Archive of Our Own

Your grandma always used to say that death is just another beginning, she says, watching the milk spread like a cloud across her tea. Like the soil preparing for new daffodils every spring. His father catches his eye across the table, and there's a twinkle in his gaze that warms him through, precious for how rare it is. Yes, dear, he says, but she also said that nargles were living in her u-bend, didn't she?

As the Easter weekend crawls to a close, Remus sits in an empty house that had once been full of memories. That well-worn sofa where his mum would read to him; this kitchen table, where he’d watch his father diligently completing the crossword; that bedroom window, where he first learned the true horror of a full moon.

His parents had died within weeks of each other, 1981 barely getting started before the kick in the teeth came. Some awful, drawn-out illness for his mother, who by the end could hardly see through the haze of pain. For his father, not in perfect health himself, the loss of his wife had been all it really took. “We don’t put ‘died of a broken heart’ on the death certificate,” the healer had told him, gently drawing a sheet over Lyall Lupin’s peaceful face. “But sometimes, it seems the likely answer.”

He had wanted to reply, what about his heart? What about his life, left behind like this? But it didn’t do to be selfish. He had arranged the funerals and found burial plots side by side, in the graveyard of the church where his mum used to love raising her voice to the rafters in song.

He doesn’t tell anyone about it, that it had even happened, until March. His parents—his whole world, every childhood memory wrapped up there—had already been buried under the cold earth for three weeks. It wasn’t that he was trying to be secretive. It was just the way it had worked out.

James and Lily were in hibernation, building their family, watching Harry grow in tiny increments every day. They hardly left the house. Peter was moving between his work for the Order, his paid work in Hogsmeade, and his mother’s increasingly-anxious side. He was never in one place long enough to talk to.

Sirius… well, that should’ve been the most straightforward one. They share a flat—hell, technically, they share a bedroom. But that side of the bed has been empty for a while, and the excuses of “I finished work late and didn’t want to wake you” dry up. More often than not, Sirius was on the couch, if he was in the flat at all. Long stretches pass where he’s away doing something for Dumbledore. No details are ever forthcoming, and Remus doesn’t think he could ask if it isn’t being offered. In the time it takes for Sirius to apparate away somewhere, do whatever it is he’s doing, with whoever he’s doing it with, and reappear one afternoon in their cramped kitchen, Remus had watched his mother succumb to agony and watched his father follow her, broken and despairing. A lot could happen in five weeks.

It doesn’t make a difference, anyway. He’s an orphan now, an already-quiet life emptying out of the few things left that keep him tethered to the rest of the world. What difference would it have made to have someone else there at the funeral?

Sirius doesn’t understand that. He made all the right comforting noises, hugged him close—the most contact they’d had in a while—but when Remus didn’t cry, didn’t pour his heart out, he’d given up. Disappeared, muttering something about a meeting with Moody.

When they had shared a bed, Remus used to watch Sirius sleep. Not in an adoring, lovestruck way—although he does adore him, and struck is an apt verb—but in a way born from anxiety, from a nagging itch that if he could just keep him in his sights, he could keep him in his life like this. When exhaustion won out and sleep sank over him like a stone, he would wake, his heart in his throat, unable to calm until he had seen that black mess of hair on the pillow next to him, or the slim figure humming in the bathroom. 

That feels like all he is able to do, anymore. Watch. Let things happen.

There are lessons he'd had to learn long ago, under the watchful eye of a full moon, that his friends have never had to consider. To expect the worst was one: anything better than rock bottom is then a gift, rather than a disappointment. In theory, it takes the sting out of other children in the village who are scared to go near him; it dulls the blade that is a lifetime of rejection, outside looking in, of being the 'other', a monstrous tale told to keep everyone in line. Of course, Remus had also long learnt that theory rarely worked in practise. For every time he'd expected the worst and been rewarded, there were half a dozen times when he'd gone in with even just a spark of hope, a flame so easily extinguished. 

So, he expects him to leave. To be cold, when he is there. He expects and is grateful for scraps of attention, of affection, because believing you deserve more is a fool's errand. Every now and then, the common sense inside him rears up, wonders why he doesn’t just relinquish even a small amount of his carefully-constructed armour, let down his guard. Ask questions, and answer them himself. Feel something, anything, on the outside instead of just stuffed deep down. 

But when you’re already soaked to the skin from the storm, you don't worry about getting even wetter. You just try to get through it. 

Part of the problem is that they are both so good at their masks. Sirius had probably been trained on it since he was out of nappies, presenting an outward appearance of unreadable haughtiness—he could cut you down with a raised eyebrow, not saying a word. Remus, on the other hand, had worked hard to build up this hard shell over the years, to project an air of quiet calm, of bookish indifference and disinterest, to not catch anyone's eye or ire. Fade into the background, he'd learned; camouflage and stay hidden. There weren't many people who really knew what he was, what he was in his heart and soul and guts, and even they didn't know the full truth of it. He sometimes considered that he didn't, either.

There are so many words kept behind that shell. So many things he wants to say—knows he should say—but there is always a reason not to. A reason to just nod, and look away, and think of something else. 

Grief, it seems, is just another cudgel with which to break himself. Put on a smile, and keep the sad shards of yourself inside. The only way out is further in.

Oh, now, Re, she says, lifting his chin, brushing away an errant tear from his cheek. At six years old, he feels loneliness in such a way that he doesn’t have the words to express. Those children don’t really know you. They’re frightened of the idea, that’s all. Give it time. They’ll come round when they see that gorgeous heart, that sweet soul. She gifts him a smile which buoys him up every time she smiles it. When have I ever been wrong, my lovely?

As May dawns, after a bleak few weeks spent alone in his parents’ now-empty house, sifting through memories and packing up boxes, he overhears Sirius and James discussing it. Discussing him. "—how much longer you two can dance round each other, for Merlin's sake," James is sighing. His tone speaks of weariness and worry. "Don't you want to, y'know, enjoy each other? Live life to the fullest?"

This is the trouble with arriving late, through an open Floo. His insides seem to revolt at the idea that they’ve been discussing him for a while.

Remus could almost hear the roll of Sirius' eyes; he'd certainly seen it enough times in real life to picture it perfectly in his head. "It's not like I'm not trying, mate," he replies sharply. "I can't keep bashing my head against a brick wall. Even a sexy one."

