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>> I. the lost years
i. forest
He wakes up amid the ancient roots, fallen leaves rough against his bare skin and the moon's fickle madness bleeding from his mind. Beyond the familiar dark branches arching overhead, the sky is pale with the coming dawn.
These trees, the hallowed halls beneath their boughs, were once like home to them: four young boys, four wild creatures. His existence is balanced upon the very edge between humanity and savagery, but in those days he never felt like a monster, when others willingly walked that path at his side.
For twelve long years he thought that world forever lost to him, that life which was always too wonderous to be truly his (for he should have known: like all good things, this too would be taken from him). Those twelve long years had felt like a small eternity... and yet, when they came back together in the Shack and crossed the gap between them, it was almost as though no time had passed at all.
(he smells like he hasn't washed properly in years-- which he probably hasn't-- but the scent is HIS and he's HERE, and Remus doesn't find it even remotely as appalling as he probably should)
And now, in the cold morning air, he can only call it the cruellest twist of fate-- that Sirius Black was placed within arm's reach again, a second chance and the barest sliver of hope hovering just at his fingertips... only for this to be taken from him too.
ii. trail
It is a relief to learn that it all worked out in the end-- that Sirius (though he is long gone by the time Remus wakes, and still a convict on the run, his innocence impossible to prove without Peter) has at least escaped with his life and his soul intact, that it is not the end of the line as Remus had feared when he first woke.
(if the longing is its own sort of agony, he doesn't let himself indulge it)
There are letters, of course: insignificant notes exchanged across oceans and continents, for neither of them dare to commit more than the barest pleasantries to ink. Sirius does not say where he has gone and Remus does not try to guess, even if part of him longs to cast himself to the winds and follow (for it is not as though he has anything here to hold him back). He tries to convince himself that what he has is enough (though he knows this is a lie) and contents himself with the knowledge that at least Sirius is someplace warm, someplace where he might walk in the sun.
But this does not last, either; he knows that Sirius has returned north when the flashy tropical birds are replaced once again by common owls and ravens and gulls, the time between responses rapidly shortening. He half-hopes Sirius might come, doesn't know what he'd do if he did.
It's a full year before they meet again, and Remus doesn't know what to do now any better than he did before.
iii. storm
The air is too calm, too quiet, suffocating; it belies the cacophony of his thoughts.
Dumbledore's letter lies open on the scrubbed kitchen table, and Remus keeps looking to it for answers despite having read it enough times that he's already committed its sparse handful of lines to memory. The missive is blunt and impersonal, and contains only vague hints as to what had happened at the end of the Third Task (which the old man must know is insufficient, but Albus Dumbledore has always loved his secrets).
Remus knows only that Sirius will come-- he will come tonight.
The anticipation chokes him, leaves him strung out somewhere between decades of wants he never let himself acknowledge, and the foolish hope that there may still be something left for them.
He waits.
A faint noise at the door breaks the dead silence-- too quiet to properly be called a knock, but Remus leaps up from his chair as though scalded and rushes to the door and throws it open--
His breath catches as he looks at Sirius, alive and real before him; he is lost for words. Sirius has found an old Muggle overcoat to wear over the ragged remnants of his filthy Azkaban robes, and his hair is still a tangled mess (though now chopped to shoulder-length as though he'd simply taken a knife to it).
Sirius fidgets, uncomfortable under the scrutiny (and Remus realises he's been staring far too long and looks away). '...I put Bucky in the old barn,' Sirius murmurs. 'Hope that's all right...'
Remus nods. 'What's going on? Dumbledore's letter only said--'
'He's back,' Sirius croaks-- he doesn't need to specify who.
Remus steps forward and holds him close, all sharp edges and jutting bones-- and so it comes, not like the crash of thunder and lightning, but with the powerful inevitability of the rising tide.
>> II. lie low at lupin's
i. atlas
On that first night, after Sirius has explained everything that happened on the night of the Third Task, he falls silent-- as though all of his words have been used up. The world narrows down to just the two of them, sat at the worn wooden table in Remus's kitchen, and Remus finds that he can't take his eyes off him: Sirius, here and now, close enough to reach out and touch (if only he dared).
He categorises the things he sees: Sirius's skeletal fingers, wrapped around the cup of earl grey, are ringed in jagged tooth-mark scars, with dark runes painstakingly etched into the skin and his fingernails tattered and gnawed down to stubs; his cheeks are hollow and his lips chapped and there's a small white mark on his jaw that might or might not have been there before; his eyelashes are long and dark where they rest against the bruised shadows ringing his eyes-- eyes that shine a moon-bright silver, haunted and sad and terribly beautiful.
Remus longs to memorise all the angles of him, to map out what makes him Sirius and find the key to relieve him of all the terrible burdens he has been forced to bear (he would shoulder them himself if only he could, just to see Sirius free of them, but of course nothing could ever be so simple). He lets himself drink in the sight in a way he never dared to back then-- Sirius keeps his own gaze on the cup between his hands, the small nicks in the well-worn surface of the table, and in any case Remus is far past caring if he's caught (half-hopes he might be).
Sirius either doesn't notice or doesn't think to mention it-- instead they sit silent vigil through the night, and wait together for the dawn to come.
ii. summer
The season feels strange-- like they've fallen out of time, like the sun shouldn't dare to shine so bright, or the birds to sing, or the wind to blow through the trees. War is upon them once more, and the very earth feels on the brink of collapse, the ground crumbling beneath their feet (but it doesn't, of course).
Sirius says almost nothing for days after his arrival; he moves through the house like a spectre lost in some strange dream. He says nothing, but he lets Remus wash and comb his hair, and fix his teeth, and give him food and clean clothes.
As the days pass, he begins to look better, less like a dead man walking... at least on the surface.
His eyes are still haunted.
iii. green
One morning, Remus finds him in the garden, lying still as the grave amid the overgrown flower beds. Remus calls out to him in alarm, afraid that some great ill has befallen him.
He doesn't answer, only glances up briefly when Remus kneels beside him-- there are tears in his eyes, tracking from their corners and into the soft hair just above his ears.
Remus touches his shoulder-- at the very least, he does not appear to be badly hurt, though his mood is strange. 'Pads,' he begins carefully, 'are you all ri--?'
Sirius reaches up and puts a finger to his lips, silencing him at once (he forgets to breathe at the careless ghosting touch of that fingertip).
'...Listen,' Sirius whispers.
And Remus does-- he can hear birdsong,
the wind through the trees,
small footsteps in the undergrowth,
the quiet rhythm of their breathing.
The sun rises higher, the long shadows receding. Clouds tumble across the sky overhead, casting the hills into a shifting patchwork of sun and shade.
Sirius's eyes are filled with cautious wonder as he watches a lone ant crawl down his right forearm, stumbling its way over the complex unfamiliar sigils he must have carved into his skin in prison. He slowly reaches out a hand, his fingers reverent as he touches the leaves and petals of the plants all around him, as though afraid all of this might vanish in the blink of an eye.
'...Nothing was alive in there,' Sirius says, his soft murmur blending into the sighing wind.
