover later on, but then again, Mother and Father were firm believers in blood purity and exclusive heterosexuality. No good comes out of believing the same shit they do,” he grins. “Anyway. What’s that you’re reading?”
Remus lifts the book to show him the cover. “Some Muggle writer. You know how I feel about them. This one’s from Austria, I think. Weird guy. Writes in riddles, mostly. Bet there are some profound parables about mysterious hounds haunting our dreams.”
“How very loony. Maybe I’ll owl him and ask his opinion on our premonitory endeavors. The Blacks would love some Muggle insight.”
“Unless you’re planning on dabbling in necromancy, I don’t think you’ll get much out of him. Poor sod’s dead.”
“Pity.”
“Don’t pity him terribly,” Remus says, scratching his head absent-mindedly. “I’m sure he was sort of yearning for it. The sweet release of death, that is.”
“See. Very loony. How depressing is that book anyway, Moons?”
“Not much, surprisingly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Prove it.”
“Don’t be annoying.”
“Ha! You can’t prove it. It’s depressing. You’re too soft, Remus. Is it the moon? Is it making you terribly moody?”
“The moon always makes me terribly moody. And it’s not depressing.”
“Read it to me.”
“Alright.”
“Wait, really?”
“Of course,” Remus agrees, eyes still oh so bright. Merlin, Sirius loves him. “Anything for you,” he whispers, fondly.
Sirius quickly makes himself comfortable: in no time, he Accios a worn wool blanket that had been hanging randomly on a chair in the kitchen, pulls off his socks and places them neatly folded in a corner of the sofa, then rests his head on Remus’ lap, legs stretched out lazily, one arm resting on his chest, the other scratching Remus’ shoulder. Oh yes, he thinks. Yes. I have arrived. I must have. These days his heart is both restless and content, you see, and Remus, he suspects, is the reason for these two misbehaviors. It’s doing it right now, the thing where it’s going so fast it feels like it’ll crack from his ribcage and leave him open and gaping and raw, but the rhythm at which it beats is so achingly familiar, so comforting in its disarray, that it also feels a lot like coming home after an exhausting day at work to a warm sofa, with the person you love reading you a book and combing through your hair with hands roughened by time, and moonish transformations, and life in general, by everything you’ve lived through together, and everything you still have yet to discover about them.
“Had Robinson Crusoe–”
“Who’s that?”
“A character from a Muggle book. Don’t interrupt. This is important.”
“Okay. Go on.”
Remus does. “Had Robison Crusoe never left the highest, or more correctly the most visible point of his island, from desire for comfort, or timidity, or fear, or ignorance, or longing, he would soon have perished; but since without paying any attention to passing ships and their feeble telescopes he started to explore the whole island and take pleasure in it, he managed to keep himself alive and finally was found after all, by a chain of causality that was, of course, logically inevitable.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“So that Robison lad. Got himself lost in some island?”
“Essentially, yes. Although, of course, it’s a parable. You don’t really need an island for this to make any sense.”
Sirius hums. “No, I don’t think you do. Not a very dog-like thing to do, though, is it? I think I probably would have stayed put in the highest point of the highland.”
“I don’t think you would have, Pads,” Remus murmurs, fondly. “I don’t think you have ever stayed put anywhere.”
“For comfort, and longing, and fear, I think I would,” he whispers back, something heavy settling inside him. Something like an admission, something like remembrance. Something like never moving on, something like opening up.
“I don’t think any of that would have stopped you from exploring whichever islands you’d end up lost in. If anything, I think those things would make you more determined to see everything else around you.”
“Sounds a lot like survival, that,” he ponders.
Remus doesn’t say anything for a moment, just closes the book and places it on the little table by his side of the sofa, but there’s a smile forming at the corners of his mouth, as if he knows some big secret he’s about to share with Sirius, and Merlin, Sirius misses having Remus let him in on his secrets. With one hand, he keeps running his fingers through Sirius’ hair, while he stretches out the other to hold Sirius’ hand, smiling, smiling, always smiling, and has it always been like this between them? Still smiling, he whispers back: “It does. And then comes the living.”
Sirius brings Remus’ hand to his lips. “Yes. Then comes the living.”
☾ ✹ ☽
1991 – September
Thirty-one going thirty-two. The dream comes again, for the first time in eight years, when Sirius is thirty-one years old. He wishes he could say he welcomes it like an old friend. If not for the overall context, Sirius probably would have. As it happens, he doesn’t have it in him not to panic.
Sirius knows fear. He knows how to be fearless, when it counts, how to be brave, when it’s needed, but he has never not known fear, which, hey, comes with the territory. Something to do with having something to lose, and Sirius, would you look at that, has plenty of it: a beautiful lover, and a beautiful child, and a beautiful, happy, very fucking happy family. A long list of memories lived and yet to create – of summer vacations getting sunburned with Regulus (the bastard, as it turns out, still loves a good, sunny day), of Christmas nights charming mistletoe only to have an excuse to kiss Remus (like he needs an excuse to kiss Remus), of trips to Hogsmeade stuffing his face with obnoxiously sweet treats with Harry.