"A sexy wall," James laughs. "What a way with words you have. He might find that a compliment."

"I'm telling you, though. I ask him how he is, I ask him how the missions are going, I ask him if he wants a ruddy cup of tea, and it's like a straight answer is impossible." There’s a heavy sigh. "I’m just saying, it makes me wonder—"

"Well, don't," and Remus is surprised to hear the edge now in James' voice. "I'm not going over that again."

They stop talking when he enters the room, James meeting his gaze with a friendly smile while Sirius finds something fascinating to study at the bottom of his glass. "Moony! You made it! I was beginning to worry you’d fallen down a hole on your way back from the wilds of Herefordshire."

Remus tries his best to smile in return, aware that it probably looks only like an approximation of a smile. "Sorry. Got held up at home."

Sirius sniffs loudly, pointedly, which James addresses with an unsubtle stomp on his foot. "We're getting a curry in. Lils is too tired to cook, and I have vowed not to touch another pan until I learn how not to curdle everything." James glances at Sirius, who meets his gaze willingly; as always, an unspoken conversation takes place between them, that annoying psychic blood brother connection those two have that irks and amuses Remus in equal measure. "Who fancies trying something that'll burn the roofs of our mouths off tonight? I've always said my tongue doesn't need all these layers of skin."

"Don't you change that tongue," Sirius replies lightly. "You know how precious it is to me."

Remus wants to turn around and leave so badly it feels like his feet itch. How easy would it be just to stroll to the fireplace and get the fuck out of here? To put as much distance as possible between his awkward, aching self and two of his closest friends, whose ease of love and laughter makes him feel like an empty vessel? 

Still. That would require action. And so he does what he often did—stands still and picks at a loose bit of skin by his fingernail, waiting for something to change.

Peter doesn't join them that evening, which means it’s left to James and Lily to try to dilute the tension that thickens the air around Remus and Sirius. James has never been one to shrink from a challenge, and keeps up a steady run of jokes, stories from Auror training, detailed descriptions of Harry’s latest developmental triumph, rumours and half-truths he's heard hanging around Diagon Alley. Lily, for her part, seems to be trying to puzzle out exactly what the problem is—and Godric knows that Remus hopes she can, too—and mainly sits, listening, her presence on the sofa next to Remus a balm which he hadn't realised he'd needed.

He slips out into the silent sanctuary of the back garden around 9, fishing the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he glances up at the inky sky. Tracking the moon is very much part of his life, his survival, but he still automatically looks up whenever he is outside at night; it’s almost as if he hopes that it will have disappeared, or that something will have changed that would mean he was released from its shackles. That night, it lingers half-hidden behind the dull grey clouds. Not too long before the next full moon. Another thing to add to his list.

A few minutes later, Lily appears beside him, plopping down carefully on the rickety patio chair next to his. Harry lays on her chest, wrapped in blankets and sleeping soundly. "You could be some kind of assassin, Moony," she offers with a gentle smile. "One second you were right there, keeping me distracted from James' awful flobberworm story, and the next you were gone." She nudges his arm with hers, directing her gaze to the lit cigarette clutched in his hand. "Those will kill you, you know."

“I hear they’re good for the constitution,” he replies, as lightly as he can, but drops and grinds it under his heel all the same. “That’s what the muggles say.”

“Hmm,” she raises her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose we all have our habits.”

“Yeah?” he shoots her a slight smirk. “What are yours?”

“Hexing James, of course,” is her easy reply.

“Of course.”

“Have you got the house packed up yet?” she asks softly. “We could come and help, if you want. It can’t have been easy doing it all on your own.”

“It’s nearly done,” he shrugs. “No point in everyone’s Easter break being ruined.”

“Helping and being there for the people you love doesn’t ruin anything,” she points out firmly. “Remember that, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods. He watches Harry for a few moments, wondering how it must feel for life to be so simple. “How was your Easter?”

“It was lovely, mainly,” she smiles. “Weird, of course, not seeing many people. Sirius arrived three weeks ago and hasn’t technically left yet, so that’s been entertaining.”

“Technically left?” he repeats.

“Well, you know, he wanders off for the night from time to time,” she shrugs, then seems to think better of what she has said. Remus tries to steady his breathing. “I mean, just to the pub or to see Pete, nothing—not, you know—"

“It’s alright,” he stops her before she can flush any deeper. “Maybe he was. Who knows, eh?”

There is another silence, and he can sense her gaze on him as he tilts his head back to study the clouds again. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation. He’s not sure how he ended up in the middle of it.

“Remus…I really don’t think he would—" she starts, but seems to catch on her own words. “You two love each other. Anyone can see that.”

The clouds drift, revealing the bright face of the moon. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was laughing at him. At his attempt at a normal life. Now the words are like a torrent inside him, and he knows the dam he’s constructed won’t last long. Maybe talking to Lily—sweet, kind Lily, who understands the strange and complicated men around her—would actually help. “I don’t know,” he says, voice as quiet as the sky above them. “I don’t know what, but something has changed. Maybe he loved me. Before. Or maybe it was convenient and it just sort of…happened. Maybe now it’s just a…thing he can’t get out of.” A sad smile tugs at his lips for a moment. “Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

Her hand finds his, but he still cannot meet her gaze. “I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit,” she tells him. “And it’s not often I say that of Sirius.”

He chews on his lip. Everything aches. “Not every story is like yours.”

“Have you actually talked to him about this?” she prompts. “Get it all out there, clear things up – “

“That sounds like a living hell,” he murmurs with a humourless smile. “Why invite the bad news in?”

“Remus…” Her sigh stretches out between them. “You can’t just…not talk. It’s not healthy.”

Harry makes a snuffling noise, shifting in his cocoon; they both watch him for a few seconds. “There just doesn’t seem like much point,” he says eventually.

“I’m worried about you,” Lily states. “We all are.”

He shifts in his chair, as if that might direct her attention elsewhere. It does not work. He can’t quite articulate how much he hates the idea of them all worrying, wondering about him, discussing him. "You don't need to be," he replies. "I'm fine. This is just…the way life is now.”