(Remus does not ask where-- he doesn't need to)
Some time later, after the sun has passed its zenith and Remus has brought them tea, they're sat side by side on the back stoop of the cottage, fingers almost touching where their hands rest on the stone step. Neither has spoken for a long time, but it is the sort of quiet that doesn't demand to be broken, already filled with the rich tapestry of life all around them.
'...I forgot,' Sirius says, words falling from his lips like leaves in autumn, borne on a breath of wind. 'All the sounds, the smell of the earth... how bright the colours are.'
Remus doesn't know how to reply so he remains silent, and Sirius says nothing more. Perhaps, Remus thinks, he wasn't looking for anything.
iv. moon
The full comes at the height of July, rising pale and swollen through the haze of heat, brighter each night. Remus is tense and restless, wants to crawl out of his own skin.
It's the same argument they've had a thousand times before, with Remus's fear and caution clashing against Sirius's reckless caring. It has never been an argument he stood a chance at winning-- least of all now, with Sirius so fragile and close to breaking (and he has never been good at taking no for an answer anyway). Remus feels he must put forth the attempt, though, so here they are.
The tension is unbearable. Sirius will not relent, and for the first time since before he seems like his old self, so vibrant and bright and alive-- and every time he draws near or speaks or so much as breathes Remus wants to seize him by the hair and press him against the wall and do unspeakable forbidden things.
(but he does not, for Sirius Black could never want all that he does, not now and not ever)
Night draws near, and neither of them says a thing-- but they have never needed words for this.
It rises, pale and cold
his body comes apart at the edges
his bones splintering like shattered glass--
His skin settles over his changed twisted body and the wind rakes its fingers through his fur, the dog's rail-thin flank pressed warm and solid against his side; for the first time in over a decade, with his Pack at last returned to him, he feels at home in this skin that is and isn't his own.
The wolf throws back his head and their twinned howls pierce the night.
v. lake
He comes to at the water's edge beneath the open dawn-streaked sky, the air chill against his skin even as the Dog's warm bulk shields his bare body from the worst of the wind. The ache in his bones is ever-present, but there are no new wounds, no new scars; the pain is the sort that comes on the heels of overexertion, satisfying in its own way.
Remus threads fingers through Padfoot's fur, letting him know he has woken, that he's fine.
The dog licks his face, and Remus laughs and shoves him off, the ensuing playful tussle a throwback to those precious few years they'd had as teenagers.
Remus doesn't have the potion now, yet this is something more powerful: the full moon hasn't passed this easily in years. He locks eyes with Sirius's as he shifts back (those quicksilver eyes consistent in either form) and he sees the glimmer of understanding there, that Sirius knows. Remus has never wanted him more, older and worn down as he is.
They're sat shoulder to shoulder at the lakeshore, Remus wrapped in the dirty old blanket; Sirius tentatively puts an arm around his shoulders and Remus takes it as an invitation to lean into him as they watch the sun crest the mountains.
vi. bloom
August looms ever closer, a heat wave sweeping across England-- but Wales remains pleasant, its mountains awash with the cool coastal air rolling in off the sea. The little cottage nestled in the hills feels cut off from the imminent war, as though they are the only two remaining in all the world, yet they both know that their summer is coming to an end, that soon the Order will call on them to play their part. Its inevitability hangs over them like a dark fog.
'You live alone,' Sirius says one day-- it is not a question, yet there is something buried in it, as Sirius hasn't failed to recognise the family cottage he visited while in school, now with a faint air of neglect and sterility hovering about its corners.
Remus quirks an eyebrow up, over the top of his cup of tea. '...Yes?' he inquires, as though to say, what of it?
Sirius is quiet for a long moment, chewing on his lower lip. 'Your Tad...?'
'Abroad. For his research.' Remus sits back in his chair. 'He insisted I take the house in the summers when he heard about the Hogwarts job, so I didn't have to worry about finding a place for just a few months... and said I might as well stay on when I resigned.' Remus doesn't add that Lyall Lupin has spent the last decade gently suggesting it, or that it was only after he lost the Hogwarts position that he was worn down enough to accept.
Sirius gazes across the room, eyes distant as though seeing something else. 'Where did you live before?' he asks-- hesitantly, as though he expects Remus to shut him down, tell him it's none of his business.
And maybe it isn't, after all this time, but Remus is grateful that he still cares. It's not as though it's Sirius's fault that he's been gone.
'I moved around a lot,' Remus answers honestly-- he doesn't need to explain why. 'Nowhere especially memorable,' he adds, and this isn't strictly true-- it would be more accurate to say that he doesn't want to dwell on the memory of every dodgy flat he's rented, or the times he was forced to squat in abandoned buildings or set up a tent somewhere; those lost years are not a time he's proud of.
He can't read the look on Sirius's face, which seems caught between too many extremes-- sorrow and relief, disappointment and hope. He thinks, perhaps, with enough time he might unravel it.
The letter calling them to action arrives the next day.
>> III. grimmauld place
i. ruin
Remus has always known that Sirius grew up in London, but until now he'd never laid eyes on the house itself-- hidden in the heart of a once-trendy Muggle neighbourhood, now grimy and dilapidated. Remus is surprised that the Blacks would willingly choose to live in a place like this, but he knows better than to ask about such things. Even if Sirius knows, he is clearly in no state to answer.
Twelve Grimmauld Place has stood derelict ever since Walburga Black died, apparently close to a decade before, during the long stretch of Azkaban. It feels like a mausoleum, smells of dust and death and layer upon layer of old magic that clings to the corners like cobwebs (only unlike the cobwebs, the magic settled into the house's bones is not so easily swept away).
Remus tries to imagine a small child trapped in these dark mouldering halls, and the thought makes his chest feel tight (makes him regret that Sirius's awful mother is already dead so he can't tear out her throat with his teeth). He knows, logically, that the house must have been quite elegant when occupied, the fixtures polished bright and every surface swept clean, as the Blacks would never have lived in such squalour-- but he can't imagine that it would have been any more pleasant, stiff and restrictive, the sort of place where a child was expected to remain quiet and tidy and well-mannered. Sirius was never good at hiding his expansive brilliance.
He wonders how old Sirius was when this house stopped feeling like home-- wonders whether it ever did.
ii. movements
The others come in a trickle of new recruits and familiar old hands, then the flood of Weasleys, and Hermione Granger and her half-kneazle cat. Remus still knows Sirius well enough to tell that the smile he welcomes them with is paper-thin, that he can't decide (with the exception of the cat) whether the company makes the house more or less tolerable.
With the spare rooms filling up faster than they can be cleaned and converted into bedrooms, the pair of them double up in the same small room next to the library-- Sirius says that it's only to save space, that it makes sense to have them together since they're used to each other, and Remus gladly goes along with this polite fiction. The room has two beds squashed in, but whenever Remus is at the house overnight Padfoot always ends up sleeping across his feet, and they remain tactfully quiet about this too.
Remus doesn't dare admit how much he wants this-- how much he longs to keep Sirius at his side, where he can see him and be sure he's real. Wanting is a terrifying thing, one he has never been good at allowing himself.