It’s a good life, one he’s proud of, and one he wants. There’s a lot missing, still, and the emptiness left behind isn’t ever completely filled, but it doesn’t have to. Sirius prefers it like that, holding the emptiness like an altar he visits often, and he doesn’t leave offerings or sacrifices, not really, but he visits, he brings the candles, warms up the place, whispers thank you and I miss you and I wish you both had been here to see him do that and thank you, and thank you, and thank you, again, for good measure. Everything else is an addition, so there’s space that remains unoccupied, and there’s space that’s new, and exciting, and happy, so, there you have it, it’s a good life, and he’s proud of it, and he wants to keep it – hence, the fear.
These past years Sirius has remained vigilant but has done his best to numb down the fear a bit. To live the life he has, the good life he has and loves, without being afraid of bloody knees and scratched elbows. Growing pains, and all of that.
The dream comes again after many, many hours tossing and turning in bed, feeling entirely agitated after Harry’s first letter from Hogwarts.
Here’s the good thing: he’s in Gryffindor. For a minute there he thought he’d lose the kid for the snakes. He would, if Regulus or Severus had it their way. He’s glad they hadn’t. Harry Potter is a Gryffindor, through and through.
The bad thing is a bit more complicated, and the reason, Sirius is certain, the dream returns. It doesn’t help that Remus is spending the night away, he thinks, but then again it’s not his fault old Ollivander needed his help to bargain with some Bowtruckles for a bit of wood (Remus, as it turns out, was an excellent apprentice of wandmaking and wandlore). So Sirius goes to bed alone, tosses and turns, feels entirely agitated, falls asleep, and before he knows it he’s thirty-one going thirty-two, and he’s barefoot, and he’s forgotten his wand, and he’s not carrying anything with him, and the hound is waiting for him at the gates, and before he knows it he’s asking, for the umpteenth time:
“Where am I going?”
“Away from here,” the hound replies, looking very pleased with himself. “You know it, kid. Only by doing so can you reach your destination.”
“And so you know my destination?”
“I already told you. You haven’t forgotten, have you? It’s been a while, I know. Well. Away-From-Here, that is your destination.”
“But I have no provisions with me. I didn’t even bring my wand.”
“That you haven’t. Maybe you should have. Go get your wand, and your provisions.”
“This is not how this goes,” Sirius says, frowning.
“I don’t suppose it is, no. But I don’t think it has led you anywhere, so perhaps we should keep talking.”
“I thought I had arrived.”
“Perhaps you have. Perhaps that’s why this changed, now.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“But I still need to get away.”
“Yes. I never said anything about staying away. Just that you had to go. Which you still do.”
“Will I come back?”
“I don’t think so. But you might. I hope you do, this time.”
“This time?”
“See you later, Sirius Black,” the hounds says, and just – disappears.
After waking up in his sweat soaked bed, he gets up to get a glass of water, and sits by the kitchen table where the letter rests open and rumpled. He reads it. Reads it again. It goes like this:
Dear Padfoot & Moony,
Hi!!
Guess what – I got sorted into Gryffindor! Bet you’re both dead happy. I know I am. Ron’s in Gryffindor too, and Neville, and Seamus, who is a new friend. There’s also a girl called Hermione – she’s a bit strange, to be honest, but she’s really smart and fixed some boy’s glasses on the train, so that’s pretty cool. Not sure she likes me yet, though.
Draco got into Slytherin. Makes sense, really – he’d hate it here. The common room’s all red and gold and proper cozy, not his style at all. I told him this morning, and he pulled a face like Uncle Reg used to. Say hi to him for me!
Something odd happened at dinner last night. There’s this professor, Quirrell (the one with the manky-looking turban), and he was talking to Professor Severus and when he looked at me, my scar started hurting. Not loads, just a bit. Like it was burning. Thought I should tell you, but don’t worry – it’s fine now. Just felt a bit weird.
Off to Potions next. I’ll behave – promise!
See you soon,
Harry
Notes:
well. that’s a wrap, folks!
writing this little thing was so wonderful in so many ways and kept me grounded through some pretty shitty times and so im overall happy that i got to do it and share it with you.
there’s still so much to be explored and i know i will return to this universe eventually but right now this is it. this is it, people. ❤️ hope you enjoyed the ride. if anything, i certainly did.
thank you so much to those who’ve been following along and leaving the kindest feedback one could ask for. you’ve made my day so many times! you’re all very appreciated ❤️
a special thank you to my good wolfstar brainrot friend @whenit_rains, who *always* made sure to read & yap about our silly boys and made this experience all the more fun.
finally, a thank you to my little brother, @overthedeadsea, without whom i wouldn’t have finished this, or anything else, for that matter. you’re the best thing life has granted me and even in fanfiction im reminded of that.
and, oh! i made a playlist for you: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6KuDfY1bejooaHXOyaAdNk?si=PkRgJyi6T5-S_Rrtb6mO4g&pi=e-5JtCNN29SfaA
(also im not my most active there but you can come say hi anytime on tumblr!)
hope to see you all very soon, & if you're interested, check out my newest multi-chapter fic, Voids and Vanishers ❤️
L x
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