He finally glances over at her. Her expression is a mixture of sadness and disbelief. She probably would have said more, too, but the kitchen door opens with a flourish and James staggers out. “Jesus wept, this stuff is strong,” he declares, waving an empty bottle demonstratively, before taking in the scene in front of him. “Ey up, Moony, you whispering sweet nothings to my wife?”

“Passes the time,” Remus cracks, almost sounding normal.

Lily’s lips purse, clearly trying to decide whether to just follow up on their conversation anyway, even with the added presence of the king of tactlessness himself. “Remus and I were talking about—"

“Talking?” Another voice joins the mix, the silhouette of a familiar figure blocking the light from inside the house. “Does he talk, then? Christ, who knew?”

The silence that follows is sharp and uncomfortable. Remus wants to throw up, to run off, to punch Sirius right in the nose. Confrontation has never been his forte. James intervenes, or tries to, with a kind, “that’s a wanky thing to say, Black.”

“I was only joking.” Sirius’s voice is light, but they all know the edge to his words. After all these years, they know what a joke sounds like. “Who died and took all the fun out of this place, eh?”

My parents, Remus thinks. My parents, and James’ parents, and half the Order, and countless muggles and wizards we don’t even know.

There’s a thunk—Lily’s foot connecting with Sirius’s shin—and Remus uses this opportunity to slip his hand out of her grip and fold it quietly in his pocket, standing up. “Actually, I’ve got an early morning with Dumbledore tomorrow. I’d better get going. Thanks for dinner.”

“No, Moonykins, you’ve barely just arrived,” James closes the gap between them and slings his arm round his friend’s shoulders. It’s warm and comforting and somehow makes him feel even sadder. “C’mon, we’ve got a fresh bottle of firewhiskey, a pack of cards and a bar of Honeydukes’ fruit ‘n’ nut with your name all over it. Let’s rinse the noble house of Black for all its worth.”

“Which isn’t much,” Sirius mutters into the darkness.

“And at some point, Harry will wake up, because he’s allergic to much sleep,” James adds cheerfully, “and he’ll want a cuddle with Uncle Moony.”

“Please stay,” Lily adds, quietly, plaintively.

“Next time,” he promises, knowing that they all know he doesn’t mean it. “Don’t eat all that chocolate in one go. You’ll vomit over the cards.”

Before anyone can really react, or try to stop him—and maybe a small part of him hopes that Sirius would—he heads back inside. As he reaches the fireplace and takes a handful of Floo powder, he hears James’ familiar tones: “Nice one, Pads. Very smooth. All the subtlety of a brick to the face.”

Sirius’ reply of, “fuck off, Potter,” follows him away from the house.

I just don’t see how it can work, his father is saying, shoulders tense. From his position tucked just behind the door frame, he can catch only glimpses of his mum moving around the bedroom, tidying, organising, probably keeping herself busy. He knows he shouldn’t listen but he can’t step away. No matter what the man says, it’s not going to be normal. It’s not going to be easy. What if we send him off there and he gets carted back when the truth comes out? There is quiet, then the creaking of the bed springs as his mother sits down next to her husband. Yes, dear, she murmurs patiently. But what if it doesn’t?

He doesn’t see Sirius again for two weeks. He doesn’t return from the Potters’ that night, and Remus is gone before he can show his face the next day—although Remus isn’t convinced he would show up, anyway. Dumbledore sends him north, and he spends the full moon alone, waking up the next morning shivering, battered, scrapes and gouges out of almost every part of him. Transformation is always more brutal when the human mind is already troubled; he hasn’t experienced anything quite like this, though.

He knows he shouldn’t apparate when he’s only just free of the moon, when his body feels like it’s held together with string and everything aches or throbs, relentless like the tide, but he also knows it’s not safe to stay where he is. He’s such a mess, in fact, that he has to apparate in smaller distances, each journey taking another chunk out of him until he’s back in front of his flat, only just able to hold himself up.

When he unlocks the door and steps inside, he’s so tired that he doesn’t notice Sirius hunched on the sofa straight away. He’s up and crossing the room quickly, face drawn, pale, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. “Oh,” he says, deciding it’s safer to lean against the door for a moment, to gather his strength. What little of it there is to gather, that is. “Hello.”

“Hello?” Sirius repeats, taking all of him in, frown deepening. “Christ, Moony, you look like you’ve been attacked with a meat cleaver.”

He self-consciously puts a finger to the worst of the fresh scars, slashing down from his jaw to his collarbone. That morning, it had taken half his remaining stock of dittany before the bleeding would stop. Another inch to the left and he would have bled out, right there, alone under the heavy grey sky. “Occupational hazard, I think.”

“No offence, but you look like shit,” Sirius says bluntly, taking his bag from his hand, and Remus doesn’t know what to do with his hands now they’re not occupied. “Where have you been? It’s been weeks.”

Remus glances away. “Been away for Dumbledore,” he replies vaguely.

“Fuck’s sake, I’m not asking for the coordinates, just—"

“Are you going to let me come more than one step inside?” Remus interrupts. His voice catches in a way he can’t control; a rush of pain courses down his left side, almost blinding him for a moment. He has to take a second, swallow hard and blink his vision back into focus. “I, I really think I—I’d really like to sit down.”

Sirius moves, his arm snaking round him to hold him up as he guides him over to the sofa. Where Remus is cold, cold down to his very bones, Sirius seems to radiate heat: he instinctively leans into it. “You shouldn’t be doing the full moon on your own,” he says, and Remus observes, as if from a distance, the knife edge of concern in his voice. “Look what happens to you.”

“Done it alone before,” Remus replies, sinking back into the cushions and closing his eyes against the throb of his head. “Will have to again.” He shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable, and flinches at what this does to the vice that feels like its round his ribs. “And again, and again, probably.”

The silence stretches in such a way that he wonders if Sirius has just vanished. Eventually, though, the sofa cushions tilt as he sits down beside him. “When you say things like that,” he says, and Remus forces his eyelids open. “I want to smack you round the head.”

Remus shrugs, or tries to; every muscle and bone is still in thrall to the waning moon. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he murmurs with all the energy it would take to scream.