Harry arrives like a gravity well, pulling them all into orbit; he's angry in the way that Sirius wishes he was allowed to be (but will never admit to), both of them clawing at the walls of their own prisons. Neither of them are sleeping well.
Remus recalls the description of the graveyard, how Harry was younger than any of them were when they joined the fight (and was never given a choice over his part in any of this), and he knows Sirius is thinking of his brother who died at barely eighteen, of Lily and James whose bodies weren't yet cold when Sirius stumbled into the wreck of their house. When Harry asks to stay at Grimmauld if he's expelled, Sirius only needs one glance at him to understand just how bad it must be (he treats Remus to a long rant about this later on) and even though the case is dismissed in the end, Remus makes sure they find some time alone together amid the chaotic comings and goings of the house (he got to have a whole year with Harry as his teacher; he doesn't mind giving Sirius some space to know him now).
August slips away all too quickly, and Sirius slips from the house to see Harry off even though he must know it's a risk none of them can afford. Remus can see how he shuts down when he's told off for it, and wonders if that small taste of freedom was worth it.
iii. missing
The meetings get even harder with Harry and the other students back at Hogwarts. Sirius hated the house when it was full of people; now it is nothing short of torture (the company, as it turns out, was an improvement on solitude).
Remus comes back one night and can't find Sirius anywhere (and Kreacher is unhelpful as always, refusing to speak to the 'dirty werewolf')-- he's not in the kitchen, nor in the library, nor with Buckbeak, nor in the makeshift bedroom he shares with Remus. At last, Remus climbs the final stairway that Sirius has always kept closed off, belligerently denying entry to Molly Weasley and her overly enthusiastic cleaning-spells even when they could really have used the space-- and when Remus reaches the landing, he immediately understands why. He'd been wondering all along (and hadn't quite dared ask) which room had been Sirius's as a child, and now he has the answer-- the door on the right has been left ajar, a narrow strip of golden light slashing across the narrow hall's floorboards towards a second (closed) door bearing the name of Sirius's dead little brother. Remus pushes Sirius's door open in a creak of long-neglected hinges.
The room is decorated in dusty Gryffindor red and gold, papered with faded Muggle posters (mostly of scantily clad women posing on motorbikes); it looks as though it hasn't been touched since Sirius ran away nearly two decades before. Sirius isn't here, but one of the windows is open and Remus can smell firewhisky and the smoke from Muggle cigarettes.
Sirius is sat on the lower section of roof just below the open window, most of which is taken up by the skylight over the main stairwell, which creates a small rectangle of sheltered space between the walls. When he sees Remus, Sirius gives a weary sigh and expels a stream of smoke. 'Don't you start on me too,' he growls, his quicksilver eyes daring Remus to tell him off. It's clear he doesn't expect (nor bothers to hope for) any sympathy from this quarter.
Remus raises an eyebrow. 'I was going to ask if you could spare a fag-- though I'll leave you alone if you prefer.'
Sirius blinks at him, the frown not leaving his brow, but he fumbles another cigarette from the squashed carton in his pocket and lights it with a flick of his fingers (the same wandless spell he used back in school, though without any of his old flair) and then holds it out. Remus pretends he doesn't feel a spark where their fingers brush.
'Ta, Pads,' he murmurs, and takes a long drag. In truth, he doesn't particularly care for tobacco himself, but it's more the principle of the thing, the illicit feeling of sneaking out onto the castle roofs-- that was when Sirius had first mentioned (in that feigned-casual way of his he always used when speaking about his childhood) that he used to climb out his windows at home. It occurs to Remus now just how high up they are, how Sirius's windows are evidently the only ones in the house not smothered in layer upon layer of privacy-wards and locking-spells and curses against forced entry, but he doesn't ask (he can guess well enough that Sirius was responsible, though removing the spells without tripping any alarms must have been a truly massive undertaking, especially for a young child; Sirius has always been remarkably clever).
Perhaps Sirius can detect what he's thinking, or perhaps their minds still follow the same patterns even after all this time. Sirius slides lower against the wall with a sigh. 'There's so much I can't remember, Moons,' he murmurs. 'It's just... gone.'
It will come back, Remus wants to say, but it would be an empty reassurance. There has never been a case like Sirius's before, someone who stubbornly held onto their sanity through twelve years of the Dementors' influence yet didn't come away entirely unscathed. He doesn't know if it will get better, or if those lost memories are gone for good.
iv. eve
Remus declines all Order missions as it draws nearer, as the leaves turn to rusty browns beyond the ever-grimy warped windows of Grimmauld Place, the sky chill and iron-grey.
He doesn't care what they say, doesn't care how many disappointed looks and mild remarks Dumbledore gives him, and turns down all of Molly's overly-cheery attempts to invite him to dinner at the Burrow (it takes a somewhat snappish comment about how the invitation clearly doesn't extend to Sirius to finally put her off). He doesn't care; none of that matters.
He won't-- can't-- leave Sirius to face that day alone.
Not now and never again.
>> IV. window to the past
i. anniversary
Sirius knows when That Day comes-- how could he not?-- especially given that the changing of the seasons is far more evident here than it ever was in Azkaban. He almost wishes he could forget... but only almost, for his memory is so full of holes already that he would never willingly give up another, no matter how terrible and painful.
This house is a reminder, too, with ghosts around every corner and the poisoned words of long-dead family immortalised in the portraits' hissed curses. In the absence of the Order (all of them out on missions, all of them important except him) the house is silent as a crypt; he hates its darkness, its close boxed-in walls and oppressive stagnant air, this prison he'd thought he was rid of... but perhaps it was destined to destroy him after all.
He longs to burn it all down, but knows he can't, so he grabs a fresh bottle of firewhisky and retreats to the dark office next to the library, fully intending to drink himself into oblivion and not caring that his tolerance for alcohol is completely shot and it's bound to make him sick...
The door creaks open some time later, letting in a sliver of light-- he looks up, startled, his instinctive response dying on his tongue as he notices that the silhouette in the doorway is far too tall to be Kreacher.
'Sirius...?'
'...Moony?' Sirius pushes his hair out of his face. 'What're you...?'
'I was wondering where you were.' Remus gestures vaguely at the room. 'Do you mind...?'
Sirius shrugs and scoots over as though to make space (it's far from necessary, considering that he's sat on the floor, but it's more of a symbolic gesture). Remus walks over and settles down next to him, extending his hand for the bottle; Sirius passes it over, watching the stretch of his neck as he tilts his head back to drink.
Silence settles over them, and Sirius looks away as Remus lowers his arm and sets the bottle aside. He stares down at his own hands instead, feigning interest in the tattoos and scars and ragged bitten fingernails. '...Thought you were off on a mission,' he murmurs a moment later. 'Wasn't that what the old man said?'
Remus huffs out a breath. 'Yes, well. I told him to sod off.' Sirius blinks up in surprise, and Remus's mouth twitches into a faint wry smile. 'Not in so many words, but...' He takes Sirius's hand, gazing into his eyes as he continues with utter sincerity, 'I knew I had someplace more important to be.'