He’s not entirely aware of what happens next. Pain blossoms again and wipes out most other sensations. He can’t remember the last time it was as bad as this, and wonders if maybe this is the time that will finally finish him off. The wolf was always going to win out, some day. At one point he thinks he moves, but he’s not sure how that’s possible; it feels like the cool cotton of his pillow against his cheek, but wasn’t he just on the sofa, and the murmurings of a spell over him, the pain starting to recede just enough for the deep-set exhaustion to win out at last.

Cwtch up with me, love. His mother’s voice is gentle, her arms wrapping round him as if she could squeeze the damage out of him through willpower alone. The soft lilt of her accent, always an anchor to him, always a signal of home, and warmth, and safety, ebbs and flows in the air around them. She smells like grapefruit, and burnt sugar. He sinks against her like a stone. There we are. There we are, my lovely boy. It’s alright. You’re alright.

When he opens his eyes, the physical aches that flattened him the night before have largely faded, leaving behind only the dull stab of having expected to find himself a nine-year-old huddled in his mother’s arms, and instead finding himself an ancient twenty-one, in an empty bed, a cold room, streaks of bright sunlight breaking through the gaps in the threadbare curtains. He pauses, takes stock of his body, counts off limbs and bruises and scars. Apart from feeling like he could sleep another week, he almost feels like a normal person again. Wounds heal quickly for him. Have since he was five, and the moonlight cut his life into shreds.

The scars will fade, my love, she would murmur, tucking him up under the covers after shutting the moon out behind black-out blinds and heavy linen drapes. That’s what scars do.

Physical scars fade. He’s not so sure about the ones littering his insides, ley lines across his heart, embedded in the very deepest parts of him.

He's starting to feel like maybe the wolf slashed a vein at some point, nothing vital, but enough, and he's been bleeding, bleeding, draining ever since, no one noticing because they can't quite meet his gaze or linger in a room with him for too long. This was the problem with getting too used to a cluster of friends around you, watching over you, caring if you lived or died: when they stepped back, as he should have known they would, the protective windshield was gone. He'd been alone many times before. It had never felt quite like this.

He hauls himself up, staggers to the bathroom, then the kitchen. He almost believes that last night, finding Sirius in the living room, the natural strength of him holding them both up, is a figment of his imagination, if it wasn’t for the mug of half-drunk tea, long since gone cold, abandoned in the sink. “You could empty it, you know,” he had said before, fondly condemning. “You could rinse it out, at least.”

“And give you nothing to disapprove of?” Sirius had replied, sidling closer with a knowing grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He finds a hastily scrawled note on the coffee table in the living room, the familiar spikes and loops of a handwriting he’d burned into his memory long ago. Things to do. People to see. Not sure when I’ll be back. S.

I’m not the only one holding things inside me, he thinks, crumpling the parchment into his fist. I’m not the only one at fault here.

The hot weather drives people mad, she says. They dangle their feet in a trough of cool water, protected from the midday sun by the sprawling branches of the willow tree that stands at the foot of the garden. They get distracted. I’m sure you’ll get some letters soon, my lovely. I’m sure they’ll be missing you something fierce.

July rolls around, days of stifling heat cut with gloomy, wet days that feel more like being back in the Scottish highlands than in London. He sees Sirius only twice across the expanse of two months, and one of those times hardly counts, him stumbling in awash with the ripe scent of alcohol and magic, clattering around the kitchen in the twilight hours, managing a disgruntled, “Moooooooony, where the fuck are my spoons?” before Remus allows himself to be pulled out of bed to stop him from damaging himself or the flat. He’s gone again early the next morning.

The other time was a few days after the June full moon. Remus had been slumped on the sofa, grateful that at least this time he hadn’t needed to do too much to draw himself back together in the aftermath—a few healing spells and sleep was enough. Fatigue still heaved at his bones for days after, though, and so it was through a half-haze, the television at a low murmur in the background, that Sirius arrived. One minute, Remus was trying to keep his eyes open, watching the shapes and colours on the screen but not truly taking in what they meant; the next, Sirius stood in front of him, his face a closely-guarded shadow, a frown, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket like they’d been hexed there.

“You’re home,” he said, in a nod to stating the bleeding obvious.

Sirius nodded, raking his gaze over him—checking for injuries, maybe, or signs of darkness, perhaps. “Need to grab a few things before I head off again,” he replied, tearing his gaze away to look at the TV, then at the fireplace, then the window. Anywhere but back at him. “You know how it is. King and country, discretion the better part of valour, as Helga is my witness etcetera etcetera.”

“Right.” He couldn’t swallow past the tightness in his own throat. “Look. This is your place. It should be—you know, it’s your base when you’re…doing whatever it is Helga witnesses.”

His sharp gaze was back on him. “What’s your point?”

“I can go somewhere else,” he replied, not entirely sure that it’s true, but the words tumble out nonetheless. “Give you your space back so you don’t have to…”

“Have to what?”

He picked at a thread on his shirt sleeve. “Avoid me, anymore,” he said at last. “I’ll go, and you can be here, and that’ll be…well. That.”

“Avoid you—" Sirius started, but the fire seemed to go out of him as quickly as it had flared. He scuffed his shoe on the rug. “Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I was holding you prisoner here, shut away in the attic until you set fire to our home and blind me.”

It seemed unsurprising that Sirius pitched himself as the Mr Rochester in their mess of a situation. “I know you’re not, I was just—"

“Go, then,” Sirius shrugged then, and turned to head back to his bedroom. “Go to your somewhere else. I’ll see you round, mate.”

You daft prick, he wanted to shout after him. You utter bastard, can’t you see what’s happening here? But instead, he stayed on the sofa, listening to the thumps and bangs that were Sirius arranging a travelling bag, staring resolutely at the scorch mark on the wall (evidence of one of Sirius and James’ thrilling attempts to get them all sent to an early grave) as Sirius thumped back out his room and out the door without another word.

It’s with some trepidation, then, that Remus makes his way to a belated first birthday party for the newest member of their dysfunctional family. He’s staying back at his parents’ house for now, not having the money or the emotional energy to find somewhere closer to the heart of things. Besides, he can apparate as easily from Hereford as he can from London.