Sirius's first instinct is to push him off, insist that he doesn't need that sort of pity-- but the pain and loss that threaten to overwhelm him are reflected in Remus's eyes, too. The grief is still terribly raw for Sirius, forced to relive that horrible night more times than he can count at the whims of the dementors... but Remus hasn't had it easy these past fourteen years, either; he still misses James and Lily keenly, and lost just as much as Sirius did... if not more.
It's as though a dam has broken somewhere deep within him; his breath hitches in a ragged sob and he squeezes his eyes closed, hot tears streaking down his cheeks. He leans into Remus, who holds him close; he can feel Remus shuddering with each breath as well, and the solid warm hand rubbing up and down his back only seems to make him cry harder... but at least, this time, they're not alone.
ii. hunt
Some time later they lie tangled in each other's arms on the bare ancient floorboards of Grimmauld-- just as they once had in the Shack all those years ago, he remembers with a start.
Sirius stirs & brushes a stray lock back from Remus's forehead; his untidy curls are more silver than brown now, which had hurt when Sirius first saw him again but now he can only think the colour suits his old friend-- beautiful, Remus has always been gorgeous to Sirius's eye and this was another of the things Azkaban stole from him, the way Remus has always taken his breath away (and Sirius would gladly let him, if he could ever be lucky enough for Remus to want him too).
It's fitting, perhaps, that they came back together in the Shack, where it all began.
For twelve long years, the weight of his loss had consumed him: he thought only of revenge, of fingers and rats. This was all there was to keep him sane, his singular anchor amidst the whirling storm of madness and grief, for even the memories of those golden years were not his to keep. When he escaped, it was revenge that propelled him across the icy waters of the North Sea, across the length of the isle to the castle that had been the first place he truly felt at home (now a fortress locked against him, though he knew its secrets far too well for its walls and doors to have any hope of keeping him out).
For so long, it was this alone that sustained him-- until he caught the scent of something more worthwhile, and something long-forgotten stirred within him.
His capacity to love has always been stronger than anger or hate.
iii. bonfire
Remus finds him on the roof again, two nights after a failed attempt to give him a small birthday gift, watching bright starbursts bloom across the sky. Remus doesn't say anything, just sits next to him and leans back against the wall, watching the lights in silence.
'...I used to imagine that they were for me,' Sirius says quietly, 'when I was a kid.'
'The fireworks?'
'Mmh.' Sirius snorts faintly. 'Was a much better 'gift' than being forced to sit through dull stuffy tea with horrible old relatives... even when I was old enough to realise they weren't actually for me, it was still the one thing I'd look forward to. Was funny in retrospect, when I learnt that it's actually for some Muggle who tried to blow up their government. Another thing that proves we're really no different from each other...'
Remus sighs and leans in, just enough to bump their shoulders together. 'Sorry about earlier. I... thought it might cheer you up a bit, but I suppose it's a bad time of year for it...'
'Not your fault,' Sirius says. 'It's... I do appreciate that you still remember, after all this time.'
'Still...'
'Really-- don't worry about it.' Sirius falls silent for a moment. 'Did you know... I first arrived in Azkaban on the third.'
Remus blinks at him. 'I didn't... God, that must be the worst birthday ever.'
Sirius snorts. 'And I thought the ones with my horrible banshee of a mother were bad...' He shakes his head. 'I only knew because they read the date off at the sentencing. I remember I laughed again-- probably didn't do anything to help the impression that I'd gone mad. Was in my cell by sundown, and those walls were all I saw for years.'
(aside from the nightmares, he doesn't add)
They fall silent, listening to the pops and cracks echoing across the sky, the particular smell of their smoke. Sirius would have jumped at the noise and flashing lights when he first escaped, but after months stuck in his parents' old house he welcomes the interruption to its stifling silence.
'I'll buy some proper fireworks next year,' Remus murmurs. 'You can set them off yourself if you want.'
'You don't have to,' Sirius says-- though he rather likes the idea, the hint of recklessness about it. Remus will probably think better of it by then, realise that it's a stupid risk they can't afford to take, that Sirius should stay quiet and meek like the good obedient dog they all expect him to be. Better not to get his hopes up, that he might have anything like that.
And in any case, he can't imagine enduring a full year in this place. As likely as not, he really will have gone mad by then.
iv. frost
Winter settles in, the house as cold and drafty as ever, as though it actively resists any attempt to warm it either by magic or by the fires lit in the hearths-- Sirius has long since grown used to the cold, but he feels bad whenever Remus returns shivering from the Packs. Remus, he remembers, has always hated the cold... almost as much as James did (a tendency likely born of long visits with his Shafiq cousins in India). Sirius wonders if Harry is of the same opinion-- he can't remember Harry ever complaining about the cold over the last winter when Sirius stayed near Hogsmeade, but then, Sirius thinks the two of them are similar in that they learnt the hard way not to complain, to never show any weakness around others.
Remus appears in the doorway, bearing two mugs of cocoa spiked with firewhisky. He's been spending more and more time out on missions lately, meaning that for increasingly long stretches of time Sirius is the only person staying in the house (with the exception of Kreacher, but having the elf lurking around is worse than nothing at all). Sirius tries very hard not to resent Remus for his absences-- it's necessary, he knows, each of them doing their part in the war-- but he still hates that his own part involves staying hidden and doing nothing at all.
'...Have you heard from Harry?' he asks after several minutes of heavy silence (he can't think of anything else to say; they can't talk about Remus's stupid dangerous werewolf missions without it turning into a row and Sirius doesn't want to spoil one of the increasingly-rare evenings they have together).
Remus shakes his head. 'You're the one he writes to, Pads.'
'You were his favourite teacher...'
Remus's mouth quirks into a wry smile against the rim of his mug. 'And how many times did you write to your ex-professors, even the ones you liked best?'
Sirius frowns. 'Hm... well, I haven't heard from him in a while...'
'That sodding toad-faced hag has probably been restricting owl-access,' Remus says darkly (and Sirius can't help but want to smile; he loves when Remus insults that awful woman). '...Well, you'll see him soon,' he continues. 'They're planning to drop by here before going on to the Burrow.'
Sirius swallows his bitterness at that-- of course Harry deserves to have a good time at Ron's home over Yuletide; no one in their right mind would choose to stay at Grimmauld instead. '...Yeah. I'm sure he'll like the Defence books you got him.'
Remus glances at him fondly. 'Don't forget it was your idea-- I never thought I'd hear you suggest books as a gift for Harry.'
'Mmh...' It's true that it wouldn't normally be his first choice of a gift, but it's all Sirius can do for him, since he can't be there in person, can't watch over him or teach him or even be close enough to comfort him when needed...
He's never been any help when it matters most.
>> V. breaking point
i. isolation
The house is destroying him.
Remus knew it was bad (that he put on a brave face over the holidays, that it got worse after Harry returned) but he hadn't known just how much deeper it went, how much Sirius has been hiding from him.
It's by pure chance that Remus finds out: a mission gone wrong, an accidental slip of the tongue and words that reached the wrong ears, his stay with the latest pack cut short. Remus escapes, unscathed but forced to write the mission off as a complete loss, and returns to the house-- he very nearly thinks of it as 'home', if only because Sirius is here and he has nothing else to return to-- and when he opens the front door he knows something has gone deeply horribly wrong--
--for he is hit at once by the smell of blood.