He’s seen them all at a few Order meetings, with just about time for a nod and a tight smile, or for a hurried conversation in the doorway before they make their way home again. James has been ebullient, tactile, transparently trying to make up for Sirius’ cold shoulder and suspicious gaze. Lily seems like she would like to say more, do more, draw him in and perhaps not let go, but the opportunity never presents itself, and besides, hasn’t she got enough to worry about at the moment? Peter lurks on the edge of things, as he often does, and asks Remus odd questions that linger in his mind for hours afterwards, although he’s not sure why. He seems to spend more time in quiet conversation with Sirius, besides.

He arrives late, the house quiet but the garden already a riot of games and food and chatter. Set back still in the shadow of the cottage, he feels like a distant observer, taking it all in. Glancing up, he can sense the dense layers of magic around them, wards covering the property from the edge of the front lawn to each rickety fence post around the back garden. It's something he has picked up from Sirius over the years, slowing himself down enough to feel the sparks and life of magic in his own pulse, prickling his skin, always nearby even when it can't be seen.

A loud laugh brings his attention back to the lawn. Harry is at the centre of things, crawling fiercely across the sprawled blankets in an attempt to once more conquer the flowerbeds; Frank and Alice’s little one, who Remus vaguely thinks is a similar age, is heaving himself up from the grass on wobbly legs, clutching on to his father who watches every movement like it’s a symphony, a sonnet, a work of art. James, Sirius and Peter are in a tight knot further down the garden, clutching bottles of beer and discussing something clearly not meant to be overheard. Lily and Alice are trying, and failing, to light the candles on two cakes.

A skeleton crew, he thinks, standing there on the patio clutching a poorly-wrapped present. If this party had been even a year ago, Marlene would’ve been helping Harry dig for worms; Dorcas would’ve been making quick work of the candles; Caradoc would’ve been telling one of his stories which boiled down to being about how strong he was. Gideon and Fabian, Benjy, and so many others who’d have loved to have a reason to celebrate, even amongst so much pain.

Instead, all this party gains is a werewolf so unused to human interaction that he contrives to arrive at a gathering of his favourite people an hour later than he should.

“Remus!” Lily’s voice pulls his focus back, and he manages a smile. Everyone—well, all the adults—is looking over at him now, noticing him. James, Sirius and Peter have stopped talking. “Oh, it’s so good to see you properly and in the daylight,” she says, her voice brimming with warmth as she gives him a tight hug. “I feel like we only see anyone by murky candlelight, these days.”

“S’good to see you too,” he murmurs, overwhelmed for a moment by such open kindness. Affection, even. “Sorry I’m late, I think I—got confused about the start time.”

They both know it’s not true, but she draws back and smiles, letting him have it anyway. “You know the party doesn’t truly start until Moony arrives with a…” she looks down at the gift still clutched in his hands. “…fascinatingly-wrapped fluffy manticore?”

“Hippogriff,” he smirks, forgetting to hold himself back. “It’s charmed to make some really excellent screeching noises.”

“Thanks for that.” With a laugh, she loops her arm through his and drags him into the melee. “C’mon, we’re partying.”

James breaks away from the others and idles over, the same old grin on his face that’s been a feature of Remus’ life for ten years now. “Moonpie, my old chum,” he pats his head and tweaks his ear, as if he can’t stop himself from reverting to adolescent habits once more. “You’re already a few beers behind, mate, and you missed Harry standing up on his own for five whole seconds.” He shakes his head wistfully. “We knew he’d be advanced, of course, but even so...”

“I’m sure I’ll get the full retelling of it a few times today,” Remus smiles back, trying not to let his gaze catch on Sirius looming in the background like the spectre at the feast. “How does it feel to have a one-year-old?”

“It feels old,” is his sage reply. “Very old and terribly grown up.”

“Luckily, the grown-up part doesn’t always seem to come into play,” Lily interjects, and turns to the cakes again. “Now we’re all here, shall we sing?”

Harry, soil covering his little hands, is retrieved from amongst the tulips by his godfather, and Neville is cheerfully balanced on his father’s hip as they gather in an awkward circle around the plastic folding table and two cakes, each shaped like the number 1 and smothered in thick, rich icing. Remus thanks his lucky stars that the birthday song is so short, and he can soon fade back a bit, lost in the mix of cakes being sliced, presents being opened.

He’s perched on the low wall that separates the patio paving from the slightly overgrown grass when Peter joins him. “The cake’s chocolate,” he says, nodding his head to the plate clutched in one hand. “And Prongs definitely didn’t make it, if that helps.”

“I’ll get some in a minute,” Remus replies. “Assuming there’s any left.”

“Pads is making quick work of one of them,” Peter acknowledges, then glances over at him. “I hear you moved out.”

“Oh,” he says, cleverly. “Yeah. I’m back in Herefordshire now.”

“Bit remote, isn’t it?” he asks, dunking a finger into the icing.

No more remote than an empty flat in the heart of London was, he thinks, but doesn’t say. “It’s okay. Nice and quiet. And I can get wherever I’m going just as easily.”

“Sirius hasn’t been around much, anyway,” Peter says lightly, and the words tug at him in an unexpected way. “Says it’s Auror stuff…” A chunk of cake goes in, leaving dark crumbs at the corners of his mouth. “I mean, if you were just trying to steer clear. I think you could steer clear even from his bedroom easily enough.”

Remus doesn’t know what to say at first. He glances up, over to where Sirius sits with Harry in his lap, bouncing him on his knee as if he’s on a racehorse. It’s hard to stitch together this image in front of him with the one now being formed in his mind. “It’s okay. I’m okay where I am.” He pauses, then adds, “Thanks, though, Pete.”

His friend shrugs, smiles, gestures to the cake. “Seriously, mate. Don’t miss out.”

The journey to get cake involves passing through the cluster of folding chairs where Harry is now being passed to his mum, grinning that sweet gummy smile into her mirror-green eyes and patting his chocolate-smeared hands on her cheeks. Her laughter feels like it could cure any illness, and as he picks up the knife from the table and starts carving himself out a slice of cake, his mind goes again to his own mother. Chocolate as a cure? she’d laughed like twinkling stars, and snapped off another chunk from the bar in front of her. I think we should give it our best try, don’t you, darling?