'Sirius!!' he calls out in alarm, racing up the stairs two at a time, following the smell-- it is fresh, and it is his; he could never mistake Sirius's scent.
It could just be an accident, something small-- but Sirius has not responded, and Remus would be lying to himself if he tried to pretend he hadn't noticed how miserable Sirius was.
You promised he would be safe here! he wants to scream at them-- that was the whole sodding point of keeping him here, where none of their enemies would find him-- but this house is the poison they have forced on him, and it is killing him as surely as a flash of green light from a Death Eater's wand, draining his soul with an efficacy even the Dementors would admire.
Remus throws open the door to find Sirius slumped on the floor. There is a knife in his left hand, its wicked-sharp point carving along the paths of old scars, carefully tracing those now-familiar patterns, where the wounds will never be seen.
Sirius tears his gaze from the patterns the blood makes as it runs and drips across his body, looks straight up at Remus, grey eyes clouded.
'...Buggering fuck,' he whispers.
ii. monster
Here is the terrible truth: it was all too easy for him to hide, layering new scars on top of old, always careful to make sure they healed up by the time Remus returned, hiding his pain behind his sharp wit and hard-edged smiles.
Remus disarms him in a flash of light. The knife hits the wall, leaving a splatter of blood and a dent in the dark austere panelling before it clatters to the floor. Sirius flinches at the noise.
'It's... not what it looks like,' Sirius croaks weakly.
'Oh, isn't it?' Remus snaps, fear making his voice harsh, still wired from his latest stay with the Wolves and driven over the edge of panic at the smell of blood. 'What the fuck do you expect me to think it is, then? Because I'd have thought it was pretty fucking obvious!'
Sirius winces, his left hand curled tight over one of the wounds. 'I... was just... I'm all right, Remus, really--'
'All right? Bullshit, Sirius; you were just sat here carving up your own bloody arm with a fucking knife and you expect me to believe you're all right?'
Sirius glares at him, teeth gritted. 'Sod off, Lupin.'
He looks as though he would have liked to run, to find some dark hole to hide in and lick his wounds, but Remus remains resolutely in the doorway, and the tiny washroom affords him no place to hide.
There are frightening things within them both, unwelcome beasts rearing their ugly heads, bodies built of splintered shards and fractured edges, broken and stitched back together into grotesque parodies of everything they might have been. Their natures cannot be changed, not with all the magic in the world.
Remus kneels beside him, his movements slow and careful-- it is not so different from how he approaches the wolves, and he swallows a bitter laugh. 'Sirius,' he whispers gently, and slowly pulls his last remaining friend's too-thin body into his arms, against his chest. 'I'm here now.'
Sirius lets out a dry sob, fingers twisting in his cloak. His blood is on both of them. 'I'm sorry, Re... I don't know how to stop... I'm so sorry...'
Remus runs fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp as he does for Padfoot, because Sirius has always loved that. 'It's okay. We're not all right, but... we'll find a way.'
The world might have cast them off, crushed them beneath the weight of all their suffering until they shattered under the pressure... but there is still some beauty to be found in them, and Remus wants to believe he can show that to Sirius until he believes it too.
iii. fury
They have always called him the quiet one, level-headed and calm; they say he 'never gets angry'-- but the truth is simply that he's not allowed to show anger, lest they say that the Wolf is all he is, so he has learnt to bury it behind a polite facade.
Just because he keeps his rage hidden does not make it any less real.
It simmers under his skin, burns with renewed vigour at their lack of compassion, each as bad as the next--
the cruel taunts ('useless, cowardly', Snivellus would hiss, 'hiding away while we risk our lives');
the barbed words ('you're too irresponsible', Molly Weasley scolds, 'Harry already has us');
the useless platitudes ('you'll be safe here', Dumbledore says mildly, 'it's for your own good').
Remus hates them all, hates the poison they've sown and their lack of compassion.
Sirius is not safe here, and Remus knows he cannot turn his back on him (not now, never again); they are the only ones left, and Remus would give everything he has, his life and his soul, to see Sirius free again.
If there's one thing the Wolf has taught him, it's that wild creatures were never meant to be caged-- and sometimes all it takes to change the world is a simple leap of faith.
iv. honesty
Remus tends to his wounds with gentle hands, helps him to the nearest bed and passes him a cup of water-- and Sirius hates that they're here like this, that he has been this weak (or perhaps it's more the shame of being caught). And yet, there is no disgust in Remus's eyes, only something unspeakably wild, of nights once shared beneath the moon with the echoes of her siren-call pulsing bright through their veins.
Remus looks up, taking Sirius's hand in his own, his golden-brown gaze making Sirius's pulse quicken. 'Hey, Pads-- let's get out of here.'
Sirius frowns. 'How d'you mean?' he asks softly-- but he already understands, for there's no mistaking the manic gleam in Remus's eyes, the look he used to get when explaining his most brilliant prank ideas. Reluctantly, Sirius pulls his hand back. 'We can't just bugger off somewhere-- Harry needs us.'
'I know,' Remus says, 'but we're not doing him any good in this ghastly mausoleum, are we?'
'But--'
'No, listen,' Remus continues forcefully. 'The packs are all under Greyback's thumb, or at best too scared to risk going against him.' He reaches out, his palm rasping along Sirius's unshaven jaw. 'And I won't go on wasting my time on a lost cause when I might make a difference here.'
Sirius lets out a bitter laugh. 'Right, of course-- because I'm such a sodding liability, can't even sit on my useless arse without cocking up--'
He knows at once, from the look on Remus's face, that he's gone too far and cocked this up too: Remus sits back on his heels, and quietly says, 'Is that really what you think of me? That I'm only here out of pity, that I think you're some sort of... charity case?' His eyes burn with something unspeakable, and Sirius averts his gaze. 'I... I can't lose you, Sirius. Not again,' Remus continues, and (to Sirius's surprise) his voice cracks. 'So don't ask me to turn a blind eye-- I could never live with myself if I did nothing while you self-destruct.'
Sirius doesn't know how to reply to that. 'What... do you want, then?' he whispers. 'What else do we...?'
'We'll take Buckbeak, keep on the move... I've still got that old tent; we can use that.' Remus grasps Sirius's hand. 'We'll fight this war our way, as we should have done the first time around-- no more lies and secrets, just some good old-fashioned Marauder brilliance.'
Sirius frowns, hardly dares to believe he could have this, but his heart is racing. 'And Dumbledore...?'
'...Can shove his cryptic bullshit up his ancient dessicated arse.'
A slow smile spreads across Sirius's face-- the first one he's seen there in far too long. 'Merlin's saggy bollocks, there's the Moony I know and love.'
Remus flushes, but looks rather pleased with himself as he gives Sirius a light shove. 'Just go pack a bag, you daft plonker.'
Sirius gets up and starts to go, but turns back at the door. '...Remus, I...' He breaks off, doesn't have words to express all he's feeling. '...Thank you.'