“Didn’t think you’d come today.” The voice, with its easy drawl and practised nonchalance, pulls his chin up to meet those familiar grey eyes. “Thought maybe you’d want to let me avoid you some more.”

The slice of cake slides from the knife onto his plate, and he turns himself to face Sirius fully. Be brave, he tells himself. Be bold. Be evasive. “I thought you could probably find a way even with me here,” he replies, as lightly as he can, though the words have too much heft to them, collapsing under their own weight. “Anyway, it’s Harry’s birthday. These things are important.”

“Lots of things are important,” Sirius says bluntly.

Remus doesn’t know what to say. He looks down at his cake, picking off a chunk and squishing it between his fingers. “I hear you’ve been busy.”

“Oh yeah?” His smirk is dangerous, a glint in his eyes. “Well, when you’ve worked as hard as I have to cultivate a reputation…”

“Not like that,” he replies, and desperately hopes that it isn’t like that, not even a bit. “Auror stuff. Valour, and all that.”

“Ah,” Sirius levels a piercing gaze his way, then shrugs it off, glances over at his godson. “You know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Rather like your own mysterious work, I suppose.”

Another dig, a sharpened nail between the ribs. What is even the point of all this, he wonders. Who exactly is he holding this all back for? “I suppose.”

“How’s life in the back-end of beyond?” Sirius asks next. He’d always found his visits to the Lupin family home both fascinating and tedious in equal measure; Remus used to quite enjoy watching him try to shrink himself down for the quiet, the open spaces, the distinct lack of hustle and/or bustle. Of course, that had been a time when largely, all it took was the company he kept. Nowadays, Remus reflects, he doubts the company would be enough to hold Sirius in such a place.

“Oh, you know,” he replies. “Getting a lot of reading done.”

“I’ve still got your mum’s copy of Middlemarch,” Sirius says, and even just hearing him mention his mother is enough to jar Remus, to knock him off his axis. He flicks his gaze up, unwilling, from his plate to the man next to him. “Never could seem to get past the first third of it.”

He discards his plate, his appetite receding like water down a drain. “Well, it’s not like she needs it back anymore,” he remarks, and is surprised to hear the fault-lines in his own voice. “So you may as well keep it.”

Sirius lifts a hand without thinking, as if to reach for him, but thinks better of it and lets it fall uselessly to his side. “No, I know, I meant…if you want it back. For…”

“Posterity?” he asks, smiling in a way that barely gets past his lips. “It’s alright. She loved you, Pads. I’m sure she’d want you to keep hold of it and maybe, finish it, by the time you’re ninety or so.”

When Sirius replies, he’s so quiet that he almost can’t be heard over the baby-babble, the chatter and life behind them. He’s looking at Remus in a way that he hasn’t seen in a while. “I loved her, too."

Remus’ jaw is tensed as if it’s the only way he can be sure the words won’t come flying out. He’s trying to piece a sentence together, something that reflects how these words pull at the very deepest part of him, how they rip him apart and draw him together at the same time, and almost startles when Peter sidles over to get another slice of cake. “Oh, I meant to say, Pads. That bloke at the Royal Oak sent his regards again,” he said, dropping a generous portion on to his plate and glancing over at Sirius with a wink. “Not sure when I agreed to be the go-between for you and half of wizarding London, by the way.”

Funny how a few words can deaden the air so easily. Remus stares resolutely at the tree at the bottom of the garden as Sirius mutters, “oh, right. Ta, Pete.”

Remus draws in a breath, tries to force steel into his spine where there is none. “Some things never change, eh?” he says, the tightrope between blithe and broken fraying beneath him; when he meets Sirius’ eyes, he’s not surprised to see what little warmth he had seen before has now gone.

“Well,” and Sirius laughs, sounding as unhappy as he ever has. “On that note, Moony. Good that you could come and share the day with us.”

Us. Them, and him. He knows he feels it, has felt it for a while, but to have it spelled out for him by someone else feels a bit like a blow to the head. He can’t find the words, and so just watches, muted and still, as Sirius strolls to the other side of the garden, flopping down on a blanket next to James and muttering something darkly to his best friend. Remus both does and doesn’t want to know, desperately, what is being said. He’s not sure how much more he can take.

But he swallows down the urge to bolt, sits himself between Frank and Lily, smiles benignly and answers each question in a way that invites no follow up. When exactly two hours have passed—a polite amount of time, dear, he remembers his mother scolding his father, adjusting his tie—he makes his excuses and leaves.

In the house where he first learned to talk, the silence is deafening.

Some things are better kept just for you, his father advises sombrely. Behind him, his mother focuses on making leek and potato soup, busying her hands in the hope that he won’t notice she’s trying not to cry. They won’t understand, and you’d have to come home again. Don’t waste this chance, Remus.

If in doubt, say nothing.

September's full moon feels like a raw wound, and he isn't quite sure why. He returns from another of his trips, bruised and battered and with only scraps of useful information to show for his troubles. He starts to wonder what it will take to tip this scale, to change the direction of this war. It feels like they're losing, just bit by tiny bit. Surely he will outgrow his usefulness soon, if he hasn't already. Dumbledore will see he brings nothing new to the table, and then what? The thought is disquieting, sends him to bed for hours on end.

Eventually he only moves because he knows he has to be at the meeting tonight—he's avoided the last few, offering excuses and deciding that ultimately, they won't miss him. Lily sent him a note by owl, brief but sweet, and included a picture. Remus sat for a long time, just watching the determined boy stagger back and forth across the boundaries of the photo, clutching on to James' hands, every step like a victory. He wondered if maybe it helped, having a whole other tiny living person to focus on instead of the all-consuming stress and fear. Probably not.

He decides to use the Floo, apparating feeling like just one bridge too far in his current state. Soon the clear and frigid skies of Herefordshire are traded for the thick clouds and warning of rain that hangs over London like a shroud. He takes the usual precautions, doubling back on himself, taking random turns and finally casting a disillusionment charm when he nears the venue for tonight's meeting. He's late—maybe time has started to move differently, because late never used to be a word in his not-unwieldy vocabulary—and tries to slip in, unnoticed.

No such luck. At least five heads turn to glance his way, varying degrees of distrust, hostility or just surprise flashing across their faces. He sinks into a chair at the end of the table, glad to be half-hidden in shadows. In the seat opposite, Sirius watches him, not even trying to pretend he isn't.

He knows he's a sorry sight. A suspicious one. A bruise is still blossoming across the left side of his face, a delightful gift from Fenrir Greyback showing who the leader of his pack really is, and his hands, folded neatly on the table in front of him, look like they've been through an industrial grater. That was all him, of course. Something in the wolf this month had wanted to shred at himself, to rip and tear and destroy.

At his collarbone, a fresh wound is still healing-red, vivid against the faint blue of his shirt. Compared to the tidy, tired but together appearances of those around him, he's all too aware of the thoughts he must be conjuring.

He only speaks once, briefly, to answer a question from Dumbledore, and is glad not to have any more attention on him than is necessary. Listening feels like a strenuous task, his concentration flitting like a startled bird, never quite landing on a thread of conversation for very long. Why did he come, he thinks. Just, why.

The meeting ends with the usual array of warnings, requests and orders dished out. Some rise immediately from their seats and make a hasty exit into the night; others linger, talking quietly in the flickering candlelight. Remus decides to stay in his chair for now, to wait out the crowd, such as it is. He doesn't want anyone to feel that they have to walk with him, talk to him.

By the door, Peter pauses, talking in low murmurs with Sirius. James joins them briefly, but soon steps away again, and makes his way over to his side. "Nice shiner, mate," he greets him, flopping into a nearby chair.

"You should see the other bloke," he replies, self-consciously brushing his hand across his cheek. He pauses. "How's Lily? And Harry?"

James shrugs glumly. "She's going a bit stir-crazy, now we can't even go out to work anymore," he says, and glances back at the other half of their once-tight knit group, still muttering, tension clear in every sinew. "She'll be sad she missed you. Did you get her letter?"

"Yes—thanks—I've been a bit..." he trails off. "I'll reply tomorrow."

"She'd like that."

"You staying sane?"

James smirks just slightly. "Staying implies I ever was to begin with, Moony," he points out. "But I'm managing. We're managing." He shakes his head. "If it weren't for Lil I'd have thrown myself off a broomstick by now, I reckon."

"Now that's romance." Sirius' voice cuts through the dusky light, and they both look up. Peter has gone, and Sirius stands with his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared defensively as if expecting a barrage at any moment. "Us mere mortals can only hope to feel such a way."

Remus swallows hard, meets Sirius' eye for a moment before he looks down again. "So Voldemort really is after you, then," he directs at James, trying not to sound like the very idea makes him want to clutch his friend close and not let go until it's all over and everyone's safe again.

"I've often wanted to be the focus of someone's obsession," James replies, trying for brightness and falling somewhere around murkily-anxious. "Never thought it would be old Lord Flatface himself, but I suppose beggars can't be choosers."

"Prongs..." He stops, wanting to say something, anything, as if words could heal this gaping open wound of a life they all lead now. "Just. Be careful, yeah?"

Sirius' frown deepens, his gaze flicking from James to Remus, but remarkably, he says nothing, just stands sentinel over them. Remus could almost fool himself that he's there to protect them both, but ten years of feeling just a slight step behind has made him far too sensible for that.

"Don't worry. Careful’s my middle name," James grips his hand; Remus winces slightly, the cuts tugging, and James looks down at it in muted horror. "Sorry—Merlin's sainted aunt, Moony. Look what happens to you when we're not around."

"Yeah, well," he murmurs, and feels weak, sad, like he's back in first year all over again. "It’s okay. I’ve been worse."

They stand together, James pulling him in for a quick, awkward hug while Sirius watches, inscrutable and blank. "Don't be a stranger," James says. "And make sure you send Lily that letter, or I'll never hear the end of it."

"I will," he promises, and watches them walk away. It doesn’t occur to him that he could walk with them, too.

He has a brief, almost terse, conversation with Dumbledore—the only other person remaining, and clearly keen for more from Remus than the little he actually has to say—then takes his leave, stepping out into the night. As he walks, he can’t help but feel he’s being watched, but there’s hardly anyone else to be seen at this hour, and certainly no one paying him any attention, as far as he can tell. Still, the sensation sits there in his gut, and by the time he reaches the pub where he knows the kind landlady will let him use the Floo, he’s ready to lock himself up in his parents’ house, and never leave again.

But the lights are all out, the door barred, a hastily scrawled sign in the window saying ‘closed until further notice’ doing nothing to persuade Remus that this isn’t something else to worry about, to obsess over. He could probably manage apparating now, although it will take a lot out of him. It’s not like he has much choice.

He walks with brisk, jagged steps to a tucked-away side street a few blocks away, known to be handy for wizards and witches wanting to slip away unnoticed. The night air is cold, but even so, his body is trembling with an almost violent force not in proportion to the temperature. Reaching the alleyway, he has to put a hand out to the rough brick wall to try and steady himself, dipping his head, closing his eyes. He just needs a moment to pull himself together, he tells himself. Just a moment.

A lot can happen in a moment, a voice murmurs inside his head. Curses are quick.

And so his heart practically jumps from his chest at the sound of hurried footsteps towards him, and he spins, grasping desperately in his pocket for his wand, to find himself face to face with Sirius. His breath is catching, no matter how he tries to slow it, and it takes him a moment to gasp out, “Christ, Padfoot. You—scared the shit—”

“What’s the matter?” Sirius ignores what he said completely, moving closer cautiously, as one might approach a feral animal with an injured paw. “Why were you—you were slumped over.”

Still, his breathing snags and falters; all he wants is to make himself steady again, but his shoulders hitch with every desperate gasp, and his hands still shake traitorously. “I’m—I can’t—"

The space between them closes, Sirius winding his arm around him, strong and solid and there. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Slow down. Close your eyes a second. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay.”

Is it okay? He feels like there’s not enough oxygen in the air around them, not by half, but closes his eyes obediently anyway.

“Slow down. Take a deep breath. You’re okay…”

It’s not clear how long they stand there, leaning heavily against the wall, a strange sight indeed if anyone happened to walk past and glance their way. Sirius repeats his gentle instructions, his voice a lifebelt for Remus to cling to as he slowly, slowly, stops shaking, starts breathing, again. It’s longer still before Sirius lets him go, and takes a step back, studying his face with anxious eyes. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, and straightens up. He feels like he’s exposed his underbelly, like he’s walked down Regent Street with a sandwich board listing all his fears and foibles. “Thanks. I…don’t know what happened.”