Remus meets his gaze, eyes brimming with raw emotion. 'Anything for you,' he says quietly, and it's so honest and sincere and fond that Sirius nearly breaks down right there-- but he doesn't, because he was made for this moment, chains thrown off and the wind in his hair and the beating of powerful wings lifting them away into the night and Remus (gorgeous perfect wonderful Remus) sat with his chest pressed warm and solid against his back, long arms wrapped around him.
He could ask for nothing more.
>> VI: in his wild company
i. breeze
Buckbeak tires quickly, carrying two grown men after months cooped up indoors, but he's so glad to be flying again that he doesn't mind the exertion-- they make it safely out of the greater London area, and set up camp within a small wooded park, Remus setting layer upon layer of heavy wards around their campsite while Sirius feeds Buckbeak and pitches the tent.
'I left a message at HQ,' Remus says once they've settled at the table inside with cups of tea cradled in their hands (the tea is stale but Sirius appreciates how the heat of it grounds him; he can still hardly believe they're here). 'Figured we should tell them so they don't assume the worst.'
'What did you say?'
'That something urgent came up and I enlisted your help, as you were the only one available,' Remus says mildly-- and it's not quite a lie, but certainly an obfuscation of the truth. Sirius loves him for it. 'I reckon it'll be passed along to Dumbledore soon enough.'
Sirius laughs. 'The old man will hate that,' he says-- but then his face falls. 'What about Harry?'
'Owling and floo aren't safe, and I reckon it's best we don't try to send a message through someone else-- and in any case, I figured you'd want to head north first.' Remus smiles, soft and warm. 'I thought we could visit Harry in person.'
'Oh, Moony,' Sirius breathes, 'I love you.'
Remus's cheeks flush pink, and Sirius dares to hope that maybe Remus might see how he means it in more ways than one... that there's some small chance Remus might feel the same inescapable magnetism Sirius does.
ii. deer
They make good time on their journey north, flying at night and lying low during the day, careful not to overexert Buckbeak, and soon enough they make camp a few hours' hike across rough terrain from Hogsmeade (Sirius quickly dismissed the notion of staying in the same cave he'd used before, as it had been Dumbledore's suggestion).
Remus isn't sure he cares for Sirius's plan, but this whole situation is all kinds of reckless to begin with so he goes along with it-- Sirius sets off alone into the dusk, as he can move faster as Padfoot, and Remus watches the dog vanish down the mountain with his shaggy tail wagging vigorously.
He returns a few hours before dawn, and Remus (who of course hasn't slept) is relieved to hear that it worked-- Sirius had waited in the tunnel beneath the Shack, and soon enough Harry had shown up, breathing hard as though he'd run all the way there with his Cloak bundled under one arm and the Map in his other hand.
'I asked him about that mirror I gave him,' Sirius says; 'can you believe he hadn't even opened it? Didn't even know what I was talking about!' Sirius shakes his head, flushed with indignation and the exertion of running in the night air, and Remus thinks about how he looks more alive than he has since summer. 'I gave him an earful, and he promised he'd check in at least once a week.'
'Harry's a good kid,' Remus says. '...How is he?'
Sirius sighs. 'As well as can be expected, I suppose. I could tell he didn't tell me everything that's troubling him, but... we've got time to work on it, haven't we?'
Remus smiles. 'That's right.' He gets up, moving towards the tent's kitchenette. 'You must be tired from all that running-- I'll make tea, and you can rest; we'll move on again tomorrow night.'
'Mm...' Sirius takes a seat at the table, and they lapse into silence while the water boils and Remus pours their cups. Sirius glances up as he brings the mugs, slouched over the table with his chin resting in his hand. 'You know, Moons... I've been thinking about that night, when we first met... he was so bloody excited to live with me, even though he'd been convinced I killed his parents only hours before that-- and I wanted it too, more than anything. Whatever we do next... Harry comes first.'
'Of course,' Remus says, taking the other chair (he wants Sirius to be safe, too, but he can't dispute that Harry must always be their priority).
'...He told Petunia and her awful husband about me,' Sirius says, 'the summer after we met. His Godfather, the Convicted Murderer. Said they treated him better after that... but I have to do better.' Sirius frowns. 'He didn't ask if he could stay with us, but I could tell he wanted to. I know it's probably not smart, but--'
'We'll see what we can do,' Remus promises. 'Marauder's honour.'
A hint of a smile flickers across Sirius's face, though there's something haunted about his eyes as he looks down at his own hands, wrapped around his mug.
Some time later, Sirius murmurs, 'After the Dementors showed up... I dreamt that I saw Prongs. Shining silver-bright across the lake, like his ghost came back after all this time.' He shivers, exhales deeply. 'All the time I was in there... I was so sure he'd hate me. For bollocksing it all up, not being there for Harry. But I looked at him then and just felt... peaceful. For the first time in all those years...'
'It was Harry's Patronus,' Remus says quietly-- he tries to smile, but it feels strangely brittle. 'It's a stag. Deep down, he must remember Prongs from when he was a child.'
Sirius pauses, gazing at Remus with an unreadable expression on his face. '...He's not much like Prongs, though, is he...?'
Remus hums, taking a sip from his mug. 'I suppose not.'
Sirius sighs, and shakes his head, draining the rest of his tea. '...Well, maybe that's a good thing,' he says, and this time his smile is steadier.
iii. recovery
The tent is furnished with bunk-beds, but they continue to share out of habit, Sirius still sleeping as Padfoot (still not sure whether Remus might be open to anything else). The full moon passes and begins to wane; they run together and Sirius brings his Moony back to their tent after, tends his scrapes and bundles him into bed, and in a fit of moon-drunk daring, he crawls in as well, watches Remus's sleeping face inches from his own...
He must have dozed off, wakes to Remus tracing the scars on his arm with delicate fingertips.
'Why did you do it?' Remus asks, seeing that Sirius has woken.
A few weeks ago, Sirius wouldn't have admitted it, but his head is clearer now. He places his hand on top of Remus's. 'It was the only way I could be sure I wasn't... still there,' he says, and it's both incredibly difficult and also liberating to lay himself bare. 'I couldn't do it, Re, not again... it was cold and dark and I couldn't think of any other way.'
Remus turns his hand, lacing their fingers together. 'You'll let me know if that happens again?' he asks softly. 'I'll always help you, Pads, just like you're here for me.' He squeezes Sirius's hand. 'I want this to work, too...'
'I know,' Sirius murmurs.
They lie there until they drift off again, their hands still intertwined.
iv. waterfall
Sirius is beautiful when he fights.
It's definitely not an appropriate time for this thought, running from furious Death Eaters and dodging bright jets of light, but Remus can't help himself. Sirius laughs as the magic dances from his fingertips in a half-wild ebb and flow, as natural as breathing, and Remus has always loved those almost-too-loud barks of laughter, the lightning-quick movements of his hands. Sirius still doesn't have a wand that's entirely right for him, but at this point it hardly seems to matter.
There's a moment when one of them almost gets the better of him, pressing him into a corner and bearing down on him while Remus is too far to reach and occupied with his own duel-- and then there's a flash of metal and a spray of blood, and the masked man crumples with a gurgle.
Remus eliminates his own opponent and grabs for Sirius-- covered in blood again, but thankfully this time it's not his, the knife in his hand used to slice open the Death Eater's throat. The man doesn't move, though blood still pools sluggishly from the broad gash.
'Hurry,' Sirius says, grasping Remus's hand in his free (non-bloody) one, and they dash off through the trees before more can show up, until they've passed the anti-apparition wards and vanished with a pop.
A few jumps later, they land in a pool of water where a stream cascades down from the rocky cliffs above-- the water here is cold and deep, but it gets the blood off as well as they can hope for without a proper scrub.
Sirius's hair hangs like spilt ink down his face and over his shoulders, his eyes star-bright as they meet Remus's. Their hands are still laced together.
Beautiful, he's everything Remus could desire, the warm palm in his saying that he's equally unwilling to let go.
Remus couldn't have said which of them moves first, but all at once he's pulled Sirius against him and their lips are pressed together and Sirius is kissing him back, deep and hungry, and nothing has ever felt so right as the two of them together.
v. talons
Spring continues grey and wet, the fresh Azkaban escapees and Dementors more than filling the holes left by the Death Eaters they've managed to eliminate, but it's still progress-- every enemy who falls is one who will never kill or torture again. They wear disguises, and allow their enemies to attribute their actions to the Order, and conveniently 'forget' to acknowledge any of Dumbledore's increasingly urgent requests to meet with them. This is the path of their own making.
Sirius proves highly skilled at breaking into old Pureblood estates, having grown up surrounded by the sort of wards they favour (teaching himself to pick his way past them out of boredom and his deep-seated need to be free). They target hidden treasure-rooms and potions-labs, libraries and vaults, and the Death Eater owners can't even officially report the stolen or damaged goods as this would require admitting that they possessed these illicit items in the first place. They are careful to leave no witnesses, their identities hidden.
Even Buckbeak gets his chance to fight, flying into the midst of battle with a screeching war-cry and bright amber eyes-- and with him come the handful of other creatures Sirius has managed to befriend on their travels, for he's always had a knack with animals. There's a pair of thestrals who watch over their camp with twinned ghostly-pale stares, and a kneazle with a sleek silver-blue coat and startling emerald eyes, and a massive raven whose deep croaks sound strangely like human speech, and the juvenile griffin they'd liberated half-starved from the Yaxley estate and nursed back to health. All are fiercely independent in their own ways but are equally devoted to Sirius; Buckbeak was first to befriend Sirius so he's something of a leader to the others (and sulks for days afterwards whenever Sirius rides one of the thestrals on a mission).
Sirius is rather surprised by the quantity and loyalty of his little band of nonhuman followers, but he's learnt to roll with it, especially since their sudden appearance never fails to leave the Death Eaters in shock (the Thestrals in particular unsettle them terribly on account of their Pureblood superstitions) and they need every advantage they can get. He still doesn't carry a proper wand, but he'd found a gnarled branch nearly as tall as he is and (with considerable difficulty) threaded three braided hairs through its core (one each from the two thestrals' and Buckbeak's tails) and then sealed it with a drop of blood donated by Remus-- it looks like nothing more than a crude walking-stick (aside from the pattern of subtle runes carved into its bark) and its magic is wholly unlike any wand he's ever held, fickle and wild and unpredictable, but Sirius likes that about it. He's found that Death Eaters aren't nearly as threatening when suddenly faced with the unexpected-- whether it's a heavy wooden staff cracked over their head with a burst of raw chaotic power, or a knife pulled suddenly from one of the hidden sheaths he keeps on him at all times, or a half-feral hippogriff descending upon them with an ear-splitting screech.
During a skirmish near the old stone circle where they'd interrupted a dark ritual, Buckbeak targets one particular Death Eater with especially vicious intent, leaves the robed and masked figure crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood while he stalks away, preening his feathers in what appears to be smug satisfaction.
It's only when they remove the mask that they discover Buckbeak's target was none other than Lucius Malfoy. Sirius laughs until his stomach cramps, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and none of the three can bring themselves to feel a shred of remorse for the bastard's fate.
vi. solitude
Summer draws near (rapidly closing on a year since Sirius showed up at Remus's doorstep in Wales) and they are alone beneath the stars, lying side by side upon a grassy knoll-- for a moment, braced against the rising tides of war, they have found something like hope, something like peace.
'Was there... did you ever find anyone?' Sirius asks softly. 'A friend, or a... someone who made you happy, who... felt like home.'
('as we used to', he doesn't say)
Remus turns his head, glancing sideways at him. 'Would it bother you if I had?'
Sirius sits up. 'No, I--' He lets out a deep breath, running fingers through his hair. '...Only, twelve years is a bloody long time to be alone. I... don't like to think of you like that. Alone, no one to care for you...'
Remus sighs, his gaze turning back to the stars overhead. 'I've fucked plenty of people-- sometimes the sex was good enough that I could lose myself in the moment. But... there was nothing that lasted.'
Feeling rather mutinous, Sirius opens his mouth to retort, but Remus cuts him off--
'I didn't want it to-- I was always clear on that.' Remus lets out a deep breath, his eyes bleak. 'I... didn't want to go through all that again.'
'Oh, Moons...'
Remus turns back and reaches up with one hand, fingertips tracing along Sirius's cheekbone and down to his jaw. 'But it turned out all right in the end...' His thumb moves to Sirius's lips. 'You are well worth the wait, Padfoot.'
Sirius turns his head and presses a kiss to Remus's palm, then twines their fingers together and pulls the hand aside, leaning down to snog him properly.
In that moment, it is as though all the vast expanses of the universe exist solely for them.
>> VII: the dogfather
i. return
All it takes is a quick mirror-call for Harry to confirm that Sirius is not, in fact, held captive at the Ministry. Remus and Sirius pass the message on to the Order for Dumbledore to take care of however he sees fit-- for their own part, they head straight to Hogwarts; they know where they're needed most.
Sirius leaves Remus to deal with Umbridge (there's no mistaking the cold gleam in his eyes) and he finds Harry-- with OWLs finished, there's no sense in him staying here longer. Harry quickly agrees to the plan with a smile Sirius hasn't seen on his face in over a year; he throws all his possessions into his trunk with record speed and they slip from the castle with a combination of Sirius's expert knowledge and the help of a handful of Harry's DA members.
The loss of the blood-protection is a sacrifice they're all willing to make, gladly given up for the sake of something more important, that Harry should have guardians who will give him all the love and care he deserves-- but in the end it doesn't matter. Lily Evans and James Potter loved both Sirius and Remus as family, far more than the complicated tangle of lingering affection that Lily still felt for an estranged sister, and as it turns out not even Albus Dumbledore could begin to comprehend the depth and complexity of such an ancient primal force as the love-magic Lily Evans evoked at the moment of her death.
Remus and Sirius are still on the run, even with Pettigrew captured at the Ministry and Sirius's name subsequently cleared-- they still live in a shabby old wizarding tent in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by temporary wards and Sirius's chaotic menagerie, but none of this matters either.