“Strange times,” Sirius offers, with a small, sad smile. “We all have our moments.”

They just stand there for a moment, staring at each other.

“D’you want to come back to—"

“I’d better get back to—"

Sirius’ expression flicks back into neutral blankness as he realises what Remus is saying. “Yes, of course. You should probably try to get some sleep.”

Remus wants to say, no, wait, I didn’t know you were going to ask that. But that’s weak, even by his standards, and he’s still fresh from losing his tiny frazzled mind only minutes before. So he swallows it down, lets the bitterness settle like ash in his stomach. “Right.” He hesitates, then reaches out to pat him awkwardly on the arm. “Thanks again. That was…” He grasps for words. “Thanks.”

Sirius nods, meets his gaze for a fleeting moment. “Any time.”

He has apparated away before Remus can think to dig deeper into the sentiment.

They stand on the footbridge at Symonds Yat, watching the river Wye meander ahead, a trail of silver lit into the trees as it catches the sun on its journey. 12,000 years of history here, love, she says, and he nods, but feels that maybe he’s had this conversation before. Can you feel it in the rocks? It’s like magic. It leaves itself behind. She wraps her arm around his shoulders, the steady warmth of her, the calm she brings settling over him. It’s good for both of us, this. The river keeps flowing. And it will, every year we come back, and even the years we don’t.

He wakes with tears in his eyes. He’s always been more vulnerable after the moon, but he realises that over the last year, that seems to have intensified. As it starts to wane in the October skies, his thoughts and emotions shift inside him, shredding him to ribbons, and he can’t seem to bring himself to eat much at all. He always dreams, and wished he wouldn’t, to the point where he’s reluctant to go to sleep at all. He catches his reflection in the mirror in the late afternoon sun and wonders who that stranger is wearing his clothes.

Lily’s words float back to him as if on the breeze. It doesn’t have to be this way. It doesn’t have to be so difficult.

But when he Floos them to see if they would mind an anxious, overtired visitor, he finds an empty room. Literally empty, all furniture gone, pictures removed from the walls. His heart lodges somewhere in his throat and it’s all he can do not to throw up right there and then.

It gives him some adrenaline, though, and that’s what gets him to minutes later, banging on Sirius’ door, knuckles white with fear.

“What the hell, Moony,” he opens the door, rubbing his eyes. “Some of us are trying to power nap, you know.”

“James and Lily,” he blurts out, desperately, amazed to find his voice isn’t shaking. “They’re gone, their house is—"

But then he stops, because something is dawning on Sirius’ face, an uncomfortable shift from one foot to the other. “Oh. Right.”

“They had to move,” he explains, and steps back so that they don’t have to have this conversation for all and sundry to hear. “It only happened a few days ago. Bit of a rush job.”

Remus steps inside, standing like a loose end in the middle of the living room, a place he used to feel so at home in, their own private kingdom. Interesting, really, how he could go from so much to so little, hardly noticing until it had faded from sight. “Right.”

“They’re in Upper Flagley at the moment,” Sirius says, in a way that feels like he doesn’t want to say it at all. “Just for a few days, while things get sorted.”

“Things?”

Sirius sits down heavily, fumbles for a cigarette from the pack discarded on the coffee table. “Dumbledore wants the Fidelius charm.”

It makes sense. It’s the last desperate grasp of hope, and they all know it. “You’ll be secret keeper,” he guesses softly.

The other man looks up, sharp at first, then softening, fear starting to bloom behind his eyes. “That’s what James wants.” He forces a smile, gestures vaguely with the lit cigarette. “And who am I to deny his every whim?”

Remus watches him, takes in the practised insouciance, the tiny signs that hide behind it that not many people are lucky enough to spot. The way his hands are shaking ever so slightly; the line of tension that pulses from his jaw down his stately neck; the set of his shoulders, as if expecting everything to come crashing down around him at any moment. He wants, more than anything, more than he wants to live and breathe and be, to press closer to the air around him, to wrap his arms around those shoulders and let the tension dissolve like it always used to.

He settles for sitting, carefully and quietly, at the other end of the sofa.

“When did it all start getting so fucked up?” Sirius asks, voice stretching with trying so hard to hold himself together. “I mean, I know when. But...when?”

“Sometimes these things happen so slowly you don’t notice it happen,” he offers. “Like the frog being boiled.”

Sirius laughs, the sound grating his throat. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Moony,” he shakes his head. “You always have a way of putting things into perspective.”

Love. They both let the word sit between them. “James and Lily know they can trust you,” he points out. Trust you, he thinks. Trust, that nebulous thing fading in and out between them all. “You’ll have to hide for a bit, I suppose. But it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it.”

He squints at him, quietly taking him in. For a moment, Remus almost thinks he might close the gap that stretches between them. “You know how I struggle with doing the right thing,” he tries for a joke. “Not in my wheelhouse.”

“I think it is, more than you think.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Thanks for telling me, anyway.”

The quiet settles around them, almost comforting. Finally, Remus looks up, finds Sirius watching him again, wonders what there is to see. “Sorry for bursting in and ruining your evening,” he says, for want of something better to say. “I’ll—I should leave you to it.”

They stand, regret stinging like a graze on both their faces, and Sirius explains, “it’s just, a bit of a mad one tomorrow. 4am, Moony. It’s not a holy time of day.”

“You have my sympathies,” Remus smiles faintly, as if he isn’t usually awake at that time anyway these days. “Surely you’re owed some days off after all this.”

“At the very least,” Sirius agrees, and hesitates. “Let’s…talk. After Halloween. If things have settled down.”

“It’s a big if,” he acknowledges, but is aware of how deeply, guttingly grateful he is even for that gesture. “But, yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

He walks him to the door, leans in the door frame to watch him as he makes his steady way down the stairs. Remus pauses, looks up, catches his eye. “See you soon, Sirius.”

That tiny flame of hope, again. “See you soon,” Sirius echoes.

He hears the door closing. Soon, he thinks. Soon.