Harry has come home.
ii. counter
On the first of september, Harry Potter descends on Hogsmeade upon the back of a thestral, five minutes before the Express is due to arrive. Tonks meets him there, her hair the brightest thing in the gloom of a village shuttered against the threat of war. Harry carries himself straighter, taller; Remus and Sirius had agreed that he should return to school if at all possible, though they'd certainly had some strong words with Dumbledore beforehand, and made sure that Harry has multiple routes of escape in the event something happens.
Harry mirror-calls Sirius one week into term to say that it's strange, returning to ordinary school after a summer spent learning unorthodox methods from Sirius and Remus (and doubly strange that he could ever come to think of Hogwarts as 'ordinary'). He reports that Dumbledore, evidently unable to find anyone for the post for the second year in a row, has taken on the position of Defence Professor himself, in spite of the injury that has left his hand burnt and blackened. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, hasn't shown up at all-- the school's rumour mill says that he'd been whisked away from school by his mother on the same day Harry had left with Sirius, though in Malfoy's case they hadn't even bothered packing and no one has heard from him since. Sirius can shed some light on this-- his cousin Narcissa had grabbed her son and fled the country following her husband's 'mysterious' death, fearing retribution from Voldemort.
Dumbledore also summons Harry to private lessons, in which he learns about Voldemort's past and his series of Horcruxes. In spite of Dumbledore's attempts to gently dissuade him, Harry immediately passes all the information along to Remus and Sirius, who begin their own search for the missing receptacles of their enemy's soul. Aside from these lessons, Harry's reports mostly feature his challenges as Gryffindor's new Quidditch captain, with a side of his developing feelings for Ginny Weasley. Harry knows as well as Sirius does that the illusion of normalcy cannot last, but both are glad he has the chance to experience it, however briefly.
When Dumbledore asks Harry to accompany him to the cave where one of thr horcruxes is hidden, Harry firmly refuses and promptly leaves the office, sending a message to his godfathers as soon as he's away from all the castle's prying eyes and ears. Sirius and Remus have only just arrived when Dobby appears before Harry with a loud crack, clutching a locket to his thin chest and dripping with water that reeks of death, sobbing loudly as he informs them that Albus Dumbledore is dead.
Once again, Harry leaves Hogwarts with Sirius and Remus. This time, they all know he won't be returning come September.
iii. blades
The hilt of Gryffindor's sword fits Harry's hand much better than it did when he was twelve, its weight no longer so difficult to bear. He retrieves it from Dumbledore's office and takes it with him when he leaves the castle, knowing that they'll need the blade to destroy the Horcruxes.
He takes the locket, too-- he needs only a quick glance to tell that it's a fake, not the heavy emerald-encrusted gold that he'd seen in the memories. Sirius recognises the note inside just as quickly-- not its contents, but the handwriting and signature are unmistakable.
Remus squeezes his hand, and they head at once for Grimmauld Place.
It's Harry's idea to give Kreacher Regulus's replacement locket, in exchange for the Horcrux he'd failed to destroy after all this time. Harry passes the sword to Sirius, lets him do the honours-- the glass panels inside shatter with a ghostly scream, and when Sirius picks it up again it's no more than metal and stone. He closes it carefully, mindful of the glass shards, and returns it to Kreacher as well-- and for the first time Sirius can remember, the old elf looks at him with something other than loathing.
Harry and Ron and Hermione retrieve Hufflepuff's Cup from Gringotts, escaping on the back of a blind old dragon (Sirius couldn't be more proud) though they give up the sword in return for the goblins' help; Sirius and Remus break into Hogwarts and track down Ravenclaw's Diadem. Harry opens the Chamber of Secrets, and in its depths they use the fangs from the basilisk's mouldering husk to destroy two more pieces of Voldemort's soul.
It's Sirius and Hermione who come up with the plan to remove the scrap of Voldemort that has lodged itself in Harry's head-- Sirius with his strange sideways magic, Hermione with her near-encyclopaedic knowledge of both old magic and Muggle Science. Harry's heart stops, basilisk venom coursing through him; phoenix tears and an electric shock and far too many untested slapped-together spells bring him back. It's the hardest thing Sirius has ever done, and if not for Voldemort's arrival at the castle he would have refused to let the kid out of his sight.
They quickly lose each other in the fighting; Sirius finds himself duelling his mad cousin, driven away from the main battle. It's bad enough that he can't watch out for them, that he has no idea if he will see his most important people again-- she catches on, taunts him, blocks him from slipping back towards the main hall.
Bellatrix is as wild as he is in her own way, fast and unpredictable, a poor match for him. Sirius won't lose to her, but he can't seem to get an edge either, knows it will come down to which of them slips up first--
He knows it's over when the tall thin deathly-pale man approaches behind her, his face flat and noseless and his eyes glinting red-- that's fine, Sirius thinks grimly; he'll take them both down with him if he has to--
Bellatrix crumples to the ground, bleeding heavily from the cutting curse that just lashed across her throat. The pale figure crouches down behind her, hair sprouting up all over their bald head and colour flushing across their no-longer-noseless face.
'That's for my dad,' Tonks says quietly, before punching Bellatrix in the face with all her strength.
Sirius will hear all the important bits later--
(Neville Longbottom beheaded the snake, its blood painting the grass scarlet-- Minerva McGonagall awakened all the statues and suits of armour in the castle, calling on them to protect, to guard-- Remus tracked down Fenrir Greyback and threw the monster that haunted his childhood nightmares from the parapets-- Harry duelled Voldemort himself, exchanging curse for curse; he lost his wand and then plunged a knife into that newly-mortal heart, and Tom Riddle died for the last time with his cold cruel laugh upon his lips)
--but in the moment all he can do is give his cousin a quick one-armed hug and sprint back towards the fight.
iv. new beginnings
At the end of it all they find each other: amid the wreckage of a battle won, surrounded by keening cries for the lost. They hold each other tight, lips crushed together and fingers curled desperately through each other's hair, as they marvel at the fact that they have both, somehow, made it through alive.
Sirius pulls back; Remus has a still-bleeding cut above his eyebrow, his hair wild and his clothes filthy and torn, his eyes exhausted. He is fiercely vibrantly alive, and Sirius has never seen anything more beautiful.
'...Is this all right?' he murmurs, and glances pointedly to the side-- they are not alone, and Remus has always been a very private person. 'I know you're not really one for...'
'Always, Sirius.' Remus touches his face, guiding him back to gaze into his eyes. 'I've spent my whole life hiding... I don't care who sees us now.' He leans in for another kiss, and Sirius happily gives in-- he doesn't care if they're seen, wants the whole world to know that this beautiful perfect man is his.
Harry finds them some time later, and Sirius briefly loosens his hold on Remus to crush the idiot wonderful kid into a hug as well-- he needs the physical reassurance, to feel his breath and his pulse, beating out a rhythm of alive alive alive.
He does not let go of either of them for a very long time.
It is a far cry from perfect, their lives shattered almost beyond repair and painstakingly pieced back together-- but everything they have now is theirs, and they will continue to find some way forward.